President Darcy

by Victoria Kincaid

  “Weren’t you going to apply for the USDA contract?” Elizabeth asked. The application for the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s school lunch program had been the sole topic of conversation within the family for at least a month. She smiled her thanks at Jane as her sister handed her a cup of tea.

  Mary brightened a little. “Yeah, that’s a huge contract. It could save us, but we won’t even know whether we won it for at least a month.”

  “All right,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll try to dwell on the positive when I talk to Mom.”

  Jane patted her hand. “Thank you for coming. Sometimes you’re the only one she’ll listen to.”

  “Better you than me.” Mary rolled her eyes. “And you probably know this, but Dad wants to keep it quiet, so you can’t say anything to Lydia—that would be like taking out an ad in The New York Times.”

  “What’s going on at Lucas and Lucas?” Elizabeth asked. The PR firm was the pride and joy of her friend Charlotte’s life.

  Mary shook her head sadly. “Charlotte seemed upset on the phone. I guess business has been slow since her dad has been doing so much volunteering for the Democratic National Committee.”

  Elizabeth sipped her tea. “I wish there was something I could do. She’s kick ass at PR.”

  “You know anyone who needs a PR guru?” Mary asked.

  Elizabeth gnawed on a fingernail while she considered, but Jane spoke first. “Maybe Bing does! Politicians always need good PR or know someone who does.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sure Charlotte would appreciate being recommended.”

  Mary nodded slowly. “Now, if only we knew someone who can get spaghetti to stick to a stick…”

  ***

  The phone rang. And rang again. Elizabeth rolled over and groped for it on her bedside table. “Hello?”

  “Lizzy?”

  The strained quality of Jane’s voice put Elizabeth on instant alert. “Jane? What’s wrong?” Her first thought was another financial emergency like the one a week ago.

  “I…um…hurt my back again.”

  “Oh no!” Elizabeth bolted upright in bed. The last time Jane injured her back it had turned out to be a herniated disc which had prevented her from walking for almost three weeks. “How bad is it?”

  Jane gave a humorless laugh. “Pretty bad.” If Jane admitted to being in pain it must be excruciating. Elizabeth’s mouth was suddenly quite dry.

  “Are you lying down? Do you want me to come over? I could bring my heating pad. Is your prescription up to date?”

  Jane chuckled without mirth. “Yeah, my prescription is up to date. Unfortunately, it’s at home.”

  “And you’re not?” Where could Jane be at—Elizabeth squinted at her clock—1:36 a.m. on a Saturday night? Well, technically it was Sunday Monday. Had she gone to Bing’s place?

  “I was hoping you could go to my apartment, pick up the medicine, and bring it here.” Elizabeth could tell Jane was trying to keep the pain out of her voice. Each word was carefully enunciated.

  “Of course. Where are you?” Elizabeth stood, pulling off her pajama bottoms and struggling into her jeans.

  “Um, that’s the thing. I’m at the White House.”

  Elizabeth dropped the phone. And hastily picked it up. “The White House? Why are you at the White House?” She froze with her jeans halfway up her legs.

  “Bing invited me to a dinner at the Residence. Just the president and a couple of his friends and their wives. Then I fell and hurt my back. I thought it would be okay, but then…it wasn’t.” The slight slurring of Jane’s words told Elizabeth how much pain her sister was experiencing.

  Elizabeth took a deep, centering breath. “Tell me where the prescription is, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Hold on.” There was a pause and some muffled voices.

  Despite Jane’s relationship with Bing, Elizabeth never expected to have an occasion to return to the White House. And she’d been content with that thought. In fact, she had planned to avoid President Darcy for the rest of her life. The last man in the world Elizabeth wanted to see, and Jane was stuck at his house. But it was Jane. And Elizabeth would do anything for her sister.

  Then Jane was back. “You’ll also have to give Bing your Social Security number. The Secret Service needs to do a quick background check even though you were at the White House before.”

  Bing makes Jane happy. This is worth the trouble. “No problem.” She kept her voice as positive as possible.

