by Lynn Messina
The unprecedented glamour of the goodies—as well as their resale value on eBay and Craigslist—has almost everyone in the building jockeying for swag. John can’t step outside his office without being accosted by someone looking for a hookup, and he knows Lydon is running a full-scale black market operation out of his backpack. The budding entrepreneur has yet to get his hands on any of the goods, as everything is being stored offsite, but he’s confident he can squirrel enough away during the event to make a tidy profit.
John is equally confident he cannot, for the security measures that will be implemented to ensure against theft are extensive. Apparently, Lydon isn’t the first impoverished intern to dream big.
As soon as John gets an email from Sasha confirming receipt of the finalized guest list, Bennet announces he has to add one more name. “Audrey Martindale, Julian Martindale’s wife. She was supposed to be in Denver to meet with some clients, but that was just canceled and she’d like to come. Can we add her?”
Immediately, John hits reply to Sasha and sends the new name. “You do realize the event is in four hours? At some point, we have to stop adding people.”
“Don’t look at me. Bingley’s the biggest offender. She added six people this morning: the entire freelance team on the Art & Style exhibit,” Bennet says pointedly. “She can’t know the truth.”
“We don’t know the truth,” John says reasonably. “We only know one aspect of it. There’s more to the story.”
Bennet sighs. “If you’re going to insist on being fair and impartial, I might as well head over to the Netherfield now to stuff the goody bags with guest memberships and exhibition brochures. I’m curious to see how the preparations are coming along.”
“When I left a little before eleven last night, the crew had just finished carrying out the furniture and was about to start building the stage,” John says. “Don’t forget your tuxedo.”
“I’m hardly likely to forget it,” Bennet mumbles as he retrieves the brand-new tux from the back of the closet door. Although he’s confident—or reasonably confident—that the frayed elbows on his old monkey suit would have made it through at least one more event without tearing, he graciously invested in a new one. Well, graciously might not be the right word because it had taken a telephone call from his mother, in which she casually let slip that John had casually let slip the deplorable state of his evening wear, to get him to the store. As much as he resented the expense, he didn’t stint on quality or tailoring and walked away with one that actually fit him well in the shoulders, unlike the boxy jacket he’d been wearing since college.
Once in the taxi, Bennet calls Sasha’s office to let her assistant know he’s on his way to the hotel and texts Georgia to ask if she’s coming the party. His contact with her has been sparse in the past week, as the last-minute details of installing the Art & Style: Impressionism’s Influence on Fashion and Modernity exhibition have been time-consuming and many. Once, she managed to duck her boss long enough to grab coffee with him in the café, and another time she turned an errand to fetch a stapler into a twenty-minute pit stop in his office.
Although Bennet has seen her little since their night out, he has thought about her often—and not just because he’s trying to get John to agree she’s been horribly mistreated by Darcy. He likes her quick humor, her ready laugh, her easy sociability and her intelligent conversation, and looks forward to getting to know her better, a prospect whose chances are greatly increased by the opening of the show on Tuesday.
Traffic is light, and Bennet’s cab is pulling up to the Netherfield by the time Georgia responds to his text with a series of emojis: grinning face, birthday cake, palm tree, confetti, bus, revolving hearts, breakdancing taco. Bennet, whose experience with emojis is limited to scoffing at Lydon’s overemployment of them, translates this crash of festive images as a yes. It doesn’t occur to him that she might not come until he enters the ballroom at the Netherfield hours later and looks in vain for her among the cluster of Redcoats gathered there.
Georgia’s friend Denni, the designer who good-naturedly ran her to ground when she was sipping coffee with Bennet on a stone bench in the café, explains that her colleague had a prior commitment—a birthday party for a friend in Philadelphia. “Not that she wouldn’t have blown it off in a heartbeat,” she adds, “if she hadn’t wanted to avoid a certain person here.”
