Modern-day Longbourn retained very few furnishings from the days of the first Mrs. Bennet; even fewer from the second. Its rooms were filled with antique castoffs from auction, threadbare needlework and linens said to be stitched by the Bennet daughters. A series of portraits in the drawing room immortalized the members of the Bennet family according to popular description. A rather severe Mary Bennet in spectacles gazed from a gilded frame; a cheerful but homely Edward Bennet at the age of twenty, the son and future heir of Longbourn estate.
It was in this room that the Society of Modern Career Women conducted their lecture on heart disease for a crowd of forty or so local women. The front row was reserved for the “career women” invited to the event. Miss Darcy was among this dozen or so, forced to look attentive through Dr. Clyvie’s speech.
“When it comes to stress of course, none of us are immune–not even those of you who have the privilege of afternoon soaps on the telly instead of surgery.” The doctor’s joke drew faint laughter from the crowd. “But seriously, we must think about the consequences on our bodies, ladies.”
Crossing her legs, Miss Darcy leaned forward in an attempt to look engaged. Her eyes roamed over the sparse furnishings, the faces in the family portraits. Including a rather flattering oil portrait of Jane Bingley.
A faint piano melody drew her attention, as if a ghost was seated at the pianoforte shoved in the corner. A slight shiver travelled along her spine at the thought of a ghostly Mary Bennet serenading the audience of charitable women.
A few of the career women sitting nearby shot disapproving looks in her direction as the song reached its crescendo. With a blush of embarrassment, she recognized the song as digital. Snapping open her bag, she fished out her cell phone.
The number on the screen would be unfamiliar, if it wasn’t for her workplace call list. Mr. Christopher Stanley. She flipped it open and disconnected the call, switching the phone to silent mode.
She shoved it in her bag again. Dr. Clyvie’s speech droned on, somewhere in the subject of eating green leafy things more regularly. One of the nearby women glanced in her direction with a sniff; she offered a reassuring smile.
A moment later, a faint buzz issued from her handbag. She felt the vibration through the folds of fabric and sequins, the buzzing phone crawling slowly across her lap beneath the fabric folds.
She pretended it wasn’t there, until she could stand it no longer. Pulling it out discreetly, she checked the screen. Stanley’s number again.
She should hang up on him. She should turn off the phone and listen to this lecture. She could send him a text, scolding him for his rudeness.
She did none of these things, however. Instead, she rose and made her way quietly out of the drawing room.
“Yes?” Her tone held an edge of annoyance. “I thought I told you I had an event this weekend.” Lowering her voice, she moved behind the refreshment table, hoping the large floral centrepiece would block the view of her taking a call.
“I was hoping that was an excuse,” she heard him say. “I rather thought you’d be available if I phoned.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but I am, in fact, busy. So please have your secretary leave a message at my desk.” As an afterthought, she added, “Did you really think I would lie to avoid our agreement? That’s hardly a promising start to a truce.”
The sound of her voice carried further than she anticipated; a few of the women seated near the door were glancing her way, curious.
“I didn’t plan to give you the opportunity,” he replied. “As to next week, I’m not sure with regards to my schedule–”
“Then you best check with your secretary,” she interrupted in a breezy tone. “Give me a call when you figure it out. The sooner the better!”
“As to that–” he began. She didn’t wait for the rest. She turned off the phone and shoved it into her bag. With an apologetic smile as the audience closest to the doorway frowned in her direction.
With a twinge of guilt, she pondered their conversation as the lecture continued. Did she brush him off because of his behaviour–or because she was reluctant to see their bargain through?
Tradition dictated that a public address at a charity luncheon was always followed by the “meet and greet” portion, where Miss Darcy and the other career women, marked with name tags, were the targets for polite small talk by the attendees. As the trays of sweets and pastries were unwrapped and circulated by the welcoming committee, Olivia was surrounded by a small crowd of floral-hatted women armed with cups of tea and baked goods.
