by Lynn Messina
“Madness is renting a three-story penthouse with a ballroom and not hosting a ball,” Bingley says.
“Darcy agrees with me,” Carl says as he wipes a speck of sauce from the corner of his lips. “You think it’s a terrible idea, too, don’t you?”
Bingley waves her hand dismissively. “Darcy doesn’t count. She’s still sulking about having to return to New York because of misbehaving pipes. She’d much rather be in London than dithering with the toilets at Pemberley.”
“Ah, yes, London,” Lucy says with a grin. “Such delightful theater, shopping and men. Europe’s the only place where one can find a true gentleman anymore, isn’t that what you said, Darcy?”
“I believe the adjective she used was well-rounded,” Bingley says. “A well-rounded gentleman.”
Although Darcy recognizes the flippancy in her friend’s tone, she chooses to address her comment seriously. “I did say well-rounded, yes, because the word gentleman itself has been devalued to mean any man who holds a door open for a woman. I don’t consider that to be a sufficient qualification—and not simply because I can open my own door, thank you very much. In truth, I haven’t met more than maybe six men who I would consider to be really well-rounded.”
“That sounds about right,” Carl says.
Bennet, who has watched Bingley’s deft dinner performance with silent admiration—the effortless way she takes her brother to task while compiling one of the most impressively aspirational guest lists in the history of New York institutional fundraising—looks across the table at Darcy. “Your definition of well-rounded must be very extensive.”
Darcy shrugs.
“Well, naturally,” Carl insists. “Otherwise, we all sink to the lowest common denominator, which is, I assure you, the last place I want to be—except, perhaps, Bingley’s ball. But to Darcy’s point: A gentleman should have a thorough knowledge of music, literature, art, theater, wine and cigars. He should be well-traveled and speak at least three languages, one of which has to be Mandarin if he has any hope of remaining relevant in the modern world. He should know how to tip a maître d’ without arousing attention and have a clear understanding of his financial portfolio. Plus, he should have a certain athleticism about him—that is, how to pull off a bicycle kick, how to get out of a greenside bunker at St. Andrews and how to return a rolling nick shot in squash.”
“And,” Darcy says with a firm nod, “he should keep up with world affairs through extensive reading and be able to communicate complex ideas in simple terms.”
Bennet considers her thoughtfully over the rim of his wineglass, not entirely convinced she isn’t joking. Surely, nobody’s standards are that high. “If that’s really your definition of a well-rounded man, then I’m no longer surprised you know only six. I’m shocked you know any at all.”
“Do you have so little faith in your fellow man as to believe none of them could be so accomplished?” Darcy asks.
“On the contrary,” Bennet says, “I have enough faith in my fellow man as to know that not a single one would be so insufferable as to have all those qualities at once. Honestly, I can’t imagine a more unpleasant human being.”
Both Carl and Hurst protest what they consider to be an unjust characterization—insufferable!—and insist they know many very pleasant men who fit this description.
“Jefferson Cartwright,” Hurst says, “whose father owns several Swiss banks. He plays rugby, collects stamps and knows exactly how to grill a steak to get that perfect contrast between the charred outside and the warm, juicy center.”
“Matthias Ferrar has won the Dressage World Cup three times,” Carl adds, “and is preparing to compete in the games again this year. He also earned the master sommelier designation from the Union de la Sommellerie Française and can dismantle and reassemble a rifle while blindfolded.”
Hurst is about to list the accomplishments of his dear friend Lerner Williamson—British ambassador to Argentina and actual rocket scientist (though his work is more theoretical than practical)—when Lucy shrieks. “Oh, my God, are you two going to seriously list your entire graduating class at Harvard? Unless these gentlemen will be in New York next month for Bingley’s party, I don’t want to hear another word about them.”
Bingley tips her head to the side. “Are any of them going to be in New York next month?”
Carl mumbles no, while Hurst shrugs petulantly.
“Then let’s keep the conversation to locals,” their sister says. “I believe we were going around the table brainstorming. Hurst came up with the last name. Carl, it’s your turn.”