Bennet can’t blame Georgia for choosing to skip a party attended by her nemesis, but he can blame Darcy, and when she comes over to say hello, he returns her greeting with brusque impatience. Being kind to Darcy feels like a betrayal of Georgia, and he resolves to talk to her as little as possible. Escaping conversation entirely is impossible, however, and by the time he manages to extricate himself, he’s in such a bad mood that not even Bingley, who enthusiastically greets him with a piece of rugelach—“Host and delivery boy,” she says, twinkling—can improve it. Bingley’s blindness to Darcy’s true nature annoys him.
But Bennet is too good-humored to remain peeved for long, and although his disappointment that Georgia didn’t show is keen, he doesn’t dwell on it. The party is a brilliant success, with the ballroom overflowing with people and colors—powder blue curtains, deep-purple lilies, neon yellow orchids, bright pink cocktails—and the lovely strains of the orchestra spilling onto the wraparound terrace. The hors d’oeuvres, bite-sized creations that look more like artwork than food, pass generously and frequently through the glittering crowd, and Bennet smiles when he notices Lydon firmly stationed in front of the door through which the trays travel. When he was a recent grad, he’d done the exact same thing.
Although Bennet doesn’t have to work the party, he still has to work the room, and he slowly but methodically seeks out donors. He has whiskey with a hedge fund manager on the terrace, dances the waltz with the CEO of a pet-food company and trades golfing tips with the daughter of a computer chip maker. Later, while waiting at the bar for a much-needed drink, he has the unexpected pleasure of talking about Georgia with one of her colleagues. She’s universally liked, he learns, which doesn’t surprise him in the least.
With a glass of Syrah and a plate of beautifully presented gourmet appetizers, Bennet finds a quiet corner from which to assess the current state of affairs. As far as his check list of important people goes, he’s marked off every name, including spouses, which is a testament, he supposes, to being a guest at an event rather than part guest and part organizer. He’s wondering if he should make a second round of small talk—Lila Trudeau loves badminton as well as golf—when suddenly Darcy is beside him requesting a dance.
Stunned, Bennet says yes.
The orchestra is playing a waltz, and as Bennet takes Darcy into his arms, he notices the open-jawed amazement on Meryton’s face. Their neighbors on the dance floor, unaware of their track record, pay them no heed.
They dance for some time without speaking a word, and Bennet wonders if the silence will last for the entire song. So be it, he thinks, resolving not to break it. But then he realizes that forcing her to engage in meaningless chatter would be a greater punishment and makes a slight observation about the orchestra.
Darcy replies and immediately falls silent.
Bennet waits a full minute, then says, “It’s your turn to say something. I talked about the orchestra so you should say something about the size of the room or the quality of the food.”
“A script,” she says with an approving smile. “Very well. The squid ink paella is just as delicious as I remember.”
“Topical and a reference to an earlier conversation. Well done! That comment should keep us for a while. In a few minutes, I’ll say something about the view of the George Washington Bridge from the terrace being spectacular. You might want to be prepared with a reply about traffic on the GW during rush hour. It’s horrendous during rush hour—and, actually, at most hours of the day—in case you’ve never experienced the displeasure firsthand.”
“Do you always talk while dancing?” she asks with a
tilt of her head.
“Of course. As a fundraising professional, I’m obligated to interact with people. If I didn’t say anything at all, it would seem odd. I’ve found that sometimes it’s best to figure out the conversation in advance to take off the pressure to be interesting.”
“Is that how you feel or how you imagine I feel?” Darcy asks.
“Both,” Bennet replies archly, “because we’re so much alike. We’re both unsocial, taciturn and unwilling to speak unless we can say something so clever it will amaze the room and be repeated for years to come.”
“That doesn’t sound like you at all,” she says. “I don’t think it sounds like me either, but clearly I can’t be trusted to judge. You seem to think it bears a striking resemblance.”
“Me?” Bennet says, feigning surprise. “I would never presume to judge a donor.”
