She trailed off, as Pauline eyed her coldly. “My dear Miss Darcy, you are a columnist in the lowest section of a paper preferred by ignorant readers," she said. “Exactly the sort of girl who would intrigue someone like my brother, ready to fall prey to the first woman who doesn’t run away from his bungling errors. We were far more fortunate when he was preoccupied with those mindless chits he dragged all over town.”
Reaching for the ash tray, she stubbed her cigarette in the middle. “I thought we were rid of the problem when we sent the solicitor’s letter to your paper asking for the removal of your column.”
Olivia's jaw dropped open at the sound of these words.
“You sent the letter? The one demanding that Collins fire me?”
“That was your editor's discretion, of course,” Pauline replied. “It was nothing against you; it was for Chris’s own good. To protect his reputation, something he seemed to have no intention of doing himself. Of course, he ended up interfering in the whole affair. I only hope the aftermath has brought him to his senses for good.”
The urge to sit down was taking hold of Miss Darcy’s legs. She licked her lips, but her mouth had gone dry momentarily.
Pauline rose from the sofa and moved to the conference table again. “Since we can’t seem to defeat you in your field, Miss Darcy, we’re prepared to influence you in other ways.” She unfolded a sheet of paper from inside a leather planner.
“A contract with Crown Daily,” she explained. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it. The online site’s quite the rage with our youngest demographic. There’s a position open in the romance and dating section. The salary is quite impressive, the hours light enough that you can keep your position at the Post as well, if you insist.”
“In return for what?” Miss Darcy asked, after a moment of quiet.
“For retracting your column, of course,” Pauline answered. “Claiming it was a publicity stunt or such. And for keeping your distance from my brother, on both a personal and professional basis. To spare him unpleasant reminders.”
She placed a pen beside the papers. “Do we have a deal, Miss Darcy?”
“It’s very generous of you,” Olivia answered. A faint smile was beginning to form around the edges of her mouth. “A very tempting offer–” She paused momentarily, watching Pauline’s expression grow brighter as she listened.
"–for someone who was less principled in their career, that is," Olivia concluded. "But I’m afraid that even unsuitable girls often possess a sense of pride.”
Pauline’s expression shifted from triumph to dismay. "Miss Darcy–" she began. But Olivia's fingers were already turning the doorknob.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Crane,” she said, turning away without bothering to hear the rest. The reflection in a gilded wall mirror on the neighbouring wall afforded her a glimpse of Pauline’s outraged face before the door closed.
The rush of anger and triumph was enough to carry her through the lobby and outside the hotel with her head high and shoulders straight. Thoughts of Pauline’s insults and bribery, however, were fast being driven away by the persistent recollection of Stanley’s role in the whole matter.
Surely it had all been an act. A farce to maintain his playboy image. Nothing more, or else you would have known it.
But how would she? She, who had never been in love in her whole life. She hadn’t achieved a second date since she was at university.
Tears stung her eyes as she forced herself to keep walking. She pulled her mobile phone from her bag, uncertain as to why she was reaching for it in the first place. To call Stanley, perhaps.
And say what–thanks again for rescuing me from your family’s evildoing? For not being the rascal I believed you were when I scolded you in public? For not caring that I failed to thank you for slugging Hartshall Elliot for me?
She wanted to say something to him, anything, considering the last time they met she had been without the ability to speak.
It buzzed to life in her hand, startling her. Snapping it open, she answered, “Olivia here.”
“Everything all right?” she heard Mariah’s voice. “Henry saw the note on your desk and some of us got a bit concerned here that you got snatched up by some of Stanley’s bitter exes.”
“No,” Olivia tried to sound lighthearted. “No exes in the vicinity. Just a rather formal apology from the family with regards to yesterday.” She heard the sound of Mariah’s voice, slightly muffled as she talked to someone else. Undoubtedly her hand was pressed over the receiver as she passed the word along.
“Tell Collins I’ll email my column by five,” she shouted, to get Mariah’s attention.
“Aren’t you coming back?” Mariah asked.
“Not today,” Miss Darcy replied. “I have something important first. See you and Eddie later?”
She hung up before any more questions arose. Phone in hand, she debated dialling another number. A stupid idea, given the stiff tones with which he bid her goodnight at their last meeting.
She stuffed the phone in her purse and snapped it closed.
On the train, she felt the first tear roll down her cheek, followed by another almost immediately afterwards. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed, her fingers digging for a handkerchief in her handbag. She felt ashamed of herself as a few passengers craned their necks to look at her, unable to stop the tide of emotion that washed over her now that the adrenaline was gone.
It had been true all along. Her feelings, the moment under the stone archway, the words he spoke at the restaurant. A look from him, a touch, had a profound effect that she had been unable to accept until now. His voice had a power over her that had never existed before.
How could she have failed to admit it to herself? They shared the same stubborn pride, the same keen ambition. Even, apparently, the same hopeless, helpless failure in romantic endeavours. Their arguments were proof of the spark, the conflict driving them both into corners of safety that avoided the connection.