But Carl, whose objections to the party have not been overcome, refuses to add anything to the list and sits silently while his sister, pen perched over paper, stares at him expectantly. Lucy, however, is a game player and suggests many excellent prospects, several of whom her husband seconds because he hasn’t seen them in a while and it would be nice to have a visit in the comfort of his own apartments.
Delighted, Bingley dimples and calls to Mulberry to bring out dessert, which, being strawberry shortcake made from the very first of the season’s strawberry crop, is as fresh and lovely as she.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Meryton requires a site inspection immediately. Planning for the Netherfield ball is still in its infancy and John’s photos render every aspect of the room in crystalline detail, but Meryton remains emphatic.
“I must know exactly what I’m dealing with,” he insists, dismissing John’s suggestion that they hold off on a visit until next week. “When Mr. Longbourn or one of the other board members asks me for information, which can, you understand, happen at any moment, it’s imperative that I be able to supply it in vivid, firsthand detail.”
He prevails upon John to arrange the inspection for the very next morning, even though the latter already has a breakfast appointment with a high-level donor scheduled. Bennet, horrified at the prospect of the executive director meeting with Bingley alone, volunteers to go in his brother’s stead.
Upon their arrival, Mulberry leads them up the stairs to the ballroom, which, in the hundred years since the hotel was built, has been repurposed as an overly large living room. Although the hotel officially calls it the grand salon, the space, with its assortment of period furniture arranged in discreet conversational groupings, is curiously ungrand. Filling the ballroom with couches, armchairs, ottomans and end tables gives it a remarkably mundane appearance, like the clubhouse of a high-end gated community for people over fifty-five, and not even the six art deco chandeliers, lavishly decorated with crystals, add gravitas.
“Don’t judge,” Bingley says, suddenly appearing at the top of the staircase. “It’s uninspiring now, but imagine it without the hideous furniture. Remove all the settees—they’re too hard to sit on anyway, and their backs are ruthlessly straight. Remove all the end tables and lamps, which may or may not have come from Macy’s. Now close your eyes and picture the floor, miles and miles of golden, gleaming oak. See yourselves twirling in the arms of your partner as the orchestra plays a waltz. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
Meryton, whose imagination doesn’t extend to picturing himself doing anything to a waltz, keeps his eyes resolutely open as he stares calculatingly at the space, trying to figure out how many people they can squeeze in comfortably. There must be a legal limit established by the fire department—despite being a private apartment, the ballroom is also a public space—but government bureaucracies are always extra cautious. No doubt, whatever the figure is, they can safely add fifteen percent.
“It’s absolutely perfect,” Bennet says.
Bingley grins and insists on giving them the deluxe tour, which starts at the north end of the room, where a beige pool table sits in the center of an alcove set off by the same elliptical arches as in the library. She shows them the terrace to the east, which overlooks the river and Bloomingdale’s. After twenty minutes, she suggests continuing their discussion over coffee and pastry.
“But no rugelach, I’
m afraid,” she says. “I finished the last one just minutes before you arrived.”
“We can fix that, can’t we, Bennet?” Meryton says jovially as they follow her down the grand staircase to the foyer. He thinks if he keeps Bingley hooked on butter and sugar, she’ll continue to be putty in John’s hands.
At the bottom of the staircase, they turn left into the breakfast parlor, a comfortable room with yellow curtains, daffodil wallpaper and bright rays of sunshine pouring in through the windows. The only thing casting a pall on the cheerful setting is the ferocious scowl on Carl’s face as he looks up from his newspaper. Even Darcy’s customary frown seems welcoming in comparison.
Meryton, perceiving the cinnamon-pecan bun on the silver serving tray to be the last of its kind, bumps Carl’s coffee with his elbow in his enthusiasm to reach it.
“Whoops,” he says as he wipes the small spill with a cloth napkin as yellow as the walls. “Do accept my apologies, Mr. Bingston.”
