The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words

by Joana Starnes

  “Welcome to Pemberley Academy, Miss Bennet.” I tried not to stare at a smear of paint on her cheek and instead tried unsuccessfully to remember her first name.

  “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to being a part of the Pemberley Academy team—” I pretended to listen while my eyes scanned the assembly hall. Two sophomores were harassing Mr. Collins as he slid his dust mop across the stage floor.

  “Excuse me.” I left Ms. Brunhilda without another glance and made a beeline for Collins and the boys. I was stopped in my tracks before I could reach them.

  “Hey, Will!”

  The voice, annoying in its familiarity, grated on my nerves like a shoe on a blister. He was a bastard, and I loathed him, but I had no reason to fire him . . . yet.

  “Welcome to Pemberley Academy, George,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Nice gig you’ve got here.” His eyes were already shifting as if assessing the resale value of the stage lights. “Bet you get a lot of hot soccer moms, eh?” He smirked. How I wanted to rub that smirk off his face, preferably with my knuckles.

  “We have a staff meeting today at four thirty. Please don’t be late,” I said by way of dismissal. Wisely taking my hint, he gave me a casual salute and sauntered away. I watched him pass a group of cheerleaders—who giggled when he called a suave, “Hello, ladies”—until he struck up a conversation with the art teacher. She would have to fend for herself.

  Mr. Collins implored me, through his Coke-bottle lenses, to rescue him. I crossed the floor to the stage, glared the two sophomores off, and gave Collins a curt nod. That guy also gave me the heebie-jeebies but for an entirely different reason: I could practically hear the voices in his head telling him to set the school on fire.

  * * *

  I didn’t see Wickham again until lunchtime, when he chased my appetite away with his cheerful—smarmy, really—grin. He sat down across from me.

  “I see FitzCo stock is up,” he said. “I guess everyone buys ketchup, even when times are tough.” Wickham’s leer flourished again as he held up the FitzWilliam’s Ketchup bottle, my mother’s family name emblazoned across the label. His interest in my monetary situation most likely meant he was once again in financial straits. I waited for him to beg for yet another loan. His status as my father’s illegitimate by-blow never deterred him. My mother had been a saint to pay for his education, but she had wisely refused to provide him with any type of legacy or inheritance. And, having no inclination or talent to provide for his own needs, Wickham had a way of skating by on the charity of others. I wasn’t about to bite this time.

  “My mom is in the hospital again,” he said, casting a wistful glance at his tray. By “hospital” I knew he meant “rehab,” but semantics never mattered to Wickham.

  “I hope she gets well soon.” She had been my father’s secretary, a kind and pretty woman, as I remember her . . . apparently too kind and too pretty for my father to resist, but that was my mother’s burden, not mine. Peg Wickham had never done any harm to me, and I wished none on her. I truly did hope she would get well soon. I made a mental note to send her some flowers and push a little money into the account my father had set up for her before his death—an account that I sincerely hoped remained a secret from her son.

  Trying again, he changed tactics. “So, when can I apply for a raise?”

  I picked up my tray and left without a response.

  * * *

  School let out with the usual racket of slamming lockers and shouted farewells. I strode down the main hallway, taking in all the familiar sights. There was the poster for the Pemberley Dukes football team; homecoming was barely two months away. Bill Collins was lounging on his favorite bench, mop and bucket keeping him company while he finished his ice cream sandwich. He looked up, his eyes magnified to small moons by his glasses, nodded, and resumed licking the ice cream from the paper wrapper.

  I tried to recall if I’d ever actually had a conversation with him and failed. I paused in my step, turned, and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Collins. How are things going today?”

  Collins looked at his mop, confused that it seemed to have spoken to him, then started as he realized it was I who had spoken. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the mop, eyes cast on the floor. I waited for a reply but none was forthcoming. I watched as he and his companion waltzed away, the mop swirling its dirty, fringed dress and Collins in his blue, coverall tuxedo. That’s a couple that was meant to be— then I shook my head and continued my walk down the hall.

