A Good Name: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Sarah Courtney

  He groaned. Why had he gotten involved in this? He’d always thought a pre-nup was standard for marriage when one had wealth. He’d never really given much thought to how it could be destructive to a relationship. And, okay, he’d been thinking just a little bit about protecting Charlie, no matter how much he liked Jane.

  It had never occurred to him that insisting on a pre-nup could break the two of them up.

  Will looked up, startled, as Lizzy stormed into his office and slammed the door behind her, muting his secretary’s startled gasp.

  “How dare you!” Lizzy shouted, just as the door opened behind her.

  “So sorry, Will, she walked right past my desk―”

  “It’s all right, Susan, I have some time before my next meeting.”

  Susan looked at Lizzy, winked at Will, and closed the door behind her.

  The interruption had done nothing to quiet Lizzy’s temper. “What were you thinking?”

  “Can we go back to the part where you tell me what you’d mad about?” Will asked. He was torn between finding her flashing eyes and pink cheeks alluring and freaking out that she was mad at him.

  “You lost me my job! I was counting on that job, Will!” she exclaimed.

  Will stood up. “Come again? Lost you a job?”

  She rolled her eyes. “What are you, an idiot? Yes, lost me the job at McTavish House!”

  “I didn’t lose you the job. I called the owner and asked her to hire you. I went to bat for you!”

  Lizzy picked up a stapler from the edge of his desk and held it as if she had violent plans for it―and him. She took a deep breath. “No, Darcy, you did not go to bat for me. You interfered! I had a decent chance at that job on my own. I had the right skill set and all the requirements they wanted. But now they want nothing to do with me.”

  “What?” he gasped. “Why?”

  “Apparently, I have a rich boyfriend who doesn’t even work in the publishing industry but tried to go around their backs to get me hired and who would probably breathe down their neck all the time, so they’re not even willing to consider me!” She bit her lip and blinked quickly. Will’s heart ached at the sight.

  Lizzy took a deep breath. “They were down to the last two applicants, the last two, Will! The editor threw a fit when she got a call from the owner and refused to hire somebody who didn’t go through the usual channels, just because of who they know, and so she chose the other applicant! And she was so pissed off at the attempt to force her into a decision that she may have told other editors about me. I could end up being blacklisted before I’ve even interviewed!”

  Will stared at her, shocked. It had never occurred to him that his attempt to help could backfire so spectacularly.

  “But I―I was just trying to help!”

  “I didn’t ask for your help! I didn’t need or want it! I could have gotten this job on my own! Instead I might not be able to get any job in the publishing field now. Ugh!” She slammed down the stapler.

  Will pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel his stomach churning. He had thought he was doing the right thing. A good thing. How had it gone so very wrong?

  “Why am I even trying?” Lizzy growled. “You’re just a spoiled rich kid. You have no idea what it’s like to eat frozen vegetables and ramen and peanut butter for three months flat just so that you don’t get behind on the electric bill.”

  Will opened his mouth to tell her he most certainly did, but she barely paused for breath.

  “You don’t know how important this job was to me! You’re too used to having everything handed to you! You’ve probably had a job ready-made since you started high school!”

  “And you didn’t?” he shot back. “You worked for your own father’s bookstore, remember?” He was too angry to even want to start with the ramen thing. And why was it always ramen?

  “So apparently both of us are only competent at jobs handed to us by our parents, is that what you’re saying?” She threw up her hands. “And on top of that, apparently you’re the one who told Charlie he had to get a pre-nup before he married Jane!”

  “I didn’t say he had to! I just suggested it!”

  “And we both know that he always does whatever you tell him to! Nice job, there. Now they’ve broken up, and Charlie can find some rich . . . rich debutante, or whatever they call women these days who live off trust funds and pretend to be their brother’s ‘social secretaries,’ whatever that is. Because of course Charlie should marry some useless stuck-up brat like his sister because she’s rich and wouldn’t need him for his money—unlike my sweet sister, right, Darcy?”