Carl’s nod of acknowledgment is a study in cold civility, but Meryton interprets it as an invitation to speak and sits down next to him to discuss the ball, assuming, wrongly, of course, that the young man must be as excited about the upcoming event as he is.
Bennet takes the seat next to his boss, which puts him once again across from Darcy. Engrossed in the business section of the newspaper, she tilts her head in general acknowledgment of the visitors from the Longbourn and sips her coffee.
“You have a lovely room here, Ms. Bingston,” Meryton says as he stirs sugar into his coffee, “and the terrace has a breathtaking view. I don’t know anywhere in New York that’s as lovely as the Netherfield. I hope you’re not in a hurry to leave.”
“ I do everything in a hurry, and if I did decide to leave Netherfield, I’d most likely be gone in a matter of minutes. At the moment, however, I’m happily settled.”
“That’s exactly the vibe you give off,” Bennet says, thinking she has a lovely, mercurial quality, like a hummingbird hovering over the petals of a flower.
Bingley turns toward him. “Am I really so obvious?”
It’s impossible not to laugh at the archness of her tone. “Well, yeah,” he admits.
“I want to be flattered,” she says with a sigh, “but it’s pitiful to be such an open book. I’d much rather be dark and mysterious.”
Bennet scoffs. “Dark and mysterious doesn’t necessarily mean depth of character or interesting. Sometimes it just means silent and brooding.”
“You speak from personal experience?” Bingley asks.
“A lifetime of study. Dark and mysterious can be entertaining to observe for anthropological reasons,” he says, “but not so much fun to go to the movies with.”
Across from him, Darcy arches an eyebrow a mere fraction of an inch and silently turns a page of her paper.
Although Meryton appreciates the value of small talk, especially for the unexpected financial commitments it sometimes draws forth, he has far more respect for pointed conversation, and rather than let the discussion meander its way over to the ball, he wrenches it back. “We must get the invitations out as quickly as possible. There are several social events in New York on any given night, and we want to get a jump on the competition.”
“I’m finalizing the guest list as we speak,” Bingley says.
Darcy finally raises her eyes above the paper. “I assure you, your usual concerns about competition do not apply to this event.”
Her condescending smirk and the implied insult to the Longbourn offends Meryton, who throws off decades of obsequiousness to snappishly reply, “And I assure you, our usual concerns about competition are minor. We’re a very well respected institution.”
His curt tone surprises everyone, even Bennet, who knows how protective his boss can be of the museum he leads. Darcy examines the executive director for a moment, then resumes her perusal of the paper. Meryton, interpreting her silence as retreat, doubles down on his defense of the Longbourn. “I can’t see what advantage a large museum has over a smaller one, except for the international reputation and high-profile donors. Working with a small institution is a vast deal more pleasant—isn’t it, Ms. Bingston?—because you don’t get lost in the shuffle.”
“I like working with both,” Bingley says diplomatically. “Each one has its advantages.”
“That’s because you’re so thoughtful and kind, but other people”—he purposefully does not look at Darcy so the insinuation is twice as clear—“seem to think the Longbourn doesn’t have any advantages.”
Bennet is horrified. He knows Meryton is a man of excess, but his extravagance always tips toward effusive praise, and Bennet doesn’t know what to make of this sudden dip into combativeness. It’s no secret to the Longbourn staff that Meryton doesn’t like Darcy, but as the executive director of a fragile and sometimes desperate institution, it behooves him to separate his personal feelings from his professional obligations.
Hoping to salvage something—if not Darcy’s goodwill, then Bingley’s good opinion—Bennet rushes to say, “You misunderstand. Ms. Fitzwilliam only meant that fewer people are inclined to take the trip out to Forest Hills to attend events at the Longbourn, which you know is true. We talk about that all the time in the office.”
“It’s a concern, certainly, but not one we spend every minute of the day agonizing about. Our events are excellently attended. The Pushkins come to everything, as well as the McCarthys and the Rivingtons and the Sanfords,” Meryton says, launching into an inventory of the museum’s wealthiest supporters. His tone, officious and self-important, readily conveys his high expectation that his audience will be bowled over by the quality of the list.