  Passing Wickham’s classroom, I heard a muffled giggle. I peered through the glass and saw him perched nonchalantly on the corner of his desk, a wavy forelock of hair dipping over one eye. He had the classic air of the moody, literature teacher, the one from every chick-lit book-turned-movie: sensitive, Shakespeare-reading, slightly hipster teacher uses poetry and understanding to coax a shy diamond-in-the-rough girl out of her . . . rough. Except in Wickham’s case, I was sure he’d be aiming to coax some unsuspecting PTA mom out of much more than her shell.

  He was flirting with Ms. Brunhilda. She was laughing and toying with the paintbrush in her bun, basking her dowdy form in his beaming smile. The scene was revolting, but at least she wasn’t a minor.

  I rapped on the glass and opened the door, thrusting my head in.

  “Don’t forget, staff meeting in ten minutes.”

  “Of course,” Wickham said dismissively, his eyes never leaving Ms. Brunhilda’s face. “Well, Lizzy, we must serve the Ketchup King if we hope to get away for that coffee I promised you.”

  I saw her eyebrows shoot up at the moniker, but I left before any more was said. I’d already stomached enough Wickham for one day, and I had another forty-five minutes to go.

  Hot for Teacher

  “Another year, another FitzCo Foundation art function.” My cousin, Anne, hooked her arm through mine as we looked over the gala crowd. “It gets harder to select the grant recipients every year.”

  “And yet some decisions remain reassuringly simple.” I nodded my head slightly in the direction of local eccentric artist Frances Gardiner, a ten-time applicant and ten-time rejectee of our annual grant. As usual, she was talking to anyone who would listen, and her lips could be plainly read: ten thousand a year. She caught sight of me and waved her drink in greeting, sloshing champagne over the edge of the flute with a giggle.

  I turned my back, pretending not to see her, and rolled my eyes.

  “I’ll admit Frances Gardiner is persistent, but it’s a mediocre artist who can’t keep her lipstick inside the lines.” When my quip was answered with Anne’s uncomfortable smile, I turned to find myself face-to-face with Frances Gardiner, who was hastily rubbing a fuchsia stain from her teeth. My cheeks reddened, and I cleared my throat.

  “Nice one,” Anne murmured, thoroughly enjoying my embarrassment.

  Undeterred, Frances smiled at me. “Mr. Darcy, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Elizabeth.”

  I noticed for the first time her companion and was stunned to recognize her as none other than my new art teacher, Ms. Brunhilda. By her cool greeting, I was assured that she had heard my rude comment. My bowtie began to feel tight.

  “Oh! Why, Ms. Bennet, I had no idea that you were related to the famous Frances Gardiner!” I effused, trying to smooth over my last remark.

  “Why would you? We have different last names,” she said, one sculpted brow arched over a smoky, chocolate-colored eye. “Not unlike you and George. Brothers, he says.”

  “Half brothers,” I corrected, unable to stomach even for a moment the idea that he and I were anything closer than a chance testicular emission.

  “Yes, he does say you prefer that distinction.”

  I could tell from her tone that Wickham had been up to his usual tricks. He was as predictable as the dawn: find a sympathetic ear, fill it with woe-is-me stories, gain confidence, and betray. I wondered if he would sleep with her or blackmail her. Maybe both.

  “Do
you already know Mr. Darcy?” Frances’s astounded gaze bounced between Ms. Brunhilda and me. (Who, incidentally, was looking very un-Brunhilda-ish in her svelte little black dress and sleek updo. She had gone from plain to pretty, simply by ditching the potholder sweaters and using a comb. I was impressed.)

  “Yes, we’re colleagues,” I said, only to be cut off by Ms. Brun— er, Ms. Bennet.

  “Mr. Darcy is my boss, Mom. Unfortunately, I think your chances of winning the endowment this year are pretty slim. I’m sure it would present a conflict of interest for Mr. Darcy to award it to the family of one of his employees.”

  “Oh.” Frances looked positively downcast.

