by Lynn Messina
“You despicable man! Have you no respect for people more important and influential than yourself! Let’s sit down,” she says, changing her tone as she avails herself of one of the many stone benches that line the courtyard. “I came here, Mr. Bethle, determined to achieve my purpose, and I won’t be dissuaded from it. I won’t give into any person’s whim, and I refuse to accept failure.”
“I can see, then, how very frustrating this conversation must be for you.”
“Don’t interrupt,” she snaps. “You will listen to me in silence. Collin and Darcy are made for each other. They’re a perfect match in breeding, social standing and fortune—especially the last as the fortune on both sides is large. Every member of their respective families wishes for the match and what’s to thwart it? The upstart pretensions of a man without family, connections or money? Am I expected to endure this? No, I’m not. I will not. If you had any sense, you’d stick with your own kind.”
“My own kind,” he repeats softly, “is as good as your kind. My father is a lawyer. My mother is a college professor. We’re entirely respectable.”
“An entirely respectable middle-class nobody is not what I want for my niece.”
“It hardly matters what you want,” Bennet says.
Realizing the calmer, softer, more sensible approach has borne little fruit, her tone turns imperious again. “Tell me once and for all: Are you engaged to her?”
Bennet doesn’t want to oblige her with an answer—he doesn’t want to oblige her in any way at all—but he’s compelled to say, after a moment’s deliberation, “No, I’m not.”
Lady Catherine seems pleased. “And will you promise me never to enter into such an engagement?”
He’s staggered by the utter cheek of the request. “Absolutely not.”
“Mr. Bethle, I’m shocked and astonished. I assumed you’d be reasonable. Don’t fool yourself into believing I’ll give up. I won’t go away until you’ve given me the assurance I require.”
“Then I hope you find a more comfortable chair than this marble bench, because I’ll never give it. I won’t be bullied into anything so ridiculously unreasonable. What I do will have absolutely no effect on Darcy’s relationship with Collin. Mrs. de Bourgh, I’m afraid your argument is as poorly thought out as your visit. Clearly, you’ve made a huge mistake in thinking I’d be swayed by either. Darcy might not mind your meddling in her life, but I mind it greatly. So I’ll thank you to drop the subject and allow me to escort you to your car.”
“I’m not done,” the matriarch says waspishly. “I have more objections. I know all about your youngest brother’s infamous larceny—that the young man’s so-called heroics were a patched-up business arranged by your family. I don’t know how you pulled it off. Perhaps your father wields some influence after all, but your brother’s nothing but a common crook. And is such a degenerate to be my niece’s brother-in-law? It’s offensive on every level.”
“No,” Bennet answers resentfully, “you are offensive on every level. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
Lady Catherine stands, highly incensed. “You unfeeling, selfish man! Don’t you care that a relationship with you would be a disgraceful embarrassment?”
“I’m done talking about this.”
“You’re determined, then, to have her?”
Bennet lets out a sigh of intense frustration. The woman is unbelievable! “I didn’t say that. I’m only determined to make myself happy, not you.”
“You refuse to submit to the claims of duty, honor and gratitude. You’re determined to ruin her and make her a laughingstock.”
“Look, you interfering old biddy!” Bennet says. Only, he doesn’t say it. He might indeed be the unfeeling, selfish man she thinks him, but he’s not cruel and he’s not stupid. Rather, he explains calmly that her outdated concepts have no claim on him. Then he adds, “As for Darcy being a laughingstock, I think you either greatly overestimate the rest of the world’s concern or underestimate its good sense.”
“And this is your final word! Very well. I know now what I have to do. Don’t imagine, Mr. Bethle, that this is over. I came here in hopes of having an intelligent discussion. But no matter. I will prevail by other means,” she announces confidently. She continues to talk in the same manner—a field general planning her next strategy while bemoaning the failure of the current one—as they walk through the lobby followed by her assistant. In her distress, the volume of Lady Catherine’s voice rises several notches, and the entire admissions staff, half a dozen security guards and a small tour group of French retirees watch in amused fascination as Bennet is berated by the imposing woman with the Birkin bag. Martin, noting how beautifully the sun glints off the pristine black crocodile, can’t resist taking out his phone to get a few shots.
