"Little Livvy," her aunt called. "Come and sit down." Seated in a rocking chair turned towards the fireplace, Aunt Marianne's head and hands were barely visible from behind the carved wood. A prodigious ball of yellow yarn was unravelling itself at her feet as a long strand disappeared into a woolly scarf trailing out the other side.
"Who's this for?" Olivia asked, lifting the long end as she seated herself on the nearest chair.
"A boy in the village who's going into the service. His mother's a bit broken up about it, but he's such a sweet lad, I can't bear for him not to think somebody's pleased for him making a decision." Her needles lifted a loop of yarn as the new stitch slid into place.
Rolling the knitted length into a ball, she tucked it into the basket and inspected Olivia with a firm stare. "Now, let me have a good look at you. Have you been eating properly? Been getting enough exercise? Giving up that dreadful coffee you young people drink for a good cup of tea?"
Olivia laughed. "I shall always like a good cup of tea when it comes from your pot," she answered. "As to the rest, I can't answer for it. I'm quite busy, you know."
"We know all right," her uncle said as he sank into the sofa. "Your aunt reads aloud the Post column every evening. Quite obsessed with those lovelorn souls and their problems."
"You know well enough why I read it," her aunt scolded. "Because our Livvy's name is on the byline. And getting quite famous, I hear." This, with a pointed glance in Olivia's direction as she rose from her chair and disappeared towards the kitchen.
"So what is it with this mysterious Mr. Cottingley in your column?" asked her uncle. "I heard one or two in the village shop blithering about it, some sort of ne'er do well?"
"No, he's a 'quite do well', I'm afraid," said Olivia. "Too well–he not only has a splendidly large media firm, but also a different lovely young lady every week. One of whom, apparently, was quite appalled by his behaviour during their relationship."
"She's got nothing to complain about if she knew his ways beforehand," Harry answered, pulling his pipe from his pocket. "That lot is always bad and no sensible girl thinks a wave of her hand will cure one of 'em." He fished about in his other pocket for a bag of tobacco.
"Don't you dare light that thing in my presence!" Marianne had returned with a tray of tea things. "Take it out to the garden this instant or I'll toss it into the fireplace." She set the tray on the low coffee table between them.
"Just this once?" he pleaded. "Only if Livvy doesn't mind." With a conspiratorial wink in Miss Darcy's direction, directed away from her aunt.
"Oh, by all means," she answered. "If Aunt Marianne will let you." She could see disapproval etched in the corners of the older woman's mouth.
"The answer is still no," Marianne responded. "You may smoke as you please on the sidelines of the game later on." With a sigh, the older man stuffed the pipe and tobacco into his pocket again.
"So I gather you've met this young man–from the column?" Her aunt's voice took on a slightly eager tone. "Of course, I've seen his picture in the papers before." She placed the teapot onto the tray again as she passed Olivia's uncle a cup and saucer.
"Quite a few times, no doubt," Olivia answered, after taking a sip of her tea. "But yes, I did meet him. Once or twice."
"Was he every bit as handsome?" Marianne asked. "One can never tell from the printed pictures. I rather fancied he must be a scoundrel from the way he carries on–so many different girls in those photos!"
"He is a scoundrel and he is as handsome as his picture intimates," said Olivia. "Now, is there anything else you would like to know? Or shall we discuss Mr. Stanley for the whole afternoon I am to spend with you?"
Her smile was meant sarcastically, but she received a look of amusement in response.
"I daresay, Livvy, this chap has got a bit of a hold on you," her uncle chuckled, balancing his teacup on his knee.
"Whatever do you mean by that?" Miss Darcy's cheeks crimsoned with irritation. "Simply because I grow bored of discussing him? You have no idea how many people at the office are obsessed by what demands he will make in his next letter."
"Oh, then he's written you?" her aunt inquired.
"Only in the business sense," she answered. "And I'm quite sure the signature belongs to his solicitor and not to him. As if he would take the trouble to write a meagre little advice columnist for besmirching his damaged reputation."
