Pride, Prejudice, and Cheese Grits

by Hathaway, Mary Jane

  Shelby’s face felt frozen in horror. It seemed the talent for persuasive speech that her mother so admired, had completely left her.

  “You might wonder what’s in it for you? First of all, of course, is me.” Another giggle escaped his thin lips. “I’ve been known as a most eligible bachelor in Jackson. I’m not promising anything , you understand,” he added in an undertone “we’ll just have to wait and see how everything progresses. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy mingling with people you normally wouldn’t have had the chance to meet. You’ll have doors open all over the South when you’re known as my girlfriend.”

  Shelby blinked at him. Did he really think she was a social climber? And wanted to be his girlfriend?

  “I helped Catherine DeLilo buy her last two houses.” He stroked his upper lip.“Two weeks ago she saw a gorgeous ante-bellum mansion over in Galveston. She called me right away and I went straight to her lawyer’s office. He sent them a letter letting them know who wanted their house and asking what they’d sell for.”

  “And did that work?” Shelby hoped they’d veered back into real estate permanently until she could get away from the corner in which she was trapped. Over his head she could see Ransom Fielding by a long window, listening intently to a petite blond who waved her hands as she spoke and whose short sequined dress sparkled in the light. His face bore a small smile that didn’t seem quite natural.

  “Well, not at first. It had been in the family for generations. They had a lot of sentimental value attached to it. But when I’d seen that it was falling apart- you know how those old places are- I told them we’d be restoring it to the original pristine condition, probably get it on the Historical Register. I told them we’d keep the family name on it.”

  She dragged her focus back to David, her interest piqued. “Which house is this? Which family?” Maybe he was disgusting and smarmy, but so many Southern mansions were falling into disrepair.

  He waved a limp hand. “Oh no, I just told them that. Once the sale went through, we tore off the ugly front portico and the balconies that were falling apart. Completely renovated the bathrooms, all the old fixtures replaced. Had the ugliest wallpaper I’ve ever seen, must have been a hundred years old. It’s a beautiful beach house now with everything opened up. Perfect for parties in the summer.”

  Shelby nearly choked. She glanced at her mother a few feet away, deep in conversation with Marion Dartmon and fought to control her voice as it trembled with sudden anger.

  “Well, thank you for-“ what should she call it? A proposition? “-thinking of me but I just am so busy with my research. I wouldn’t be able to travel as much as you needed. You’d really want someone to be able to be there with you.”

  He tutted. “But, you’re a teacher! How hard can it be to get a day off or two... three at the most? Maybe twice a month?”

  “Well, it’s actually rather hard to find substitutes at the college level, unless you have a class assistant, and most of my classes are small so-“

  “Can’t somebody else just read the material to them?”

  Shelby fought back a laugh. “The history classes I teach are more than a recitation of facts. There are-“

  “History. I never understood you people who can’t let go of the past. You’d have us all living without electricity and sewing our own clothes.” His voice had taken on an ugly tone.

  “This just won’t work. But thank you anyway. I’m sure your clients are ... awesome.” Shelby cringed inwardly. That word seemed to slip out when she was at a complete loss for anything better to say.

  “Oh I see you’re very career oriented. Well, getting Margaret Greathouse’s attention would help you immensely. She and I are very good friends. She could get you a better job, where you wouldn’t have to teach. Probably running a museum or even soliciting donations for her projects.”

  Shelby suppressed a snort. She already had Margaret Greathouse’s attention, thank you very much. “I like my job. I really do. I’m not there because I can’t find anything else.” She felt her face warming as her voice edged higher.

  “I can’t imagine that it’s so fantastic that you’d turn down something with her, not to mention a pay raise.” With that he gave her a significant look, from head to toe, as if her salary was written on the front of her gown.

  Shelby knew she didn’t have cutting edge style, but for once she was deliriously glad her mother had forced her into something expensive.

  “I don’t believe my salary is any of your business and moreover, I consider teaching to be more of a calling than a profession.” With that Shelby started to move away, her heart pounding furiously. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ransom lift his head, brows lowered, as if he had noticed her sudden movement. She fought to control her expression and hoped her face didn’t look as tight and angry as it felt.

  David Whitcomb sniffed and said, “I suppose you’re right. The woman I need at my side would have to intuitively understand good society. You wouldn’t be comfortable at all.”

  Shelby stopped and swivelled to face him. “You’re right, I wouldn’t be comfortable, but not because I don’t understand good society, as you put it. I wouldn’t be comfortable with shady legal dealings and tricking people out of their homes,” she spat. With that she strode across the room to her mother, wishing with all her might that Ransom Fielding wasn’t watching, that he was miles from the drama she had just created.

  “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friend- whether he may be equally capable of retaining them is less certain.”

  -Mr. Darcy

  Chapter Fourteen

  Shelby heard a few whispers behind her and knew their conversation hadn’t gone unnoticed. Probably her ticked off expression said a whole lot, too.

  “Shelby What happened?” Florence Roswell’s perfect upswept hair seemed to spring a few frizzy strands in Shelby’s imagination.