  “That’s not fair! I never told him not to marry Jane. I really like Jane and think she’s perfect for him.”

  “But you think he should get a pre-nup to protect himself in case she takes him to the cleaners.”

  “Look, nobody can know for sure―”

  “Exactly. Nobody can know for sure, not even you. And it’s none of your business.” She rolled her eyes. “You have real trust issues, Will. You’re overworked because you don’t delegate, you don’t trust other people to make the right choice on their own, and you always think you know best. You even tried to find a townhouse for me! Based on the job I didn’t even get!”

  “I just thought you’d like to have your own place.”

  “Riiight. You’ve never approved of me living off Jane or having a job as a mere waitress. I thought you were over it, but I guess the rich CEO couldn’t handle dating a couch-surfing waitress, could he?”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. “Just . . . just stay out of my life. I pretty much hate you right now.” She narrowed her eyes, then turned and left the room.

  Susan popped back in a moment after Lizzy had cleared the door. “So, that was pretty intense! Guess I shouldn’t have connected you to that publishing company after all, huh?”

  “Susan, just...”

  She smiled. “Just get out? I’ll take my lunch break. How about I bring you back a sandwich? Give you a chance to throw things around or whatever.”

  He growled, but she’d skipped away before he even got the chance.

  Will stared at the door through which Lizzy had left. His beloved Lizzy. Maybe it had taken him far too long to realize it, but he was absolutely in love with her. She was angry, but he couldn’t let her walk away without her knowing that.

  He jumped up so quickly he almost knocked his desk chair over, yanked the door to his office open, and bolted down the stairs, too impatient to wait for an elevator.

  He could see her outside through the lobby windows, pushing her way through a larger-than-usual afternoon crowd on the street. He flew out the door to race after her.

  “It’s him!” he heard somebody cry.

  “Fitzwilliam Darcy!” a reporter said, shoving a microphone in his face just as he caught sight of Elizabeth. She’d managed to push through the crowd and was walking towards the parking lot, but she turned at the sound of his name.

  He stared, stunned, as the journalists all gathered around him, pushing close. Apparently, he was the one they’d been waiting for.

  “Or should we call you ‘George Wickham?’” another reporter asked with a saucy grin. He could see Elizabeth start at the question, her eyes going wide as they met his.

  “Your bio dad says that you dropped him like a sack of potatoes as soon as you met George Darcy!”

  “Got adopted by a rich guy and forgot where you came from, Mr. Wickham?” somebody called. “Can’t stand to have homeless people hanging around anymore, is that it? Forgot your roots?”

  He looked back at Elizabeth. He could see, even at this distance, the realization hit her. She was still staring at him, but her wide eyes had narrowed. Now she knew, and in the worst possible way―without him telling her himself.

  “Can you give us a comment, Mr. Wickham?” somebody said, but he ignored them. He was still watching Elizabeth. He mouthed, “I’m sorry,” and tried to give her an ap
ologetic look, but somebody took the opportunity to hold a microphone near his mouth.

  “What was that?” the man said. “Could you repeat that?”

  He shook his head. “No comment,” he said, and pushed his way through the crowd back into the building. Many of them tried to follow him in, but fortunately security stopped them at the door.

  Will raced up the stairs, too full of nervous energy to wait for the elevator. When he reached his floor, he bypassed his office and went straight to Charles’s.

  “What the hell is going on?” he said as he walked in. “Do you have any idea?”

  Richard and Charles were both standing together, but turned quickly when Will came in.

  “No idea,” Richard said. “There’s a crew of paparazzi outside, and they’re talking about your childhood name, but that’s all public record, and you’ve never made any attempt to hide it. I don’t get why this is news.”

  Will’s cell phone suddenly rang. It was his father.

  “Dad, what’s going on?” he asked.