Wiping her eyes, she drew a deep breath. Thinking about it would only make it worse for herself. Undoubtedly any attraction was already passing for Christopher, wherever he was right now. His tone when he bid her farewell was proof enough that his feelings had begun to cool in the aftermath of his offer.
Pulling her compact from her purse, she inspected her face in its mirror. A swollen red face and smeared eyeliner occupied its frame. Dabbing at it with her handkerchief was useless at this point.
She closed her eyes, wishing she really possessed the answer. What advice would she give someone trapped in this scenario? No doubt to seek out new things, to forge a new connection. Maybe try a dating service, for instance. Advice they would accept as credible, since the modern-day descendent of Pride and Prejudice held the secret to happy endings, right?
But it was Christopher who was right. Their relationship was meant for tragedy.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dear Miss Darcy: Recently, I’ve come to believe that dating games are the worst way to meet people. I’ve spent years having a coffee or dinner with people and wasted hours in the party scene for singles, and nothing has come of it. Tell me, is it possible to meet somebody without the usual scenes involved?
–Romantic in Rampton
Miss Darcy replayed the message on her machine. “Hi, this is Liz from Lionsmane Press,” a female voice oozed. “We’ve reviewed the issue with your book and the good news is, we’ve decided it’s not a problem. Call us soon and we’ll talk second draft, okay?”
She clicked it off. Stanley was true to his word regarding her manuscript’s crisis. All the damage done to her career had been erased in a single morning. Whatever he did to counter the Stanley family’s push was both instant and effective.
Lifting the receiver, she dialled his mobile number. Heart hammering, she waited for him to answer. What she would say afterwards, she had no idea.
A voice connected after a moment. “This is Christopher Stanley,” it announced stiffly. Before she could reply, it continued
with, “Leave a message at the beep.” Followed by an electronic signal.
“Mr. Stanley this is–this is Miss Darcy," she began. "I wanted to apologize for the column I wrote. The one I–well, I meant to say all of them, actually.” Stammering as her mind searched for words, racing against the cutoff.
“You were quite right. I should never have bullied you in print so...persistently. It won’t happen again in the future, I promise. And thank you again for saving my career.” Her fingers drummed against the table. “I owe you a great deal more than I can say.”
As her cheeks flushed hot, she slammed the receiver in its cradle. Flopping down in the chair beside it, she reproached herself for the worst points of the phone call.
“Blithering moron,” she muttered. “I sounded like a schoolgirl reading from a grammar book.” She tucked aside a stray lock of hair, pressing her fingers to her temples as she mentally replayed the worst parts of her message.
When she raised her head, she saw the face of Lizzie Darcy framed on the opposite wall, studying her with an inscrutable smile.
“What are you grinning about?” she asked. “A lot of help you’ve been. What happened to the famous charm of Elizabeth Bennet that drew such attention?” With a sigh, she murmured, “I suppose its genes were watered-down by the social ineptness of Mr. Darcy.”
Beside Lizzie’s portrait, her own face was reflected in the glass of a neighbouring print. The wan features and untidy curls borne out of the past few days of turmoil.
“So Miss Darcy loses at love once again,” she concluded. “Perhaps it’s time she gave up the game entirely.”
*****
“We love the first few chapters of this draft,” Tom’s voice simpered over the phone, “if they could just be a little more specific about training one’s self to avoid bad first impressions.”
“Since it varies from person to person, that will be difficult,” Olivia laughed, as she cradled the receiver against her shoulder. “But perhaps if I include an example–a case study, it would help.” Quite simple, given that she had dozens of her own experiences to draw on.
“Splendid! I’ll pass the word to Liz and we’ll all mesh in a few days. B’bye.”
Hanging up the phone, she swivelled to face her computer monitor again. Her desktop was cluttered with various drafts of the book, pages of her manuscript were mixed in with open letters and printed emails from her readers. Collins would say something soon if she wasn’t more discreet about her personal projects.
Dear Romantic, she typed, I beg of you, don’t give up your search for love. The pain of “business interviews” conducted as dates and mental questionnaires we fill out tempt us all to leave the game now and then.
Even I know the pain of love’s mistakes. More than my share of first dates have ended in disaster, I promise! But I cannot give up because the process is painful. For you never know when one occasion will end up being worth the pain, whether it ends for better or worse. Even one wrong moment can give you a glimpse of how wonderful the right moment will be.
Consider a new routine in your dating habits–like group activities with a purpose other than mingling or cultivating casual acquaintanceships for longer periods before initiating a date. Easing into the waters, so to speak.
But don’t give up, Romantic. Whatever you do, keep your hopes alive a little longer.
She re-read the words silently, biting her lip at the conclusion. She had resolved to be more honest about her romantic status, albeit a small start in the form of a few casual lines. At the expense of the clever Miss Darcy’s supposed success, she would cease to pretend her romantic endeavours were perfect.
A more humble, contrite Miss Darcy would emerge. One who didn’t resort to feigned relationships and knowing smiles to maintain her secrets.
“Off to lunch, Henry?” She was watching him adjust his tie in the reflection of the sports’ columnist’s monitor.
“Got a date with Rosie,” he answered, with a grin. “Well, a coffee anyway.” He snatched a fedora from the corner of the desk and propped it on his head.