“You’re the young woman who writes all those articles in the Telegraph, aren’t you?” Miss Darcy’s companion wore a flowered hat reminiscent of the royal family’s photos.
“It’s the Post, actually,” Olivia replied. “I’m the love advice columnist for the paper.”
“Oh, of course.” the woman breathed, “I suppose I was thinking of the other one. The man who writes for that rather trashy youth magazine. Elliot something.”
“Hartshall Elliot?” ventured Miss Darcy. This mention of her first brush with love advice still managed to startle her despite the years since her reply to his column was in print.
“That’s the one. But I suppose you must be in the same line, being the one who answers all those letters. My what a pile of mail that must be.” She took a polite sip from her teacup.
“Undoubtedly, I cannot match skills with Dr. Clyvie,” Olivia laughed. “I’m afraid the papers are far less life or death. But less stressful as well,” she added, attempting to steer conversation in the direction of the event’s cause.
A slight vibration in Miss Darcy’s handbag reminded her that her cell phone was alive again. No doubt Mr. Stanley was berating her in text for disconnecting their call earlier.
“The stress altogether depends on what paper you work for, you know.” Another woman approached their group, a figure familiar to Miss Darcy after the society party a few nights before.
“Ms. Crane,” Olivia attempted a pleasant smile. “How nice to see you here. A representative of the design profession, I assume?”
“I am. Although I could represent journalism just as easily.” Ms. Crane spread across a nearby damask sofa, caressing a Royal Daulton teacup between her fingers. “My family has extensive holdings in newspapers. At one time, my father edited The Guardian.”
“Really?” the flower-hatted lady replied. “How impressive, my dear! You must have quite a legacy in London.”
Pauline smiled tolerantly. “The curse of being one of Britain’s better connections, I’m afraid.”
A deep flush suffused Miss Darcy’s cheeks at this snub. “From which branch of the family do you inherit these connections? The Cranes or another leading family?”
“Both, actually,” Pauline answered. “But I’m a Crane by marriage, Miss Darcy.”
“Not the Chelsea Cranes, surely?” Ms. Hammond chimed in from a nearby circle.
“The very ones,” Pauline replied. “I met my husband Richard through the publishing world. It’s a bit of a bore, being trapped in one profession, really. The reason why I didn’t take a position at the Telegraph in place of the design world.”
“How fortunate to be so endowed,” said Miss Darcy. She took a dainty sip from her own cup of tea, ignoring the faint buzz issuing from her handbag. Really, would Mr. Stanley ever hang up?
“Quite, quite,” muttered Mrs. Hammond absently, in order to fill the silence of Pauline Crane’s non-reply.
“Although,” Olivia pitched her voice to suggest an afterthought, “I rather admire something about the self-made in any industry.” Toying with her teacup’s handle as she added, “You know, the sort who pulls himself up by his bootstraps–a bit of British spirit. Some of them may be a bit rugged by nature, but I think we all agree that hardly matters when one is building an empire.”
“Hmm,” one of the women present murmured. “Yes, well, in our modern times, we do agree that breeding is more a matter of good manners and
community spirit.”
Pauline emitted a slight laugh. “I hardly think ingenuity will ever replace the solid foundations of good connections, since even the most self-made man is created by the tolerance of those at the top.”
“Unless, of course, there’s no one above him,” Miss Darcy suggested. The mobile phone in her bag gave one final half-hearted buzz, then died off abruptly. Apparently, Mr. Stanley had grown tired of being ignored.
“One is never above their betters,” Pauline answered. “We still acknowledge that there are certain people who will always maintain a superior lifestyle to others. The privileged of mind, if you will, more than a simple definition of wealth.”
“Are you suggesting that no one with ‘low’ tastes or status will ever achieve the pinnacle of success?” Olivia asked, with a short laugh. “What a preposterous assertion.”
“I think you’ll find that there’s no sphere of life where a person of good breeding and solid connections has no advantage over the competition, Miss Darcy,” Pauline replied, frostily. Forcing a smile at the conclusion of this statement, she drifted away from the circle to join a crowd of ladies conversing with Dr. Clyvie.