  “Mama, everything’s fine,” she smiled brightly. “He invited me to some parties with him.”

  “Oh, honeyI’m so happy” Her mother grabbed both arms now.

  “Mama,” Shelby tried to free herself. “Mama, please. I said I wasn’t interested.”

  Mrs. Roswell gasped, Marion Dartmon gasped, and Shelby could have sworn someone behind them gasped.

  “Why?” Her voice contained a tiny note of hysteria.

  “Well, it’s just not my thing, being toted from party to party as the trophy girlfriend.” Shelby decided it was best to be clear.

  “What do you mean, ‘your thing’? A party is a party” Now there was more than a note of hysteria. “You’ve probably offended him”

  Her mother peered nervously around the room, searching for David Whitcomb, until she found him in the opposite corner holding court with a group of elegantly dressed older women.

  Shelby glanced over and could tell by his expression that he was not talking real estate. A tall, thin woman who resembled a stooped heron, all long limbs and sharp features, returned her look and didn’t smile.

  “Mrs. DartmonHelp” Shelby’s mother turned to her with a soft shriek.

  Mrs. Dartmon, for her part, didn’t immediately get up and move away from the leper colony they were becoming. She gently cleared her throat. “Shelby dear, I think there still might be time to go, quickly, and apologize.”

  “Apologize I only said I wasn’t really interested in being his trophy girlfriend, and we have zero in common anyway.”

  “In common?Listen to herHe’s a man, there’s not going to be a whole lot in common. Mercy, Shelby You’re going to give me a heart attack.” Her mother’s face did indeed look very red.

  “Shelby,” Mrs. Dartmon was on her feet now and moving carefully around to Shelby’s other side. A cloud of expensive perfume enveloped her. “You should go and apologize. You don’t have to say what exactly you’re sorry about, that’s a little trick I use.” She smiled encouragingly.

  “Oh, so I can’t say I a
pologize for him being an absolute idiot? A raging liar? A cheat? He told me how he promises to get a house on the historic register, then turns it into vacation home like yours.” Shelby couldn’t help how her voice had risen. Her hands trembled and she refused to glance in Ransom’s direction, knowing he was probably watching with a bemused expression.

  Mrs. Dartmon’s pale eyes opened wide. “I can see there was more to this than politely refusing an invitation.” She pressed her lips together primly and moved toward a group of curious onlookers. The group enveloped her immediately, anxious to hear every detail.

  Shelby rubbed her forehead. “Mama, I’m sorry. I don’t want to ruin your party.” She wished that they had never come, wished desperately that Ransom wasn’t witness to the entire debacle.

  “If you were really sorry you’d go over there this minute and be nice,” her mother hissed, lips quivering.

  “I can’t, Mama. I mean, I can be nice, which I think I was, considering. But I won’t go beg forgiveness for turning him down.”

  Sudden tears shone in her mother’s eyes. “You’re just like your father,’ she whispered. “His career was so promising and then there was all that trouble, and he wouldn’t run for office again. It was so humiliating Whose side was he on?”

  Shelby groaned inwardly. Her father’s political career had ended with his support of busing students out of the inner city and into the white schools. Her mother had never gotten over his refusal to just let ‘those people stay with their own kind’.

  “Mama, please don’t cry. Let’s go home.” She couldn’t resist one last glance at in Ransom’s direction. His head was bent to hear the blond woman’s chatter, but his eyes were turned on her, the small smile gone.

  Her mother nodded, two large tears dripped down her smooth cheeks, carrying a pale gray line of melted mascara with them.

  Shelby tucked her hand into the crook of her mother’s arm and walked her toward Mrs. Putney, who had stopped flitting from group to group in order to observe them more clearly. A sudden silence preceded their arrival. The elderly woman’s deep green gown shimmered with tiny beads sewn around the neck, her earlobes dotted with tasteful diamonds.

  “Mrs. Putney, my mother isn’t feeling well and I’d better get her home.”

  “Of course.I wonder what could be the matter, dear And your sisters will stay? I know that at least one is out near the pool...” Her flat gray eyes narrowed with undisguised mirth and she let the rest of her sentence trail away meaningfully. Shelby chose not to respond. There wasn’t any way she could convince her sisters to come home now, with the party half over.

  “I think she’ll feel better once we get home.” Shelby moved her silent mother toward the door and guests stepped aside for them, faces curious.

  “Are you leaving?” A low voice shocked a gasp out of her. Ransom bowed his head near hers, eyes filled with concern. “Did something...,” he started to ask, glancing from Shelby to her mother.

  “My mother isn’t feeling well,” Shelby said quickly. If she had to repeat the horrible conversation she was sure she would die of humiliation. A woman her age practically pimped out to the highest bidder.

  Her mother moaned and wiped her eyes. Shelby was momentarily thankful for her theatrics and hoped it was enough to persuade him.

  “Can I help you both to the car?” He started once more, reaching out and touching her hand, but Shelby shook her head. She tried to smile, but it felt brittle and cold.