"Ay, but his reasoning may be different than you think," her uncle replied. "If he's met you and recognizes a charming little miss when he sees one ..."
"He did not find me charming," she said. "Of that, I can assure you. We had a rather dreadful row in public where everyone could see us and he sent an even nastier letter afterwards."
She took a second sip of tea and cradled the cup between her hands. "Which I ignored, of course. So there will be quite a few more columns on Mr. Stanley, whether he knows it or not."
Her uncle let out a peal of laughter. "There's a bit of spirit for you," he answered, slapping his knee and causing the teacup on the opposite one to rattle. "That'll show him that the good ones aren't so easily hooked."
"Mind the china, Harry," her aunt scolded. "It's part of your grandmother's set, you know."
Gingerly, he set the cup and saucer on the table. "Then I'll let you look after it on your own," he answered. Patting his pocket, he rose from the sofa and scooped the box of matches from the mantel before leaving the room.
"I am glad he confines his smoking to the gardens." Marianne reached for her scarf and needles again and began counting stitches.
Olivia reached for the plate of biscuits, her gaze wandering towards the window, its curtains drawn to reveal the landscaped green lawns surrounding Pemberley, the paved driveway to the road beyond.
"He's right, you know," Marianne added.
Olivia snapped off a piece of sugar shortbread. "About what?" she asked.
"About you and the playboy," her aunt answered. "At least, he's right in saying that men of that sort never look at a woman except to see a target. So you'd best look out for yourself."
A snort of laughter sent a shower of crumbs across Olivia's plate. "Only someone who has never met Mr. Stanley could possibly feel such concern," she said, brushing the flakes of sugar from her sweater.
"He seems to have quite an effect on you," her aunt replied. "Your face changes at the mere mention of his name."
"I'm quite capable of resisting his charms, I assure you," Olivia answered, setting aside the plate of cookies. She rose from the sofa and strolled towards the window, where Harry was visible sitting in the garden, puffing smoke into the cool, wet breeze.
"I would remind you of a certain ancestress who thought the same." Her aunt jabbed a knitting needle in her direction for emphasis.
"Mr. Stanley is no Mr. Darcy," her niece retorted. "Besides, he has no interest in me. His object of pursuit is glamorous. The sort made possible by cosmetics and curling irons."
"There is a first time for everything," Marianne replied, without looking up from her flying needles and yarn.
Miss Darcy sighed with exasperation. "All this would require me also falling in love with him," her niece reminded her. "Which is something that will never happen, I assure you."
She cast an impish smile in her aunt's direction, looking over her shoulder at the figure hunched over the trailing scarf.
"That sounds exactly like Lizzie Bennet's words on the subject," her aunt replied.
*****
If she had wished to pursue the subject further, Miss Darcy would have had ample time to think over her aunt's words at the afternoon match, a rowdy affair between two teams of brawny local youth in a muddy field. Her aunt, in Wellingtons and a plaid wrap, shouted enthusiastically as a boy in a green shirt was knocked into a large puddle.
Stuffing her cold hands into her pockets, Olivia was grateful for the foresight of wearing jeans and leather boots. Her uncle jostled her arm every few minutes as he removed his pipe to speak, an inaudib
le conversation with a local farmer beside him.
"Quite exciting, eh Livvy?" he asked. "Bet you've missed a bit of the local colour in London these past few years."
"Indeed," she answered, giving him a smile despite the heavy folds of striped scarf wound around her neck. "It makes me think of when Dad used to play when I was a girl." At this moment, the youth in the green shirt had recovered sufficiently to steal the ball from one of his opponents, whose muddy face wore a scowl of anger.
A bit like Christopher Stanley, Olivia thought. Although it might be the angular jaw that made her think so. Biting her lip, she tried to stop her mind from drifting too far from events on the field.
After all, she had come all this way to forget about the column and its problems, not think about them with added emphasis. What reason did she have to worry about Stanley's so-called charms? That low evening at the pub hadn't reduced her confidence to the point that he could persuade her to like him. And certainly not to the point that she would forgive him for being insolent and rude.