  “I’m sorry,” Jane said somberly. “Maybe Bing could go to my apartment instead—”

  “No, that would take a lot longer,” Elizabeth said. She would not leave her sister in pain and vulnerable in a strange place. “I’m coming. Just tell me where the medicine is, and then I’ll talk to Bing.”

  ***

  An hour later Elizabeth was riding in an elevator with a Secret Service agent whose expressions ranged from blank to grim. Jane had assured Elizabeth that she could simply drop off the medicine, but Elizabeth needed to see Jane herself. Bing was a nice guy, but Elizabeth knew nothing about his nursing skills.

  The elevator doors slid open, revealing a small vestibule and front door that might lead to an ordinary apartment in a rather old-fashioned building. The agent knocked, and the door was quickly opened by Bing. He usually was immaculately dressed and collected, but his wrinkled shirtsleeves and disheveled hair suggested that he’d been caring for Jane.

  His smile for Elizabeth came and went in a flash. “Thank goodness you’re here!” As he opened the door wider for Elizabeth, the agent returned to the elevator. Bing closed the door behind them with a decisive click.

  They were in the entrance hall of what Elizabeth assumed was the Residence, the part of the White House where the president actually lived. The hall was decorated with gray tile flooring and dark wood paneling. The ornately carved furniture dripped historical authenticity, but it was all on a residential scale—not the grand scale of the White House’s public rooms. While this room was still formal, it was far more intimate and livable.

  She had no problem envisioning President Darcy in this room. She bet he could give detailed information about the provenance and time period of each piece of furniture. What she couldn’t imagine was someone running around the Residence barefoot in ratty sweatpants or cut-off shorts, but the president probably wouldn’t do that anywhere.

  Bing gestured down the hall. “Jane is resting in one of the spare bedrooms.”

  “What happened?” Elizabeth asked as they walked.

  “Just a freak accident,” Bing said. “One of her high heels caught on a bit of broken tile in the kitchen. She went down like a sack of potatoes.” He shuddered at the memory. “I knew she was in trouble when she didn’t stand up again right away.” He squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his forehead with one hand. “She was wincing at the pain and trying not to cry; it was awful. I wanted to send for the White House doctor, but she swore all she needed was her medicine.”

  “She doesn’t like having a fuss made over her,” Elizabeth said. “The medicine makes her sleepy, and she shouldn’t try to walk until she’s rested her back, at least for the night.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Jane said otherwise.”

  “She’s trying not to be a burden,” Elizabeth observed.

  They stopped outside a closed door. “To hell with that!” Bing said in a low voice. “She can stay all night if she needs to. Nobody else needs the room, and I don’t want her to make it worse.”

  Elizabeth heartily approved. Bing had his priorities in place.

  When Bing swung open the door, they entered a dimly lit bedroom straight from the colonial era. The dark wooden bed had a white lace canopy and blue covers in a floral pattern. Jane was lying flat on her back in the middle, her face pale and drawn. She turned her head as Elizabeth approached the bed and attempted a smile. But the lines around her eyes suggested the effort it cost her. Just like the last time.
Elizabeth was not pleased with the similarities.

  “Lizzy,” Jane moaned. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Of course.” Elizabeth took her sister’s hand and squeezed it gently. Bing brought in a glass of water from the adjoining bathroom and left the two sisters alone.

  Helping Jane into a sitting position provoked gasps of pain, but it allowed her to take the pill. “Thank you, Lizzy,” Jane said after swallowing. “I’m sure I’ll start feeling better soon, and then I can leave. You might need to drive me—”

  Elizabeth scowled. “You are in no shape to leave tonight. You can’t walk, and I doubt you can sit in a wheelchair. I’m not even confident you can leave in the morning.”

  Jane shook her head emphatically. “I can’t stay here! It’s the White House. Bing doesn’t even live here.”