  “We’ll be fine,” she said, steering her mother out the door and away from his helpful hand.

  There near the door was Mr. Whitcomb himself, back turned and arms crossed. He didn’t spare them a glance. As they hit the hallway Shelby heard loud ripples of conversation break the unnatural silence behind them.

  In the car, Shelby tried to apologize once more, but her mother waved a hand.

  “Don’t , please. Just leave me be.”

  Shelby was left to her own muddled emotions on the long drive back. Ransom’s cautious words, his concerned tone, the touch of his hand- they all played on an endless loop in her mind.

  “An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do.”

  -Mr. Bennet

  Chapter Fifteen

  The ride back home was painfully silent, her mother wiping her eyes every few minutes. Finally, Shelby rounded the corner and they started down the long driveway, winding past the old elm tree near the pond. Its long limbs shone pale over the dark water. The Roswell family home seemed solid and welcoming, with its modest but stately pillars. Her daddy had left the front light on and Shelby noticed the paint peeling a bit on the porch railing. The rose garden at the east side of the house looked shaggy and overgrown in the shadows.

  Mrs. Roswell revived enough to open the passenger door and stomp up the flagstone steps.

  “Phillip! Phillip, come down here,” her mother shrieked as they entered the house.

  Shelby sighed. Her father was still closed away in his study. He didn’t seem particularly unhappy, but her parents existed in different worlds. Without their children, Shelby wondered if her parents would speak at all.

  “Phillip!” her mother called once more, then marched to the living room and threw herself on the couch. “Oh my head! You’ve given me a migraine. Get my pills, hurry!”

  Shelby wearily retrieved one of the small white prescription pills from her mother’s medicine cabinet. When she returned, he mother was already in full swing.

  “.. and then she refused him! Said they had nothing in common! It was a nightmare and I was humiliated! See what all your ideas have done? All your notions about careers!” Her mother spat the words and grabbed for the pill that Shelby handed her with glass of water.

  Phillip stood there, holding a newspaper in one hand and rubbing his chin with the other. He was a tall man, his frame getting thinner as he aged. His shoulders were still broad and strong but his hair shone almost pure silver in the lamplight. The scent of liniment cream wafted toward her and she sensed that he was, like the old house, gradually falling into disrepair.

  “Shelby?” His deep voice was serious, measured.

  “Yes, Daddy?” Shelby looked at him levelly, daring him to side with her mother.

  “Were you impolite to this young man?”

  “No, Daddy. He’s a realtor that schemes and steals away historic homes, and he propositioned me. He thought I would be his girlfriend in exchange for being introduced into the right circles.” She wanted to mentioned his glassy, bloodshot eyes, but didn’t.

  “And you wanted her to respond how, exactly?” He turned toward his wife. His tone was mild but the tendons stood out on the backs of his hands. Nobody messed with Phillip Roswell’s girls.

  “One or two parties wouldn’t hurt! She doesn’t have to marry him. Nothing permanent. What’s the harm?’ Her mother bolted upright and gestured wildly. “All I do is work and work to find these girls some suitable husbands and it’s just thrown back in my face. I give up! Spend your life being that Rebecca’s roommate, what do I care?” And with that she threw herself back on the couch, lay an arm across her face and started to sob. Her mother always referred to her best friend as ‘that Rebecca’ when she was angry.

  “Shelby, honey. I understand your feelings. And I suppose I must say...”

  Shelby straightened her back and looked her father in the eye, unafraid. She knew he was the most traditional of Southern men, not just concerned with politeness or protocol, but the rightness of the matter.

  “I hope that no daughter of mine will sell herself, for money or power... or a good party.” He finished his sentence, with a deep sigh that Shelby understood. How they both wished they could avoid the scene that was sure to follow.

  “Oh! I knew it! You have to go and make it a capital case!” With that Mrs. Roswell gathered herself from the couc
h and ran to the bedroom, slamming the door.

  Phillip shrugged and retreated back to his study, patting Shelby lightly on the shoulder as he passed. There was no victory celebration here.

  Shelby trudged down the long hallway toward the back staircase and swung open the kitchen door. A chill draft wound its way around the dark space and she flipped on the overhead light. She tried not to see the cracks on the ceiling that grew wider every year. Fixing a cup of hot raspberry tea, she slipped off her high heels and slowly ascended the creaky old staircase. She ran her hand along the highly lacquered railing, feeling the scratches and dents under her fingertips. Her room was the smallest, but the brightest during the day, with three windows. One window faced the front of the house and the two other overlooked the rose gardens. Not bothering to turn on anything more than a small lamp, Shelby slipped out of her dress and into some comfy jeans and a t-shirt. Slowly taking the emerald solitaire from her neck, she nestled it in the worn velvet of a battered jewelry box. Settling into the window seat, she blew on her hot tea, stared out into the darkness. She had done the right, she was sure. But it didn’t take away the sting of her mother’s words, or the fact that her social life was in shambles, again. She took a sip of tea, letting the burning liquid sit on her tongue. There was nothing else to do but wait for her sisters to return home.

  “My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these.