Lavender and Parsley

by Lisa K Nakamura

  Chapter Two

  Darcy B.E. (Before Elizabeth)

  I remember when I was nine my mother, Anne William Darcy, getting me ready to go into the office with my father. I have been going with my father to work once a week since I was five. Mother has dressed me in a tailored suit, complete with a red-striped tie and gold cuff links, a miniature version of Pater Familias.

  ”Peter,” she says, “you are a gentleman. You must always look and act the part. It is your responsibility in this world.” Her face is bright at the sight of her little gentleman.

  “But why, Mother?” I whine. Every other nine-year-old boy in my neighborhood is out playing baseball or ripping holes into jeans. “Why can’t I go and catch frogs in the creek with the other guys?”

  “Because, my dear, this is all part of your training. You’re a Darcy. Your father wants you to learn how to direct our family's fortune. This is important for you because one day you will take his place as head of this family.

  "I hope as you learn, you remember that when you are born into the advantages as you have been, you must be mindful to never look down on others for the circumstances over which they have no control. You were lucky, nothing more. No matter what, always be kind.”

  I nod, but I still don’t understand. We live in a wealthy neighborhood, and yet, all my other friends get to be kids. I just want to swing from a tire suspended from a tree branch or hunt fireflies in late summer sunsets. In the end, my need to please my parents overrules my desires to run around the playground. Familial duty has its heavy hand on me.

  My father, Thomas Bennet Darcy, calls to me from the foyer of our elegant house and my mother hurries me down the marble steps to meet him.

  “My two handsome men! Have a wonderful day in the city!” With that, she gives each of us a peck on the cheek as Father and I head out the door.

  Perkins, our chauffeur, holds open the door to the car. When we are seated and ready to go, he climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine of the big black limousine. Adam Wickham, my father’s assistant and bodyguard, takes one last look around us to make sure there are no threats in the vicinity and then takes his seat in front next to Perkins.

  During our hour-long ride into the city, Father quizzes me on the latest numbers from the stock market. He also asks me about the day’s headlines. From his front seat, Mr. Wickham interjects, offering the latest political news and sports scores.

  “Son, you must learn to pay attention to things that don’t seem related. Current events on first glance have nothing to do with the price of stocks, but if you look closely, you will find the political, economic and social climate of the world directly influence the stock market—and vice versa. Everything affects money. Money is everything.”

  Perkins pulls in front of Father’s Manhattan office, and Mr. Wickham rushes around the car to open our door. As we enter the towering glass and steel structure, people step out of our way as though Father is King. We ascend rapidly in his private elevator to his office, which takes up the entire top floor.

  The office is large, imposing and masculine. Thick black carpet splashed with vermilion squares muffle the sound of footsteps. The walls are covered in ecru linen panels. Works by Rothko and Chagall adorn the walls with bold splashes of unapologetic color. Marble plinths support elaborate bouquets of roses and clusters of cymbidium orchids, bringing a touch of softness and life to the this orchestrated show of strength. Money and power are invisibly potent, yet dominate the room.

  Father disappears behind his large mahogany desk, as I move to a smaller version of it to his right. He powers up his computer, and while he waits, gives me several briefs. His secretary, Miss Murdoch, enters and hands him his morning coffee on a silver tray, and brings me hot chocolate in a matching porcelain cup. She places before him his daily schedule and a stack of ledgers, pirouettes gracefully on her patent leather high heels, and then curtsies slightly before she leaves.

  “Son, I want you to read these, and give me your opinion before lunch,” Father says to me. I eagerly reach for the papers in his hand, ready to impress him with all the business acumen I’ve developed in my whole nine years on this planet.