Her aunt was imagining things. They all were, if they thought she would lose her mind in such a fashion.
The boy in the green shirt angled his shot towards the goal, where a yellow-shirted youth blocked it with the force of his body. Olivia's side of the crowd erupted in cheers, her aunt cupping her hands to broadcast a shout of enthusiasm.
Take that, Mr. Stanley. As Miss Darcy waved her scarf as a striped banner, banishing thoughts of the Stanley problem from her mind.
Chapter Ten
Dear Miss Darcy: Is it wrong to want secretly to get revenge on a idiot who broke your heart? I have photos of me and my ex hanging out at the "spot" he told his new girlfriend is a "special place" for only the two of them. I'm desperately tempted to post them on my social networking page to get back at him for leaving me. Should I or shouldn't I?
–Bitter in Bradford
A much muddier version of Miss Darcy arrived home late that night. She dreaded to think of the condition of the rental car's carpet after the post-game triumph–which at one point involved splashing in mud puddles to the strains of the local pub's musicians.
All in all, a desperately-needed escape from her troubles, including the part where a handful of fans hoisted her aunt on their shoulders as Most Valuable Cheerer.
A note was taped to the knob of her flat, blocking the keyhole. Tearing it off, she unfolded the piece of paper. Let myself in. Left weekend mail on table. Helped myself to leftover pastry in fridge. Cheerio and see you on Mon. – Mariah.
Stuffing the note into her pocket, she unlocked the door. Stacks of envelopes spilled from her desk, twice the usual number. Beside them was a half-eaten plate of cherry turnover.
Groaning, she stooped to collect a few from the floor and placed them in the pile again. It would take half the night and most of tomorrow morning to sort through this lot for candidates–and she still had to write the first draft of the Stanley advice column.
The topmost correspondence was from a village outside London, a tiny square more like a party invitation than a letter. Taking a paper knife from the drawer, she slit it open and drew out a piece of seagull stationery that smelled faintly of expensive perfume.
Dear Miss Darcy,
I know we don't know each other, but I felt I should write after coming across one of your columns in the paper. It was the one about the girl from Cottingley and her boyfriend–and to tell you the truth, I think I know him. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've dated him, too.
I know this is weird, but our stories are really, really similar– even the tacky gift part seems familiar and the coming on strong then freezing me out bit. Is it possible maybe our relationship breaking up wasn't my fault after all? Or am I crazy to think maybe we've both dated the same freak and it was all his fault our relationship soured?
With a wry grin, Olivia tossed it aside. Apparently, Christopher Stanley shared his guilt with quite a few of Britain's careless Romeos. Fishing through the pile, she drew another one and opened it.
Dear Miss Darcy:
I recognised the boyfriend in the letter you published a week ago in your column– the one from the Cottingley girl? Even though your column hasn't addressed the rumours that it's Christopher Stanley the businessman, I know for certain it is, because I dated him, too. Although I didn't get an ugly pillow like this Cottingley girl, I was definitely burned by him in more ways than one. If you want to know more about it, feel free to contact me. I think Stanley's definitely got to learn his lesson.
Curious, Miss Darcy flipped over the envelope. The letter's mark showed it was mailed from an address near Windsor.
It was not the same as the previous letter and postmarked almost three days later. It wasn't a prank, so it must be a coincidence. Mustn't it?
Her eye wandered over the stacks of envelopes, a faint tingle developing beneath her skin. Reaching into the pile, she drew a pink envelope decorated with a spray of butterflies and a personally-stamped return address.
Dear Miss Darcy: I know you won't believe this, but I dated Christopher Stanley, too! I think maybe I understand what Cottingley's going through ...
She re-folded the piece of paper without finishing the sentence.
*****
"I don't understand it–they all wrote you letters at the same time?" Mariah lowered the sheet of stationery and met Olivia's gaze with raised eyebrows.
"That's because they all read the column and felt sympathy for one of their own," Olivia answered. "Don't you see how incredible that is–the potential in this pile?"