When they arrive at the door of her car, Lady Catherine turns hastily and adds, “I will not say good-bye to you, Mr. Bethle, or bid you good day. As you’ve ruined my day, I wish you no enjoyment of yours.”
Bennet doesn’t answer. Without saying good-bye himself, he walks into the museum. Meryton impatiently meets him in the lobby, having heard quite a few differing reports of the ruckus. In one account, Mrs. de Bourgh is haranguing Bennet. In another, he’s scolding her. In a third, they’re yelling at each other at the top of their lungs and elbowing tourists who get in their way.
“What happened?” he asks eagerly. “Why did she want to talk to you? Why were you arguing with her? Was it over the amount of money she wants to donate? Was the figure so incredibly large that it caused you to temporarily lose your mind?”
Bennet resorts to a lie. Relating the substance of their conversation would be impossible, and Meryton wouldn’t believe it anyway. He scarcely believes it himself. “She only came to tell us Collin is well,” he says, and walks toward the elevator.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tequila isn’t the solution. Almost two hours into an enthusiastic drinking session with his brother and Bingley, Bennet discovers that not even tequila shots are strong enough to make him stop thinking about Lady Catherine’s extraordinary visit.
“Guacamole,” Bingley says as she stares into a basket of tortilla crumbs at her friend Samantha’s Mexican restaurant. “Let’s get more guacamole. And chips. Lots more chips. Ooh, and some queso fundido. I’m suddenly starving.”
John holds up his hand to wave down a waiter, and, making the suggested requests, assures the love of his life that the food will be on the table posthaste.
Smiling foolishly, if somewhat drunkenly, Bingley demands that he say it again.
“The food will be on the table posthaste.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head, “the other part.”
“Love of my life.”
Now the smile is all foolishness, and she leans in to kiss him. Bennet, whose eyes are turned in their general direction, hardly notices the byplay. His mind is too preoccupied with the bizarre fact that Lady Catherine actually traveled to their obscure outpost in Queens with the sole purpose of berating him into ending his engagement to Darcy. It was, he supposes, a rational scheme—maybe even a worthwhile one—if such an arrangement existed. But it doesn’t, and Bennet’s at a loss to understand how the rumor got started. The only possibility is Collin himself. Most likely he was teasing his aunt during a particularly officious moment.
If this theory is right, then the Longbourn volunteer succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
Bennet shudders as he considers the further damage to be done by the nonsensical story, for Lady Catherine’s intent to apply to Darcy next had been apparent. He doesn’t doubt that Darcy will be more receptive to her aunt’s catalog of Bethle evils, for many of them echo her own concerns. The arguments, which had struck him as weak and ridiculous, might seem full of good sense and solid reasoning to her. If she’s been trying to figure out her next move, as has often seemed to be the case, the advice and counsel of a loved and admired aunt might tip the scales out of his favor once and for
all. Unblemished dignity would prevail, the social order would remain untrammeled, and he’d most likely never see her again.
And so the clock has started, he thinks as the new basket of chips arrives at the table. Darcy has promised Bingley she’ll be back in time for the luncheon her friend is hosting at the Longbourn in a few days. She’ll either attend the event or make up some excuse to miss it. If she comes, he’ll have a reason to have hope and if she doesn’t.…
Well, suffice to say, he’ll close the book on this chapter of his life.
Bingley’s friend Samantha, who owns several cantinas in the city, personally delivers the queso fundido and sits down at their table. After ordering another round of Cuervo—nothing but the best for her besties—she chats easily with John about stand-up paddle boarding and the limited supply of salted caramel ice cream on Cape Cod and the best ways to wake Bingley up in the morning. If Samantha feels any sense of horror at her friend’s cavorting with someone of so obviously an inferior social standing, she doesn’t let on. None of Bingley’s friends, of whom he’s met several in the last week, have shown anything but delight at her finding someone who loves her wildly and treats her well.