  I spend the next two hours silently mouthing the difficult words, and then laboriously writing notes in the margins. I plunder the dictionary and encyclopedias in Father’s well-appointed library. I shuffle through stacks of week-old newspapers, trying to trace trends and make predictions. When Father asks me what I’ve concluded, I tell him, “With the USSR breaking up and with the turmoil in the current Russian government, it seems that we should look at other sources of oil and steel, just in case the situation becomes untenable. But I don’t think we should completely withdraw our investments, as unrest drives prices down. This would be an excellent chance for us to purchase more energy shares at lower prices.”

  “We should also remember that with Germany reunifiying, there is extensive rebuilding in the former East, encouraging ample opportunities for investment and profits. I think we should direct a good amount of our capital into real estate there,” I pipe up solemnly in my voice which has yet to break with adolescence.

  Father beams at me, proud that I have come up with such a sophisticated answer at my tender age. His efforts to groom me to be the next steward of the Darcy fortune are paying off. I bask in his approval, and stymie the irrational part of me that wants to do nothing more than write and play with words.

  In my heart of hearts, I want to be a writer. This is at complete odds with what is expected of me. I have almost fooled myself into thinking I enjoy business. But in my room, hidden in the back of my closet like secret boxes of sweets, are volumes of notebooks filled with my scribbles. I write compulsively about everything I see. I use words to tease out the textures and colors of a rose petal, or the smell and spring of a freshly-baked loaf of bread. I am fascinated how lines on a page can transmit such powerful images, sensations and emotions. I spend hours studying the origins of words and deliberate over the precise one. My father would call my efforts a fool’s errand, and so I never tell him. His approval means the world to me.

  Mother encourages me, telling me that I was a born wordsmith. But lately, she hasn’t been enthusiastic about my writing, or really, anything at all. My younger sister Emily was born a year ago. Since her arrival, Mother seems more withdrawn and lethargic. She tries to act as if she’s interested in all we do but dark circles shadow her eyes, eyes that her smiles never reach.

  At noon, Father, Mr. Wickham and I get into the elevator to head downstairs for lunch. As we walk out of the building to our car, a man in ragged clothes approaches my father and asks him for money. Mr. Wickham roughly pulls the man away. Father gives Mr. Wickham a twenty-dollar bill to give to the poor man begging. He doesn’t even glance in the man’s direction.

  Mr. Wickham stuffs the bill into one of the torn pockets in the man’s tattered jacket. He then pushes the man away with a stern “Be off with you!” As the man stumbles, Mr. Wickham pulls an expensive monogrammed white handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his hands clean. He glares at the handkerchief in disgust, and throws it into a nearby trash can before taking his usual seat in the car.

  Adam Wickham is ever my father’s stooge, his hatchet man. He scrabbled his way out of poverty, and now has made himself invaluable to my father by executing unsavory tasks without question. He never disagrees with Father. I do not want to know details of what he has done at my father’s bidding. Some things should remain a secret.

  His fortunes have risen with Father’s, and now he and his family live next to us in the posh hamlet in Connecticut we call home. His son, George, quickly becomes my parents’ favorite, appealing with his charming ways and pretty-boy looks.

  When we are seated in the back seat and the car doors locked, Father turns to me and says, “Son, in this world, people will always beg from you because they think you have money. People assume rich people are supposed to help them. You could, but never forget you are a Dar
cy. You’re better than them. You were born with Darcy blood in your veins. You have our exalted position and status. Go ahead, be charitable, but never forget our legacy is your first responsibility.”

  Father continues, “Maintain your distance from the helpless and poor, don't get involved in their misery. Never sink to their level. You should feel pity for them, and be thankful that you will never be in their position.”

  “But Mother says we should be….”

  Father cuts me off before I can finish.

  “Peter, your mother is a wonderful woman, but she doesn’t understand how the world works. She would hand out food, money and clothing to every poor person on the street if she could, and never worry about how to pay for it. She would beggar us by giving every cent away if I let her. Her family has forgotten what it’s like to struggle to amass a fortune, and how much harder one has to work to keep it. Her siblings think they’re still in Britain and live in the favor of the monarch.