Listening to the extensive catalog of unfamiliar names, Bingley manages to keep a straight face only out of respect for Bennet. Her brother is less considerate and rolls his eyes at Darcy with a very expressive smile.
“Oh, and I mustn’t forget Lady Williams, who is particularly devoted to the Longbourn. As you’ve no doubt concluded on your own, she’s a member of the British peerage. And her title is real. It goes back generations and isn’t one of these baubles bestowed recently by the queen for some charity work or another. What a lovely woman Lady Williams is. So kind and so easygoing—you’d never know she has $300 million. She always has something nice to say to everybody. That is my idea of good breeding. People who consider themselves too important to make polite conversation know nothing about it.”
Bennet resists the urge to lay his head down on the table and bang it a few times. Instead, he introduces a new subject, “I think we should set up the orchestra along the north side of the ballroom, where the pool table is now.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Meryton announces, sufficiently engaged by the topic to forget about his list. “The south wall is too close to the staircase. We’ll need to build a stage, of course, to raise the orchestra. It’s vital to the acoustics.”
At these words, Bennet smothers a sigh. Yes, he agrees elevating the orchestra a foot or two would improve the sound, but it’s not Meryton’s place to request modifications that will cost their host money. He doesn’t doubt Bingley’s taste is impeccable, and he’s more than confident that whatever changes she decides to make will be perfect. Before he can say that, however, Bingley assures Meryton that she’ll accept nothing less than a stage made of the finest cherrywood.
“I found some old pictures online of what the ballroom used to look like before it was turned so morosely practical,” she says, tapping her phone, “and I thought it would be fun to restore some of its former glory. Alas, we can do nothing about the track lighting except turn it to dim. But look”—she holds up her screen for Bennet and his boss to examine—“at the lush valances over the window and the gorgeous candelabras. I’ve already spoken to the hotel and they’re happy to indulge me in my request. The manager even thinks the original drapes are in storage in the basement. She’s promised to send someone down to have a look.”
Meryton is duly impressed wit
h Ms. Bingston’s industriousness. “It seems you’ve already thought of everything. How wonderful. Naturally, your standing at the hotel—that is, your status as an heiress who can afford to lease the penthouse of the Netherfield—makes the staff much more amenable to your requests. But that’s the advantage of having money, is it not? It clears the way of all things. Lady Williams wanted to have the Empire State Building lit up yellow and blue in honor of her son’s wedding to a Swedish royal. It was a very elaborate affair, with horse-drawn carriages for the entire party and fireworks. The flowers alone cost $145,000.”
Bennet knows that the recitation of Lady Williams’s wedding expenditures will take them well into the night, and in hopes of preempting that disaster, he says firmly, “And Lady Williams made a large donation to the Empire State Building’s children’s fund and the building was lit the desired colors. Money is wonderful and is the source of all good things.”
“I thought money is the root of all evil,” Darcy says with a twitch of her lips, amused by either him or Lady Williams’s ability to bend the Empire State Building to her will.
“The love of money, as I’m sure you know,” Bennet says, impatient to be gone before Meryton offends or bores them out of a ball. “But that adage is largely arbitrary. I find the love of tequila to be far more destructive.”
Darcy’s only response is a smile, and a brief silence follows, during which Bennet tries to come up with something to say to bring their meeting to a swift and courteous end. Meryton, however, speaks first, thanking Ms. Bingston once more for her generosity in hosting the party. Bingley assures him again that the pleasure is all hers and even shames her brother Carl into saying something nice, which clearly does not come naturally to him—he has to cough several times before getting the words out.
Delighted with the morning’s progress, Meryton wraps a cheese Danish in a cheerful yellow napkin and slides it into his coat pocket before suggesting Bennet and he take their leave. Bingley shows them to the door, leaving Carl to marvel over the behavior of the two fundraisers for the Longbourn Collection.