Darcy doesn’t answer and they’re silent until the song ends, at which time Bennet fully expects to return to his quiet corner. But rather than walk away, Darcy asks if Art & Style is ready for its opening in three days.
“It’s very close, close enough that the reviewer from the Times was able to get a sneak peak this afternoon,” he says. “A few details still need to be worked out, but I’m sure the design team will have them finalized in plenty of time. The freelance firm the museum hired is top-notch. Bingley was kind enough to invite them tonight. I believe you know one of the designers. I’d just met her the day you dropped by the museum with Bingley, but we’ve become fast friends.”
The effect is immediate. Darcy’s features harden into an expression of sharp dislike, but she doesn’t say a word, and Bennet, bound by the demands of his profession, can’t press his advantage.
After a moment, Darcy speaks and in a brusque tone says, “Georgia has an easygoing manner and is very good at making friends. Whether she’s just as capable of keeping them is less certain.”
“She has had the rotten luck of losing your friendship,” Bennet says with emphasis, “and in a way that’s likely to hurt her for years to come.”
Darcy doesn’t answer and seems to want to change the subject. At that moment, the music stops and the orchestra announces it will be taking a brief break. Immediately, soft music from the stereo system fills the air. Over the din of conversation, Meryton’s voice rises as he assures Samuel Litchfield, the head of a Hollywood movie studio, whom he had not met above an hour ago, that Bingley’s association with the museum will be long and intimate.
“Her interest is personal, you see, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she and one of my most devoted employees made their association permanent very soon,” Meryton crows.
Bennet winces at his employer’s complete lack of discretion and cringes further when Darcy, forcibly struck by the comment, searches out Bingley and John, who are sharing a table.
Recovering herself, however, she turns to Bennet and says, “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to recall what we were talking about.”
“We weren’t talking at all,” he says. “I don’t think there are two people in the room who have less to say to each other. We’ve tried two or three topics already and the most success we’ve had is with the GW Bridge. I can’t imagine what we can attempt next.”
“What about books?” Darcy asks, smiling gamely. “A well-read donor must be a boon to the fundraising professional.”
Bennet shakes his head as they move away from the dance floor. “I’m sure everything I loved, you hated.”
“Even better. We can each rabidly defend our points of view.”
“Fundraising professionals don’t rabidly defend anything,” he explains. “We agree with donors, regardless of personal opinion.”
“But I’m not a donor,” she says, “so you can tell me the name of the last book you read without fear of any inappropriate stance taking.”
But Bennet can’t access the information in such a setting—tuxedos, kirtinis, exotic flowers, patrons of the arts—and apologizes for being too distracted. One of the things distracting him, or, rather, the largest thing, is Darcy herself and her cruelty toward Georgia. He wants to confront her directly, for hinting at the matter has not drawn forth any satisfying information, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. The heir to the Fitzwilliam fortune is not a patron whose goodwill he’s courting, and yet he still feels compelled to smooth feathers, not ruffle them.
So he says, “It must be nice.”
Darcy’s brow furrows, as if she’s trying to recall a book with that title. “Excuse me?”
“It must be nice to be so confident in your opinions,” Bennet says. “Remember, a few weeks ago, when you said you never let go of a grudge? I was just thinking it must be nice to know you’re right. To never doubt yourself. To never worry that you might have been blinded by prejudice.”
“I’m very cautious and don’t form grudges easily.”
“See? There’s that confidence again. How can you be so sure?” Bennet asks.
Darcy tilts her head curiously. “Where’s this conversation going? I feel like I’m being led somewhere but I can’t see the path.”
“Nowhere,” Bennet answers with a shrug. “I’m just trying to get a better picture of you—for the department’s files, of course.”
“And how’s that going?”
He shakes his head. “Fuzzy. Very fuzzy. I’ve heard too many conflicting stories to get a clear sense of your character.”
“I’m sure reports of me vary greatly,” she says seriously, “but I’d be grateful if you left the file incomplete.”