  Bing slipped into the room during this declaration and was at Jane’s side in an instant. Tenderly, he brushed hairs from Jane’s forehead. “Don’t worry about any of that. It’s not a problem to stay with you overnight, my dear. I’ve stayed over plenty of times when Darcy and I had a late night working on a project.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “Can you help her settle down while I use the bathroom?”

  Jane was silent until the bathroom door closed but then said, “No, I can’t possibly stay.” She tried to swing her legs to the edge of the bed but gasped in pain.

  “You can’t possibly go.” Elizabeth put her hand on Jane’s shoulder. “Remember how walking made it worse the last time?”

  Jane nodded, biting her lip. Tears glistened in her eyes as she fell back against the pillows. Naturally, Jane was anxious at the prospect of being alone and vulnerable in a strange place. Her relationship with Bing was still fairly new, and Jane hated to impose. But Elizabeth had done this before. “Would you like me to stay?” she asked softly.

  Hope shone on Jane’s face for a moment, but then she averted her eyes. “I can’t ask that of you.”

  “You’re not asking. I’m offering,” Elizabeth said firmly. “And I would feel better if I could stay. Just in case you need me.”

  Jane allowed her head to flop back onto the pillow. “It would be nice to have someone help me get into the bathroom and change clothes. Bing and I aren’t quite at that stage yet.”

  Elizabeth patted Jane’s hand. “No problem. You should sleep if you can. I won’t go far.”

  Jane nodded wearily before her eyes fluttered closed. Bing emerged from the bathroom, and he and Elizabeth padded out of the room and closed the door softly behind them. Forehead creased with worry, Bing turned to Elizabeth. “What do you think?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly the same as when she herniated her disc, but she needs to be careful. She should sleep now. The medicine usually tires her out. I told Jane I would stay the night since I’ve been through this before. And I can help her leave in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” Bing said earnestly, anxious eyes fixed on the door. “Maybe I’ll go in and sit with her.” He gestured down the hall. “The living room and kitchen are down there. You can help yourself to some coffee or food. Whatever you want.”

  He was turning her loose in the Residence with only those instructions? Elizabeth hesitated. “Is the president—?”

  “Oh, he’s working on a refugee issue in the Treaty Room.” Bing pointed to a door. “It serves as his study. The man never sleeps. He won’t emerge for a couple of hours—and then he’ll head for bed.”

  “I don’t want to be in the way,” Elizabeth said, although that was not at all her real objection.

  Bing waved his hand airily. “Darcy likely is oblivious to everything except foreign policy.” With that reassurance, Bing disappeared into Jane’s room and left Elizabeth in the surreal position of being alone in the White House Residence at three in the morning.

  She wandered down the hallway until she came to an open door and peered in, finding an oval room. The White House architect sure liked his oval rooms. This one wasn’t an office, though. It was set up like a formal living room with pale green sofas and chairs upholstered in gold and cream arranged around a fireplace. At the far end of the room were three floor-to-ceiling windows hung with gold drapes. Like everything else in the building, the room radiated history and formality—not a place to kick back to watch a football game. In fact, there was no television.

  After turning on a lamp, Elizabeth tiptoed into the yellow room, feeling like an intruder but unable to resist a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to explore. It was more interesting than the broom closet and less likely to get her arrested.

  Venturing further into the room, she soaked in every detail. It looked a little familiar; perhaps she’d seen photos of presidents hanging out here. Peering out the window, she didn’t see much except the railing for a balcony—underwhelming until she recognized it as the Truman Balcony.

  This is actually happening, she reminded herself. I’m not dreaming it or imagining it or watching it in a movie. But it was still hard to believe.

  A muffled thump from the hallway caused Elizabeth to freeze. Please, please, don’t let the president come in here, she prayed silently. After discovering her in his broom closet, what would he think if he found her in the Residence? At the very least she would cement her reputation as a stalker.

  Even if he accepted her presence here, she would still be exposed to his razor-sharp tongue. Exhausted and worried about her sister, Elizabeth had no desire to fend off a torrent of disdain at three a.m.