  “Actually, it’s not Mr. Darcy’s decision. It’s a decision made by a committee, and he has just one vote. So please, Ms. Gardiner, don’t be discouraged.” Anne interjected, a kind smile lighting up her face. I had always had an affection for my cousin. She was superior to me in many ways. She was like the sister I never had. “Come on, Mom. This place is too posh for us anyway. Let’s go get a burger.” Ms. Bennet gave me another glance, as if to ensure I felt her displeasure, and gently led her mother away. God, things were going to be awkward Monday at school.

  * * *

  I wasn’t wrong. Monday did start out awkward, but I think I was able to smooth things over at lunch when I cornered Ms. Bennet by the water fountain and gave her an “I’m sorry about last night” comment. She said it was fine. I think it went really well.

  I was so glad to have that unpleasantness over with, since I’d found myself thinking about that arched eyebrow and those deep, dark eyes over the weekend. I even caught her looking at me across the Friday assembly later in the week. Funny how I never noticed her dimple before, but there it was, in her left cheek as she gave me an impish grin before turning her attention to a student.

  Yes. I think she’s adult enough to understand it was just a stupid comment with no intended malice.

  * * *

  “You’re looking especially pretty today, Lizzy!” Wickham’s voice oozed to my ears from the teacher’s lounge as I was getting a coffee. I looked up. He was right, she was looking quite nice. She had stopped wearing the bulky sweaters in favor of more flattering clothes weeks ago. Today she was in a crisp, white blouse and a slender tweed skirt, a pair of pumps showing off her shapely calves. She looked smart and professional. Which was completely inappropriate for an art teacher.

  “Why do you look so nice today?” I asked, my eyes narrowed in suspicion. “The last time my art teacher showed up looking nice, she quit. Turned out she had a job interview. I won’t appreciate having to try to fill a position in mid-October.” I paused to take a sip of my coffee, and it dawned on me. “Of course, there aren’t any other positions open right now, so if you did quit, it would probably be to be a barista.” I nodded, reassured that she wouldn’t be leaving the relatively cushy position of an arts instructor at a private school for the well-heeled in favor of retail or food services. I smiled over my coffee mug at her in appreciation, glad to have worked out that she wasn’t planning to leave me high and dry.

  “What…?” Ms. Bennet’s face was bewildered at first, then she burst into a laugh. I joined her, enjoying our moment. Wickham joined as well, spoiling it. My laugh died, and I left the lounge to retreat to my office. I could still hear them laughing as I walked away.

  * * *

  Okay, I will admit it. I was beginning to like Elizabeth Bennet. She was popular with the students and staff, I never had an issue with her attendance, and she had already volunteered to chaperone the homecoming dance at the end of October. She was turning out to be a real team player, and I could certainly appreciate that.

  There were others on the staff who weren’t so reliable. Our phys ed teacher, Richard Simmons (yes, I know, it’s ridiculous, but I don’t pick their names), was an ex-Navy SEAL who ran his classes like boot camp. Wickham started calling him Major Malfunction, and I can’t say I disagreed. I’ve had Collins clean up gymnasium puke on more than one occasion.

  Our geometry teacher, Veronica Crane, was, rather unfortunately, living up to the Wickham-given moniker of Calamity Crane. If it wasn’t an unexpected car repair, it was a medical appointment, a broken limb, or a dead pet. We were midway into our first semester, and she had already missed four days. I tried hard to be an understanding and compassionate boss, but if things kept on this way, I might need to give her a warning.

  But one could always rely on Ms. Bennet. And of course, on Charles Bingley, or, as Wickham calls him, “Charles in Charge.” (I may detest the man, but I have to allow that George Wickham has a knack for clever names. I’ve been the Ketchup King, the Mustard Monarch, the Pickle Prince, and the Duke of Dijon.)

  But back to my point. Ms. Bennet could be relied upon. And, frankly, I was beginning to find her, well . . . pretty. I suppose this is related directly to her apparently distancing herself from Wickham, which raises anyone in my estimation. If she can see through his self-aggrandizing and false charm, then she must be a sensible woman. Who also happens to be damned attractive.