“The Cranes are such an establishment,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald-Leigh. “I’m surprised she agreed to come today. Her last charitable bash was a black tie gala.”
“She seems to have a rather low opinion of the population outside her circle,” Miss Darcy observed, estimating the expense of Pauline’s tailored slacks and the cost of dressing her frizzy straw- coloured hair.
“Her own family is rather wealthy, too. I suppose it’s no worse than the general complex of the upper crusts.” Mrs. Pilburn had rejoined their circle, adjusting her floral corsage with her free hand.
As their conversation turned again, Olivia’s eye wandered towards Pauline Crane. Did men like Stanley find her snobbery appealing? She remembered the smile of triumph on Pauline’s face as her arm was intertwined with his at the dinner party.
Surely even Christopher Stanley was above dalliance with a married woman, especially one who disapproved of success without “connections”. Her skin grew hot as she debated this subject internally, surprised at the urge she felt to defend him against entertaining such an alliance.
It was inappropriate of her to think of him at all. Inappropriate most definitely to assume Mrs. Crane was anything to him. And downright cheeky to presume that a man so filled with arrogance as Christopher Stanley would in the least be disgusted by the habit in another.
Perhaps he deserved a dose of Mrs. Crane’s well-heeled manners and upturned nose.
“There you are, Miss Darcy!” Another guest had seized her elbow. “I’ve been simply dying to ask you about your column!” Lady Hammond had finally found her.
“And which one would that be?” Olivia answered, teasingly. Although she knew full well what subject had the lady’s curiosity–and apparently that of a handful of other guests, who were now gathering with smiles of interest.
“The elusive boyfriend of Cottingley, of course.” Lady Hammond lowered her voice as if sharing in a conspiracy. A bit of merriment entered Miss Darcy’s dark eyes as she prepared to play along.
“Well, I have met the gentleman, you know,” she began. A few members of her small audience leaned forward in anticipation.
“And is he quite the rogue she claimed?” one listener inquired. “Is it really that playboy ... oh, what’s his name?”
From the corner of her eye, Olivia caught a glimpse of Pauline Crane watching, an expression of lofty disdain on her face. With a little smile of acknowledgement, she waved her hand in order to enjoy the sight of Pauline turning the other way.
“Let’s just say I’m still making up my mind,” Miss Darcy answered.
*****
The pile of letters on her desk had grown. When she dropped her bag beside her desk, she felt a twinge of dismay at the size of the mound. Three times the usual volume for a weekend, since Saturday’s correspondence usually consisted of emails and a few dozen letters on average.
“What is all this?” she asked.
“Your fan mail,” Henry answered. “Or at least most of it seems to be. Stanley’s ex-girlfriends may form a cheering section for you next.” He was sitting in the corner at the sports desk, reading through a stack of score sheets, a sign the desk’s owner was still out covering the weekend games.
“What are you talking about?” she asked. A few were already open, something which Miss Darcy would scold Henry for if she had the heart.
Dear Miss Darcy: I’m so glad you’re finally giving Christopher Stanley a taste of his own medicine ...
Dear Miss Darcy: Is it true, those rumours that Cottingley’s boyfriend was that playboy Stanley? If so, I hope you thrash him in your next column ...
Dear Miss Darcy: I think you’re being too kind to Cottingley’s boyfriend–don’t bother giving him a chance to defend himself, just tell him where he gets off for scolding a woman who tries to help him not be a sod ...
She dropped them back in the stack and sank down at her desk. “I never thought it would have quite this effect,” she laughed. “Not in a million years.”
Henry popped open a can of nuts and offered her some of its contents. “You haven’t read the ones from Stanley’s ex’s yet,” he answered.
“His ex’s?” she repeated. Pushing aside the ones she read, she noted a few more open letters, other envelopes with “CBC” scrawled on the outside.
“It stands for ‘Cottingley’s Burn Club’.” Henry had anticipated her thought. “Somebody tweeted the story to me from a wire in Tunbridge Wells Apparently, ex-girlfriends with the same experiences as your Cottingley girl have formed a little social networking club.”