“How do I look?” he asked.
“Very handsome,” she answered. “She won’t be able to resist.”
“Thanks, Livvy. Wish me luck, eh?” Whistling, he took off down the stairwell as she gazed after him. She confessed a bit of envy for his carefree attitude as he disappeared from sight. His enthusiasm for the pursuit of love was far greater than hers was at the moment.
At her elbow was a stack of papers and letters: the record of her feud with Stanley. She planned to destroy them, including the record of her conversations with his ex-girlfriends. Once she tossed them into the furnace, she would be free of all connections to Christopher Stanley.
It would hurt to burn the original letter from him, its cold tones so familiar that she almost found comfort in reading it. But a promise was a promise; she was resolved to honour her agreement to Christopher Stanley, whose reputation needn’t fear her pen any longer. He was free to pursue his romantic charade as long as he wished.
“Eddie’s dragging me to a planner’s to talk about wedding stuff,” Mariah grumbled, shouldering her purse. “Can you believe it? Four months of being engaged and he already thinks we should rush to ceremony.” She rolled her eyes as she stuffed her mobile phone in her pocket. “Now he’s talking caterers and wants his band to play at the reception. With him, of course.”
“Of course,” Olivia answered, stuffing Stanley’s letters into the stack again. “I think it’s rather noble of Eddie to take the lead. Perhaps you should let him plan the whole event.” She offered Mariah a wicked smile.
“Don’t say it,” Mariah threatened.
*****
“I think we’ve resolved the problem with you profile, Madam.” The agent from Connections Anonymous sounded pleased with herself. “I’m quite glad you rang, since according to the date on your file, your account is due to receive a renewal notice. It’s almost been a year, you know.”
“I rather thought of letting it go, I’m afraid,” Miss Darcy tapped her fingers against her desk. She had really phoned in hopes that she could cut off her membership over the phone. Far more discreet than an email trail involving the billing service–a final nod to the privacy of the old Miss Darcy.
“You have two months left,” the agent reminded her. “We hope you’ll reconsider our services. We think you’ll be quite happy with the revised pool of potential partners.”
The email arrived twenty-four hours later. Romanticatheart31 awaits you at Norland’s Cofe this Wednesday at two o’ clock. Bring a pink rose for the signal and have fun!
Which was why Miss Darcy found herself sitting at a window table at Norland's again, the site of her last disastrous date minus the near-miss involving Henry.
She offered the waitress a smile in return for a cup of coffee. A few minutes of polite conversation was all that was necessary for this date, she reminded herself; then she could excuse herself if necessary. Nothing to be afraid of except her nerves. Perhaps a nice raspberry tart would settle those– if the hammering in her chest was hunger pains instead of anxiety.
A small pink rose was tucked in the brim of her green cloche hat, displayed prominently on the table for the eye of her date. Glancing out the window, she searched for potential candidates among the passing faces. Perhaps the ginger-haired man with the briefcase. Or the one with the earring and the dodgy expression.
The cafe’s entrance bell jingled as someone entered. Turning her head, she surveyed the figure in the doorway. Tall, with high cheekbones and angular features. Hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his expensive leather coat.
Her lips opened in surprise, but no words emerged. She stared as he glanced over the room briefly until his gaze fell on her. A hesitant, half-smile formed on Christopher’s face as he made his way around the tables on the cafe’s floor and slid into the seat across from her.
“Hello,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here, of all places.”
&nb
sp; Her voice emerged from its hiding place. “What are you ... doing here?” she asked. It seemed like too much of a coincidence for a chance encounter. Too much for a blind date to explain.
“Connections Anonymous apparently fancies a handful of locations for its clientele,” he said, a touch of innocence in his tone. “I confess I prefer restaurants, but it was a bit dangerous for me to meet someone there in the past, wasn’t it?”
“How did you–?” she stammered. “I never told you I–”
“I believe we were always equal in our secrets, were we not?” His smile took on a glint of mischief. “I think you hardly need question how someone like myself gets information, Miss Darcy.”
Her cheeks flushed as she met his gaze. The same feeling she remembered from the carnival in Bath. From the dinner they shared at The Lakes. Even when she first sparred with him at the Brighton’s party.
Reaching across the table, he touched her fingers. “You didn’t have to apologise. For the columns, I mean.” His tone stiffened slightly with the awkwardness she remembered from countless debates.
“You didn’t have to save my job,” she answered. “Although it was nice of you to make the gesture.”
He smiled wryly. “My family has a habit of forcing their opinions on me, with unwelcome inference,” he answered. “Part of the reason I prefer not to be one of the Stanley empire.”
She slid her hand into his own, tracing his skin softly. “I thought you were going to give up your conquering ways,” she said. "But this dating service setup– the same as always, no?" With a smile that felt as weak as her knees beneath the tablecloth.
“Not at all,” he answered. “I thought one last time wouldn’t hurt. Especially if the service had help, let us say, in matching my profile more effectively.”
“I see,” she answered. Biting her lip to resist the smile tugging at her mouth.
Dear Miss Darcy (The UK Edition) Page 22