  What’s more, she seemed to return my feelings. While I had not yet asked her to go to coffee, we did often sit across from each other at staff meetings, and I was beginning to feel a real connection with her. She always laughed at my jokes . . . always had a witty retort at the ready. I sometimes felt giddy just being near her. I told myself that I would ask her out to dinner, eventually, but that I was content to let the flirtation flourish in a natural way.

  To wit, our exchange just yesterday:

  * * *

  She: “Of course I will be at the homecoming dance. I wouldn’t miss it. I never went to my own homecoming.”

  I: “You won’t already be out . . . on a date?”

  She, after a pregnant pause: “No, I won’t.” Another pause. (I believe she likes to create anticipation.) “I will be there; no ifs, ands, or buts.”

  I: “No ifs, ands, or buts? What a pity. I rather appreciate a good butt.” (See what I did there?)

  She: “That doesn’t surprise me. You have ass written all over you.”

  * * *

  The mild sexual innuendo might be slightly inappropriate, but we are, after all, adults. And I think she likes me. A lot.

  * * *

  Dazed and Confused

  Homecoming night. Unlike Ms. Bennet, I had gone to my dance. I remember it being awkward and uncomfortable, as I dislike dancing as a general rule, but it was nothing like the crude grinding I had seen in the last few years. They say every savage can dance. I say they use the definition loosely.

  The festivities had been in swing for over an hour when I finally saw Ms. Bennet—Elizabeth, as she insisted I call her—standing in a corner by herself. She had her hair pulled back in that sleek updo again, and she was probably wearing that same little black dress that she wore to the FitzCo gala, but she looked, in the vernacular of my students —fiiiiiiine.

  I watched as the president of the chess club approached her and extended his hand, which she accepted with a laugh. Some inelegant foot shuffling and hand flapping followed, although I give her credit—I’d never before seen such a huge grin on Tyler Parson’s face. She seemed to have that effect on everyone . . . myself included.

  Confession time. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but I was a bit more than attracted to Ms. Bennet. It came on so gradually that I was in over my head before I even knew I’d started. I didn’t just want to ask her to coffee. I wanted to ask her to dinner, to dance, to a weekend away. I wanted to know her and for her to know me. And God Almighty, did I want to kiss her. I couldn’t pass a day without my eyes dropping to that full lower lip. I loved the way it curved into that mischievous smile she had, as if she knew a secret and was just about to spill it.

  There were other things that drew me to her: her quick wit, her clear compassion for others, her generosity with her time. But there was no denying that she had a great set of legs, hair that I wanted to curl my fingers in, and eyes t
hat promised a night I’d never forget. She even smelled good, dammit. How is a red-blooded man supposed to resist?

  But I digress. The point is, over the course of only two months, I’d turned from labeling her a curiosity to wanting to feel her hands on me. From wondering where on Earth she’d come from, to wondering where in heaven she could take me. There was no way to avoid the truth that she had me utterly hot and bothered.

  And, being a man of action my entire life, there was nothing for it but to make my move.

  I strolled across the gymnasium and offered her a bottle of water.

  “Thanks.” She grinned at me and took a deep draw from the bottle. “It’s really hot in here.”

  “Want to step outside for some air?” She nodded, and I led her out the side door. We walked across the side lot in comfortable silence until we reached the sports field. As we reached the bleachers, I saw her shiver. I immediately doffed my jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She shrugged into it and murmured another thanks.

  “You know, we’ve known each other for a couple of months now, and I’ve been wanting to ask you . . . that is . . .” For probably the first time in my life, I found myself at a loss for words. She looked up at me, the moonlight limning her cheek in silver, thick lashes brushing against her cheeks as she closed her eyes. A sigh slipped from her lips, and I found myself drawn like a compass needle to North. My lips brushed hers and my eyelids fell shut.

  A scant second later, the spell was broken by her gasp. Cold air rushed between us as she took a step back.

  “What the hell!” she exclaimed, her brow furrowed in anger. “What is it with you guys? Is it hereditary for you to prey on women?”

  “I don’t understand.” I stammered, utterly confused.