Weak and ridiculous indeed, Bennet thinks again as he recalls Lady Catherine’s vehement insistence that every sensibility would be horrified by the prospect of Darcy taking up with a lawyer’s son.
Sure, he thinks, if they’re living in the middle of the nineteenth century.
To be fair, Bingley isn’t probably entirely up to snuff, either. She’s wealthy, certainly, but her father amassed his fortune only in the last thirty years, making the Bingston clan arrivistes in Lady Catherine’s estimation. This subtle snobbery might explain why no stigma is attached to her dating a lawyer’s son. Poor, open-minded Bingley already counts shopkeepers and restaurant owners among her acquaintance. What’s one more middle-class stray?
Unable to decide whether these thoughts provide solace or only more agitation, Bennet accepts the shot of Cuervo and downs it with enthusiasm. He knows the alcohol, which burns his throat, will offer little respite from his thoughts, but he appreciates the distraction, and when Bingley insists the queso fundido is so good, it’ll blow his mind, he’s just drunk enough to hope it’s literally true.
***
Darcy doesn’t bail. Instead, she arrives at the Longbourn luncheon a few minutes early, and before Meryton has a chance to tell her about her aunt’s visit, a conversation Bennet dreads, Bingley asks her to run and fetch her a latte from the café downstairs. Darcy is momentarily nonplussed by the request, the expression on her face indicating that she clearly doesn’t grasp the concept of running and fetching, and Meryton immediately volunteers Bennet as a substitute. He eagerly complies. Now that he’s in the same room as Darcy, he suddenly wants to be somewhere else, a goal that’s foiled when she announces her intention to accompany him.
Very little is said as they walk toward the elevator. Bennet, who he hadn’t expected to have a moment alone with her quite so soon, is working up the nerve to speak. He figured maybe after the lunch he’d be able to pull her off to the side, or perhaps while she waited for her driver to bring the car around. But the opportunity has presented itself, and the thought of prolonging his uncertainty is almost as unbearable as the prospect of ending it. So, as soon as the elevator doors close behind them, he says, “Darcy, I’m sorry if it embarrasses you, but I must thank you for saving Lydon. Ever since I’ve found out, I’ve been anxious to let you know how very, very much I appreciate your unparalleled kindness to my brother.”
Darcy is surprised—very surprised indeed—by his statement, and she looks down at her fingers for a moment before speaking. “I didn’t think the FBI would be so bad at keeping a secret,” she replies in a tone made awkward with emotion.
“Don’t blame the FBI. Special Agent Tompkins was very discreet, but Lydon let it slip and I couldn’t rest until I knew the whole story. Let me thank you again and again, on behalf of Lydon and my parents and myself and my whole family, for going to so much trouble. I know fiddling with the official FBI record is not without risks for you, and I’m humbled by your generosity and compassion.”
“No thanks are necessary, but if you must,” she replies, “let it be for yourself alone. I did it only for you.”
Now the elevator arrives at the first floor and the doors open. Cursing the rotten timing, and the impulse that led him to start this conversation in an elevator—an elevator, for God’s sake!—he steps out of the car and turns to the left. The café is to the right but no matter. No one’s actually fetching coffee anymore.
Before Bennet can think of a response, Darcy says in a rush, “You’re too kind to trifle with me. If you still feel the way you did in July, please tell me so. I feel exactly the same, but just say the word and I’ll drop the subject once and for all.”
Bennet doesn’t say anything. Heedless of the busy hallway, of the tourists strolling by and his coworkers bustling about, he takes her face into his hands and presses his lips to hers. He kisses her long and deep and with far more ardor than is appropriate for the Jessa Winthrop Longbourn Memorial alcove, and when he feels the press of the wall he realizes he must stop now or mortify them both. Heavy with resolve, he pulls away and looks into her face, her traffic-stopping gorgeous face, and says, “My feelings have undergone a radical change, and if you’re free to leave here, I’d be delighted and most absurdly grateful to demonstrate just how radical a change that is.”