  “I love your mother dearly. I was enraptured by her beauty and her voice when I heard her sing. It was a coup de foudre, the first time I saw her, standing there on stage. She was such a mesmerizing Juliet. She had the audience in tears. But I knew, as did her family, that she could not remain on there. She had loftier goals to achieve. She was raised to be the mother of a wealthy family’s scions, my heirs. I took her away from all that foolish operatic nonsense, and now, she is living her destiny."

  I gape at my father, unable to picture him as a young man giddy with love at first sight.

  Father continues. “My great-grandfather came over from Britain with nothing because his forefathers were silly enough to believe in their entitlement. They squandered the coffers of Pemberley, refusing to face the fact that England was changing, that the days of the gentleman farmer were rapidly fading away. They shunned trade and stuck their heads in the ground when the Industrial Revolution charged across England. In the end, they impoverished themselves, and your grandfather, the second son, had to leave to seek his fortune in America.

  “Never forget how hard your forefathers worked to keep you in this privileged position. You must guard it with your life.”

  “But Father, I want to be a writer when I grow up,” I finally dare to tell him. “I want to use the magic of words to describe the beauty and ugliness all around me!” I protest. It is the first time I have ever shown any opposition to my father’s wishes.

  “Writer?” my father scoffs. “Has your mother been encouraging you foolishly, Son? Your first obligation is to make more money for the family, to add to our fortune. You must do this for yourself and your new baby sister, Emily. When you’re old and gray, when you’ve taught your son to take over the reins of the company, then you can retire and indulge in silly hobbies like writing. Only then.”

  “What if I don’t have sons, only daughters?”

  “Well, that would be quite a failure. There has always been a Darcy heir to carry on our name. I suppose you could teach your daughter to do what I’m instructing you to do, but remember, a woman’s place is in the home, not the boardroom, and certainly not on the stage. It was a good thing I married your mother when I did. I rescued her from such a woeful life. We Darcys do not perform for others. You will make sure your sister does not go down that path, Peter. I am trusting you with this.”

  I wonder if my father ever realized that my mother is giving the performance of her life. She now acts for an audience of one, him. She is directed solely by his whims and ideals on the stage he sets and with a script he writes.

  My father did his best to mold me into his image. He tried until the day he died. I was twenty and in college, studying for the business degree he wanted for me when he left us forever. The day he died is the day I began. I pivoted and started my studies in writing in earnest. I may have been a coward to wait until he could no longer deride my wishes, but at least I finally did it.

  Twenty years later, I am writing for a living as a daily newspaper’s food critic. I realize it is the Darcy wealth and influence that allowed me to get this coveted position. Being able to travel and eat around the world and to hobnob with important people has certainly given me the right background and contacts for my job.

  Our family fortune has given me the freedom from the basic worries of food, clothing and shelter, but it has also made me the target of too many grasping women who want to marry an easy life. They think I live in luxury. They would be shocked to know about my modest lifestyle, to see my small apartment in a pedestrian part of town.

  When I write as a critic, I channel my father and hold myself apart from the restaurants I review. I am cold and impartial, ruthless as my father was in his business deals. He taught me to be aloof and impenetrable, to always be a gentleman even when going in for the kill.

  But there is another side of me, one using the art and elegance of words to convey the nuances of food. My mother would have appreciated the poetry in my prose, however devastating it might be. She would have encouraged the emotions of what I write. I try to remember her love of beauty and let it temper my critical words.

  I feel like Janus, two-faced and conflicted. Artist or businessman? Brother or father? Cold or kind? It is confusing to be me. So I choose the path that offers the least resistance and heartache, the one that lets me easily hide behind the ice walls I raise. I choose the path with no emotions.

  Only a few are allowed beyond the gate and into my heart. Of those, Emily is the most important one. She was only eight-years-old when our father died. I keenly felt the responsibility of raising my sister at his death. Twelve years her senior, I was already in college. We had not spent much time together and were not particularly close. I was her absentee older brother, suddenly expected to be her parent as well. Is it any wonder I foundered at being either to her?