  “I’ve been trying to figure out the same thing. It seems that somebody went on a talk show claiming to be your biological father.”

  “What?” Will was stunned.

  “Not only that, but he claims you turned your back on him when you had the opportunity to be adopted by a rich family, and now he’s suffering from cancer and can’t afford to pay his medical bills—the implication being that you know all this but won’t help him.”

  “That’s crazy!” Will exclaimed. “I’ve never even heard of this guy!”

  “Well, we’re going to need to do some damage control. Stay there, I’ll come in, and we’ll get Randy over in publicity to come talk to us. Ask Susan if she can find somebody who can find a link to this video or some way that we can watch it, so we know what we’re dealing with.”

  Damage Control

  September 2016

  An hour later in a crowded conference room, Will was staring at a large wall-mounted monitor in disbelief.

  The talk show Let the Truth Hurt was just beginning. The host, Andy Roan, stood up to greet a guest introduced to the audience as Chris Younge. The guest wore a suit, but had a weather-beaten, overly thin face with hollow cheekbones and a poor complexion. He desperately needed a haircut.

  Chris Younge waved at the audience as he crossed the stage, then he shook hands with Roan and took a seat on the couch by the host’s desk.

  “So,” Roan started, “Chris Younge. You’re here because you have an interesting story to tell.”

  Younge nodded. He was no longer smiling, and he looked pained. “It’s not pleasant, but sometimes things need to be brought out into the open.”

  “I understand that you recently heard about Fitzwilliam Darcy being selected as his father’s successor as CEO of AirVA. Fitzwilliam Darcy, or ‘Will’ as his friends call him, is seen as something of a golden boy. A CEO at only twenty-five, practically right out of business school, and he was just handed his father’s business. So now we’ve got this handsome, eligible millionaire, and everybody just loves him.”

  Younge was nodding the entire time the host spoke. “Yes, yes.”

  “And this disturbed you...”

  “Because he’s been lying to the public,” Younge said.

  Will glanced away from the monitor and at his father, who shrugged. Richard met his eyes, a frown on his face.

  Will looked back to see Younge giving Roan another sad look. “I know this... because Fitzwilliam Darcy is really my son.”

  Andy Roan leaned forward. “When you contacted us with your claim, we looked it up. And sure enough, there’s public record of George and Anne Darcy’s adoption of George Wickham and subsequent name change in July of 2003. So, folks, we have done the legwork and checked out Chris’s story.”

  Younge nodded. “So you see what I’m talking about. He was my boy, and his mother just up and left us to go to some homeless shelter where she claimed to be a single mother. And apparently my boy sucked up to the rich sponsor of the shelter, and when his mother died, he claimed to be all alone and got taken in by the Darcys. They adopted him and changed his name... and he forgot his real dad.”

  Roan was shaking his head. “You know, it’s not such an uncommon story. People want to leave their old lives behind, even if it means leaving behind loved ones.”

  “Exactly. I’ve tried to reach out to him a few times―”

  Will had to bite his lip to keep from calling out, “That’s a lie!” Everybody in the room already knew that perfectly well.

  “―and I never seem to get past his personal assistant.”

  Will raised his eyebrows. Personal assistant? Was that what they were calling Susan?

  “The thing is, Mr. Roan,” Younge said, leaning forward on his couch and looking very sober, “I’ve got cancer.”

  “That’s terrible,” Roan said. “I’m so sorry, Chris. Can you share anything about your prognosis?”

  Younge sighed heavily. “That’s just it. My prognosis is not bad, really. The survival rate is great―with treatment. But of course, medical care is expensive. I hated to call George―I mean, Fitzwilliam―I really did. I know he really doesn’t have any time or need for his old dad anymore. He’s moved on with life.”

  Roan nodded, looking interested. He winked at the audience, then put his head on his hands in a listening posture.