She had let Mariah read the letters–five of them, by then–isolated from the rest of the mail pile. The only thing any of them had in common was the unmistakable theme of Christopher Stanley.
"Look at this one: she doesn't even say who the boyfriend was," Mariah said, holding up one of them. "It could be anybody, it could be some bloke she knows in university ..."
"With two dozen roses and a singing quartet showing up on her doorstep?" Olivia answered. "It's Stanley, it has to be. It's too much of a coincidence otherwise." She gathered up handfuls of mail from her desk, sifting through the envelopes. "Who knows how many more are in here. Twenty? Thirty? He dates a different girl practically every month!"
Mariah tossed the letter into the pile. "I think you're crazy," she answered. "It's one thing to give this guy advice for a stupid mistake, but not publishing letters from all his ex-girlfriends."
"They're unsolicited," Olivia replied, forcing back a sense of guilt. "Besides, who said anything about publishing them? That would be pointless, given that we have Cottingley's letter in print already."
"Then what's the value in having them?" Mariah watched, curious, as Olivia pulled a pad and pencil from the desk drawer.
"Did you read the story in the long one? About the 'birthday picnic' he arranged on the same day as a wedding on the grounds?" she asked. "He was hours late to that and she was stuck on the sidelines alone with a blanket and basket, getting sympathetic smiles from the bridal couple and guests–the wedding planner even asked her to leave at one point."
"So he's a bit tacky and thoughtless. So is half the world," Mariah answered. "What are you going to do about it?"
Olivia tapped her pencil against the stack of letters. "What if I were to meet these girls and learn the truth about all their claims?" she asked, slowly.
Mariah's eyes widened. "Liv," she said. "Don't be thinking what I think you are." A warning tone accompanied this statement.
"It would be sort of like field research," Olivia answered. "I would take what I learned and tailor the advice to his mistakes–I could build a profile of what kind of boyfriend he is and draft a series of columns to address his flaws."
She was beginning to wonder if a light bulb was forming over her head as she spoke, an idea taking shape so bold that it would eclipse any column crafted by her own advice. Her pen flew over the paper, making quick notes as she spoke.
"Mr. Stanley would receive counselling
aimed directly at his worst flaws and never even know what was happening." She pictured his amazement at her uncanny accuracy; unable to refuse listening to her if she was gifted with such insights.
"Bad idea," Mariah interrupted. "Very bad. These women are strangers, this could be some kind of trick to discredit you and get you fired." As Olivia glanced up. "Imagine what Collins would say if you printed some column based on bogus stories?"
"Collins will never know," Olivia said, her pencil pausing momentarily. "I won't tell anyone about it. I'll keep it secret–even from the girls I interview."
"And just how will you do that?" Mariah asked. Olivia swivelled towards her keyboard and opened a fresh document on the computer screen.
"Simple: I'll tell them I'm doing research for a book on relationships and their letter intrigued me," she answered. "It's partly true, after all; and I won't tell them that the rest of his girlfriends are writing me with similar stories."
"Why not just tell them you’re selling cosmetics?" Mariah retorted. "Or maybe love potions." She lowered her voice as Henry glanced in her direction from a few desks away.
"Maybe you're right." Miss Darcy paused, mid-keystroke. An impish smile tugged about her lips as Mariah's face dropped to the desk.
"No," Mariah groaned, her voice muffled by the pile of correspondence.
"Relax, I'll use a logical cover to protect myself. Especially with the ones who are a bit brighter," she added. "Perhaps I'll tell them I'm doing a survey for the magazine on bad relationships."
"The whole idea's bad enough without you posing as some magazine lackey in oversized glasses and a hat."
"It's all in the name of journalism," Miss Darcy responded. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll only resort to incognito when absolutely necessary. For the paper, that is."
"Why don't you just publish their names and photos in an 'I dated Christopher Stanley' feature?" Her friend's tone was sarcastic.
Dear Miss Darcy (The UK Edition) Page 9