  I parroted my fathers’ words to Emily when she turned fifteen. “You need to get a college degree. It doesn’t matter what it is. Your job is to marry well, to be a pillar of society and bring forth the next generations of Darcys,” I told her.

  She did not take this well.

  She protested, “You’re such an aristocratic snob, a stone-cold miser! Mother would hate the person that you’ve become! ”

  The truth of her words shocked me. The gentle kind soul my mother wanted me to become has disappeared. Emotions were too messy; it was easier to button them up and mirror my father. Maybe that is why I failed to protect my younger sister when she needed it the most, because I closed my eyes to the truth just as my father had.

  I think about George Wickham and the special place he had in my father’s heart. George was never held accountable for any of the disasters he has wreaked through the years. He regularly skipped school, committed petty crimes, and left more than one girl in the family way as he grew up. Every attempt Richard and I made to tell my parents about George’s transgressions fell on deaf ears. Instead, my father pronounced me jealous of that “wonderful Wickham boy” and told me my snitching was unbecoming to our family name.

  I wonder what my father would have thought years later if he’d known about how George tried to ruin Emily’s life. I know that as a substitute parent, I have failed Emily miserably and believe that only a miracle has kept her in this world.

  There’s a small part of me hoping the softhearted son Mother loved still exists. Maybe he is sleeping under the brittle shell of my pride? Is he waiting for the right woman to strike an invisible fault line, shattering it and awakening him?

  I doubt such a woman exists. The women I meet are scheming fortune hunters who make me shun dating. But I am nearing an age where I will have to choose someone eventually, to settle down and fulfill my duty of producing the next generation of Darcys. I recoil at committing to the kind of vacuous women who move in my circles.

  I am thirty-eight now and reassure myself that I have a few more years to find the perfect woman, one who is intelligent and well-bred, before I give up and submit to a convenient marriage. She must be out there. I still have
time, don’t I?

  I look out my apartment window and watch the chaotic traffic swirling below. I reassure myself that despite all the confusion and roadblocks, eventually everyone arrives where they need to be. Surely I will as well. Out of nowhere, I whisper, “Mother, I’m so confused, help me.”

  Ten stories below me a yellow cab stops for a fare, a woman with blonde hair. She looks up and we stare intensely for a two-second lifetime at each other before she enters the taxi. She smiles at me, and for a moment, our spirits connect. I swear she has my mother’s eyes.

  Chapter Three

  Elizabeth E.A.D. (Elizabeth and Darcy)

  Age 30

  The car windows shudder as I turn up the stereo volume, drowning myself in mournful Pink Floyd guitar riffs. I thump the steering wheel in time as the music snags on staticky, worn-out speakers. The lyrics match my mood, as I struggle to balance my urge for freedom with my family’s need for me to come home.

  I can smell the ocean air, but can’t see the water in the nighttime darkness. My high beams catch the road sign identifying The Ocean Breeze as a restaurant off the next exit. I turn to Dido, my trusty mutt riding shotgun and tell her this is it. I signal, and then turn to take the exit.

  I have been down this road so many times before. On one side, it is hemmed in by the mountains. On the other, it is bracketed by dunes of empty bleached oyster shells, evidence of the shellfish farms submerged right off shore. I’ve made this drive for visits and for temporary stays, but always with a leave-by date in mind.

  Today, my drive is permanent. I am no longer a kid running away from this small town. Now I’m like a tether ball being relentlessly pulled back in. Another rotation of the car wheels, and another bit of my freedom is gone.

  I spent years following my dream, doing what I wanted. I studied hard at culinary school, graduated at the top of my class. I worked for the toughest chefs in town, putting up with the screaming and daily pressure. I told myself the financial and emotional struggles of being at the bottom of the kitchen ladder would one day pay off. I promised myself I would make it to the top—if I could hang on just a little longer.