Darcy, whose color is already high, turns a brighter shade of pink at his suggestion, which, having forgotten entirely about their errand, she immediately agrees to. She remembers the latte again fifteen minutes later as she’s walking up the steps to Bennet’s apartment building, a converted warehouse with pretty window boxes, and cringes with embarrassment as she imagines Bingley and John scratching their heads over their sudden disappearance. Bennet pulls out his phone, taps a few lines and hits SEND, and Darcy, reading the text over his shoulder—“Abandoned latte mission; on the trail of something more stimulating”—giggles.
Some of Bennet’s euphoria dips as he unlocks his door and reveals to her expectant eyes his modest home, with its sparse furnishings, live-in kitchen and narrow bedroom. The only things it has going for it are the brilliant rays of sunlight pouring in through the southern exposure and its cleanliness. He’s relieved he hasn’t left the towels lying on the bathroom floor, though, truth be told, he never leaves the towels or anything else lying around.
Suddenly self-conscious, he starts to apologize for the apartment’s smallness and its evident lack of luxury, and Darcy shakes her head as she laughs.
“Yes, that’s right, taunt me for my small-mindedness. That Darcy probably would have been much taken aback by a sensible man living within his means,” she says, as she walks across the room to the window. “I have lots to be sorry for, and I’ve done little since that day but repent. When I think about that conversation—my words, my tone, my whole attitude—I want to bury my head under a blanket. Everything you said was true, all of it. I didn’t behave like a decent human being. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t slug me when I called your uncle a huckster.”
Bennet, however, is much too appalled by his own behavior on that occasion to listen to her castigate herself for hers, and he strolls over to the window to take her into his arms, for anything else is simply too much to bear.
“What’d you think of the email?” she asks. “Did it make a difference? Did you believe any of it?”
“The email, the email,” he repeats softly. “The email was a revelation. Don’t get me wrong: I didn’t want to believe a word of it and dismissed it the first time around. But I’m not completely inured to reason, and the next time I read it and the time after that, it all started to make sense. Especially your observations about John. He is a cipher. It’s partly his placid nature, partly his professionalism. He’s not like me—he’d never hurl insults at a woman brave enough to put her heart on the line.”
“You’re giving me too much credit,” she says. “I didn’t risk anything, because I didn’t know anything was at risk. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind of the outcome. I really thought you’d be flattered and assumed you felt something for me in return because I was just that vain. Instead, I got the set-down of the century. It was good for me. I’ve been selfish my whole life, I realize that now. My parents instilled in me the importance of good values. But they also raised me with a strong sense of entitlement, to believe my thoughts, feelings and experiences are more important than everyone else’s. A classic example of special snowflake indoctrination, and since we had the money and prestige to back it up, that sense of superiority was validated over and over again. People have always behaved as if the Fitzwilliams are worth a little bit more than everyone else, which taught me to care for only my own family and to think unkindly of everyone else. Worse: It taught me to think little of other people’s worth in comparison to my own. And that’s who I was from eight to twenty-eight and who I still would be if you, dearest, most darling Bennet, hadn’t shown me the light. I’ve yet to demonstrate my appreciation,” she adds with a wholly uncharacteristic grin, “which, having been raised with all those good values, I’m now obligated to do.”
At her expression of heartfelt delight, Bennet feels his own heart trip in his chest and he finds it suddenly hard to breathe, an activity that grows steadily more difficult as she presses her lips to his and murmurs all the lovely nonsense of a woman violently in love.
Bennet’s narrow bedroom is steps away, but they make it no farther than the couch, and although he has a vague sense that something more dignified is befitting the heir to the Fitzwilliam fortune, he’s beyond thrilled to discover it’s not required.
A celebratory toast is a must, after the afternoon’s other celebratory activity has been very satisfactorily concluded—twice—and Bennet takes out a lovely bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé that he’d been saving for a special occasion. It must be said, nothing of this magnitude of special had ever registered on his radar. He digs up cheddar cheese, melba toast and some dried apricots, and lays the feast on the coffee table.