“So you can bet that more than one of them dated Christopher Stanley,” Miss Darcy concluded, softly. She pried open the envelope and removed a letter.
Dear Miss Darcy: I’m pretty sure that Cottingley and I have dated the same guy ... at least, I think it’s unlikely there are two playboys in London who forget their girlfriends but shower them with gifts and such. If you want to hear my story sometime, just contact me ...
“Incredible,” said Miss Darcy. “I mean, I expected a few responses ... but is it possible that every ex-girlfriend Stanley has in Britain will write me before it’s over?”
“I thought it was over,” said Henry. “You’re not writing any more columns on this, are you?”
She glanced up from the sheet of paper. “I don’t know,” she hesitated. “I said I wouldn’t, but that was only if he agreed to take my advice. And somehow I have a feeling he agreed this time just to put me off writing about it anymore.”
Biting her lip, she folded the sheet of paper. Ignoring this seemed ludicrous– more like career suicide than corporate success. And Christopher Stanley would be the first to recognize an unsound business decision.
Henry leaned forward. “Are you saying you’re going back on the deal?” he asked.
“I’m not going back on anything,” she retorted. “He hasn’t even heard my advice yet–and I haven’t heard his side of the story. Until he chooses to make that happen, I’m not obliged to give up anything.”
“Besides,” she added, glancing at the letter’s address, “this Miss Cottingley fan is on Hay Street somewhere. The one in the previous letter was somewhere in Chelsea, I think. It would be practically nothing to go and talk to these conquests.”
“What about the one in Plymouth?” Henry snorted. “Surely you’re not going to visit her?”
“Not her, of course,” Miss Darcy answered. “Just the ones in and around London–where no doubt he meets most of his girlfriends.”
Opening her email, she typed a few short sentences into the message. Would love to meet you, Miss Lewis. Is Monday at three acceptable, perhaps at your home? Please let me know by Monday morning if possible – Miss Darcy
She had forgotten about Henry in the heat of writing emails to the local crowd of ex-girlfriends. His sudden co
ugh startled her back to the present with a mistype in the email’s body.
“What about Stanley?” he asked. “What if he calls while you’re in the midst of putting together this whole portfolio on his girlfriends and tells you he’s ready to keep his end of the deal?”
“Then I’ll be happy to drop the matter,” she answered. Hitting the ‘send’ button, she swivelled to face him. “Besides, you’re one to talk–you opened my mail. That’s quite a moral offence, you know.”
“Mariah opened your mail,” he corrected. “I just stood by and watched.” He popped a few nuts in his mouth. “She’s peeved, by the way. Thinks you’re treading very thin ice right now, in fact.”
“She needn’t worry about me,” Olivia replied. “I’m perfectly fine with this.” Pulling the letter opener from her drawer, she began slitting open the stack of envelopes, glancing over each letter as she pulled it out.
There was absolutely no reason to be ashamed. Christopher Stanley himself would applaud her motives, even if her friends had their doubts. It was her responsibility to please her fans, not salvage Stanley’s already-damaged reputation.
“If he valued privacy so much, he would keep his love life in the closet,” she muttered, tearing through the paper folds with the blade. Picturing Stanley surrounded by a bevy of Angela Prices, without a single intellectual like Mrs. Crane in the lot.
Her brooding mood had nothing to do with guilt, she reasoned, and more to do with exasperation that Stanley’s secretary had failed to arrange the meeting. Shouldn’t he have done better than a half-hearted phone call in the middle of the night and a rude barrage at a charity function? All the while implying, of course, that next week his schedule was too full to squeeze in a meeting with her.
But wasn’t it you who put him off when he phoned? She knew it was true; she had fended off his attempt to meet her this weekend as if it were a brush with the plague. As she unfolded another letter, she considered the possibility of cancelling her appointment for Monday afternoon.
Dear Miss Darcy (The UK Edition) Page 13