  Continued silence from the hallway helped slow Elizabeth’s heartbeat, but the scare had quenched her desire to explore. Avoiding the president was her highest priority. Her eyes searched the dimly lit Oval Room, finding a high-backed sofa in the rear, facing the windows. If she stretched out there, Elizabeth would be practically invisible from the hallway but still close enough to Jane’s room.

  The Victorian-style sofa had a curved back and striped silk fabric. Sturdily constructed, the piece was probably a reproduction rather than an antique. Still, sitting on it seemed presumptuous without written permission from George Washington. She snickered at her own hesitation and very deliberately flopped onto the cushions.

  Despite its formal appearance, the sofa was quite comfortable, enveloping her in softness. Although she had no intention of sleeping, she positioned a cushion behind her back and another behind her head and commenced reading the news on her phone. However, the sofa was cozy and the hour was late, and soon Elizabeth was asleep.

  Chapter Six

  Darcy stood up at his desk and ran his fingers through his hair. 4:12 a.m. Well, he’d certainly had later nights. He’d made progress on a number of fronts, although he was still stymied by the problems in Zavene. His staff didn’t seem to include anyone who truly understood the country’s convoluted tribal structure and how that affected its politics.

  Plodding to the door, his body protesting like a far older man, Darcy again swore he would curtail the late nights. But there was always so much to do. Walking into the hallway, he shifted from work mode, reminding him of the events from earlier. The dinner party. Jane Bennet hurting her back. When she refused the help of a doctor, Bing had taken her to one of the spare bedrooms.

  Were they still here? Surely Bing would have ducked his head in the door to notify Darcy if they were leaving. Still, Jane had seemed uneasy at the thought of spending the night in the White House. Which would be just as well. Although Darcy had no objection to Jane, she reminded him too much of the first woman he’d encountered who made him wish he could pursue a relationship while in office.

  For the hundredth time Darcy mused what made Elizabeth Bennet so special. She certainly was not the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. Movie stars and models always sought his company, and he had to send them on their way. However, Elizabeth was intriguing. Without a pressing need for a career, she still devoted herself to the unglamorous and sometimes dangerous labor of an aid worker in third-world countries. Of course, Darcy had met pretty, interesting, and compassionate women befo
re. Hadn’t he?

  Caroline Bingley, Virginia Longworth, Camelia Cassidy…all smart, pretty, ambitious women with the “right” kind of family name. The kind his parents expected him to marry. However, their images didn’t linger in his mind. He was ambivalent about ever seeing them again while eagerly anticipating the day he might encounter Elizabeth Bennet once more.

  Oddly, what he remembered most from the state dinner was her silences. At first she had been nervous in his presence; then she had been angry and hadn’t hesitated to let him know it—not just through her sarcasm and standoffish body language but also by her refusal to engage with him in conversation.

  Even before he entered politics, Darcy had spent much of his life surrounded by people who sought to curry favor with him, who wanted something from him: jobs, money, approval, political alliances, friendship, even marriage. Elizabeth Bennet hadn’t wanted anything from him. How refreshing. How…fascinating.

  That’s odd. A light was turned on in the Yellow Oval Room. His guests had congregated there for a while after dinner, but Darcy remembered switching off each table lamp when they left. Was Bing in there burning the midnight oil? Had Jane’s crisis deepened? I should have checked on them earlier.

  Nothing seemed out of order as Darcy took a cursory glance around the room. But as he turned to go, a faint rustle of clothing emanated from the sofa closest to the window. Darcy crept closer, as silently as possible. If Bing had fallen asleep on the sofa, Darcy didn’t want to wake him.

  But the form curled asleep on the sofa was not Bing. It was Elizabeth.

  Darcy did a double take, but no, he wasn’t hallucinating. The person on the sofa was definitely Elizabeth Bennet. He seized the opportunity to view her unobserved, eyes feasting on her slumbering form. It was simultaneously delightful and entirely inappropriate. His memory had not overestimated her beauty; if anything, he had underestimated it. He felt like a prince who had stumbled upon an enchanted princess. What the hell am I thinking? I must be more sleep deprived than I thought.