  “I wouldn’t have tried to contact him if I weren’t completely desperate. But, well, that’s where I am right now. Pretty much desperate for some help. And I thought, hey, George―I mean, Fitzwilliam―he’s got millions just laying around. Surely he could share some with his real dad, for old times’ sake, right?”

  Roan shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Sounds reasonable to me. But it sounds like you’re just a part of the past that he’s trying to keep shut away.”

  “Shut away,” Younge said slowly. “That’s a good way to put it. See, the Darcys are renowned for being generous and supporting all sorts of charities. They met my George through their shelter, after all. But there’s a dark side to their so-called charity.”

  Roan leaned in. “And what is that?”

  “They’re perfectly fine with helping the homeless . . . as long as they can wash their hands of them when they leave. They prefer to keep the charity work separate from their lifestyle. Most rich people do, after all. They throw their money at a charity or maybe even volunteer . . . but they prefer that the people they help be far, far away from them.”

  “And what does that have to do with the Darcys?” Roan looked genuinely confused at this.

  “You might think they’re charitable, but they’re just like all the others. That shelter that they donate heavily to, the one my son was at? Well, that area has changed since George was there. No more crummy apartments. It’s all nice single-family homes and pretty townhouses now, very upper middle class.”

  “Gentrification,” Roan clarified.

  “So now the Darcys don’t want the shelter there anymore. Now that the area is nice, rich people don’t want to look out and see the shelter. That’s not what they paid for when they bought their house. So the Darcys are moving it back to a lower-income area that’s more ‘fitting.’ It’s disgusting, I’ll tell you.”

  Will clenched his fists in rage. So Younge wasn’t just attacking him, now he was attacking his parents and even the shelter!

  Roan was shaking his head. “Can this be true? It certainly paints the Darcys’ humanitarian efforts in a very different light. But the press releases about the new shelter say that it’s nearer to the community it serves, larger building, that sort of thing.”

  “Lies, all lies,” Younge said. “Just excuses to get that shelter out of rich people’s way. And another example of how the Darcys would like to separate themselves from the poor, even George’s childhood. I did my best for him, but they could do better, and that’s all that mattered to him.”

  “And you tried to get custody yourself?”

  “I wo
uld have, except that I didn’t know she died until a couple of years later when the adoption had already been finalized. I mean, while she was alive, I knew I didn’t have any chance at custody. They always favor the mom, you know? And then once the adoption was final―well, what chance does a single man with not much money have against a rich couple, I ask you? No, after that, I had to let those dreams die. I hated to do it, but I had no choice.”

  “So you’ve decided to come forward and tell what you know about George in the hopes of . . . what? Reconciliation? Support through your illness?”

  “An acknowledgment that I’m his father would be enough.” Younge’s eyes filled with tears, which he wiped away impatiently. “The thing is, the money would really help, given my medical bills. But what hurts most of all is the feeling that I’ve been thrown away. That nothing mattered to him.”

  Roan nodded sympathetically as the station went to a commercial break.

  Richard grabbed the remote and turned the monitor off.

  “What the hell?” he asked. “Who is this guy? Will?”

  Will shook his head, breathing shallowly. “I don’t know him.” His eyes burned, and he blinked quickly and looked at the ceiling to control his emotions. Why did this have to happen now, when all he wanted in the world was to get to Elizabeth, to explain before she hated him forever?

  “Is it possible that he is your biological father?” Dad asked.

  Was it? “I honestly have no idea. I... well, this is going to sound horrible, but I never really got the impression that Mom knew. From the things that Grandma used to say―well, my mom never stayed with a boyfriend long, in my experience, at least until Mark, her last boyfriend, and Grandma implied that she’d been even wilder before I was born. If either of them knew who my father was, they never told me. I know there’s no father’s name on my birth certificate. But yeah, I suppose it’s possible.”

  Charlie said hopefully, “Well, you can definitely prove that this guy wasn’t around like he says he was. I mean, you’ve never seen him before in his life.”