“An incomplete file?” Bennet says with an exaggerated shudder. “Oh, the horror. No, I really must continue. This might be my only chance.”
“In that case, please do,” she says coldly.
But Bennet doesn’t continue, and when they reach the far wall, near the staircase, they part in silence, both dissatisfied with the exchange, though not to an equal degree. Darcy, whose feelings for him are strong, soon excuses his behavior and directs all her anger toward Georgia.
They haven’t been separated long—Bennet’s scarcely had time to procure another glass of wine—when Carl corners him near the terrace doors.
“So, Bennet, I hear you’re hanging out with Georgia Wickham these days. Your brother’s been asking me a dozen questions about her. I bet she didn’t mention that she’s the daughter of the old Pemberley housekeeper. You shouldn’t trust a word the old girl says. She tells anyone who’ll listen that Darcy abused her horribly, but it’s bullshit. Darcy was always decent to her, and Georgia repayed her with a betrayal so awful Darcy can’t bring herself to talk about it. I don’t know the details, but I do know Darcy isn’t to blame, and my sister, who is too kind to exclude Georgia from a blanket invitation to her design firm, was relieved that she found something else to do tonight. I’m sorry if the truth upsets you.”
“What truth?” Bennet snaps. “All you’ve accused her of is being the daughter of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s housekeeper, and that, I assure you, she did tell me.”
Carl looks at him with sneering pity. “Well, I tried to help you. Now you’re on your own.”
“Condescending snob,” Bennet mutters to himself as he watches Bingley’s brother storm through the terrace doors, amazed at the other man’s attempt to influence him with such a paltry attack. Trying to be helpful, is he? Bennet shakes his head in disgust. The only thing Carl Bingston is, is the willfully ignorant dogsbody of Darcy Fitzwilliam.
Inhaling sharply, Bennet decides to seek out John to find out what, if anything, he’s learned about Georgia from Bingley. He finds him in the living room, sitting on the sofa next to their host, and the expression of happiness on his face, the glow of pleasure and joy, removes everything else from Bennet’s mind. He feels confident that Meryton’s estimation of the situation is entirely accurate. Bingley’s connection to the Longbourn Collection is deep and personal.
When he can pull John away—and he doesn’t so much as pull John away as catch him when Bingley releases him�
�he asks if he’s discovered anything interesting about Georgia.
“I’ve nothing satisfactory to report,” John says. “Bingley doesn’t know the whole story and is entirely ignorant of what Georgia did to offend Darcy, but she swears Darcy has done nothing wrong and is convinced Georgia is a nightmare. According to Bingley and her brother, she deserves everything she’s gotten.”
“So Bingley doesn’t know Georgia herself?”
“Nope. Never saw her until the other day at the Longbourn.”
“Did she say anything about the shares?”
“She doesn’t remember the details, but she vaguely recalls something about Georgia being named in the will.”
Bennet nods slowly as he digests the information. Although he finds Bingley’s defense of her friend admirable—and to her credit—he’s still not convinced of its merit. Bingley knows some of the story but not all of it, and what she does know, she learned from Darcy herself. Surely, such unreliable evidence isn’t enough to overturn the verdict he’s already arrived at.
No, he decides firmly, it’s definitely not.
Bingley immediately joins them again, sliding her arm through John’s as she announces she has to steal him for a few moments. “The director of grants for the Ford Foundation is asking for you by name,” she says, “and I must deliver.”
Although Bennet himself would not mind an introduction to the director of grants for the Ford Foundation, he nods easily and watches them disappear into the crowd. Then he returns to the ballroom, where Julian Martindale and his wife are sampling toro from the sushi bar. They’re both delighted with the affair—and not just because the tuna belly is the best Audrey has ever had, though that does weigh heavily with her, most definitely more than the kirtinis, which are also excellent—and Julian announces that Venture Marts is one hundred percent on board with the Bauhaus exhibit.
