Prejudice & Pride

by Lynn Messina

  In the intervals of her discourse with Collin, she addresses a variety of questions to Bennet, of whom she knows nothing. She asks him how many brothers he has, whether they’re older or younger than himself, whether any of them are married, whether they’re gainfully employed, whether they’re handsome, where they’ve been educated, what kind of car his father drives and what his mother’s maiden name had been.

  Although Bennet concedes the validity of some of the questions, for asking about one’s siblings is a conversational standard, even in Michigan, he finds the majority of her queries nosy and it requires considerable effort on his part to calmly reply that Dad drives a Prius. He’s more inclined to tell her it’s none of her damn business.

  Bearing no particular allegiance to fossil fuels, Lady Catherine applauds the efficiency of a hybrid while questioning his parents’ need for economy. She’s speculating on their profligate spending habits—“You did say the house had three full baths, did you not?”—when the door opens to admit the missing dinner guests.

  Darcy enters followed by her cousin, a blond woman of about thirty years with long, tanned limbs and a grateful smile. Bennet, not anticipating this development, rises slowly to his feet and examines Darcy critically, noting she looks just as she had in the city.

  Bennet is unsure what he wants to say to her—naturally, he wants to challenge her on the matter of Bingley, but he knows to confront her directly in her aunt’s drawing room would be a gross faux pas—and is spared the necessity of talking by Lady Catherine, who immediately admonishes her new guests on the lateness of their arrival.

  Having failed to take her advice on the superiority of the railroad over the expressway, the two women are now obliged to listen to a recitation of the many ghastly traffic jams through which their aunt has had to suffer. Although egregiously abused by Suffolk County roads in particular, she doesn’t limit her account by geographic relevance, and relates, in vivid detail, intolerable gridlock in Marseille caused by a visiting dignitary from Rome who may or may not have been the pope.

  Collin leans over to Bennet and says softly, “Isn’t she fabulous?”

  Bennet isn’t quite sure fabulous is the right adjective to describe Catherine de Bourgh, for she is more pedant than orator, but he understands her appeal for Collin. There is something rather epic in her ostentatious display of trivialities.

  When her nieces have been suitably chastised, Lady Catherine announces that dinner has been held long enough and begins to worry that their poor decision-making skills have adversely affected the béarnaise sauce, a concern that wasn’t on her radar during the whole of her seventeen-minute lecture.

  By and by, the party is shown to the dining room, where Catherine oversees the placement of her guests, assuring that Bennet finally has the pleasure of meeting Darcy’s cousin Celia Fitzwilliam. They enter into conversation directly, and he likes her right away. She’s easy to talk to and has a nice, open manner.

  Darcy is quiet during dinner, adding only a slight observation on the house and garden to one of Collin’s comments.

  The dinner is exceedingly lavish, with a generous assortment of plates of food presented by somber servants. Collin, seated at his aunt’s elbow, praises everything with delighted alacrity. Although fewer than half the dishes are available to him because of dietary restrictions, he commends each one in a manner of such exaggerated obsequiousness Bennet wonders how his aunt can bear it. But Lady Catherine seems gratified by his excessive admiration and smiles most graciously, especially when any dish proves to be a novelty to him.

  A servant is centering a cheeseboard on the table when Catherine turns her attention to Bennet and resumes her earlier interrogation, delving further into the careers of his father and mother and trying to ascertain the skills and talents of him and his brothers.

  “Do you play, Mr. Bethle?”

  “Play what?” he asks.

  “The piano,” she says, as if explaining the obvious. “Do you play the piano? And do you sing?”

  “A little,” he says.

  “Later we shall be happy to hear you play. Our instrument is a capital one. Do your brothers play and sing?”

  “One of them does.”

  “Why did you not all learn? Your parents should have made sure you all learned. The Miss Webbs all have well-rounded educations, and their father’s income isn’t as good as yours.”

  Bennet isn’t sure how his father’s income was calculated, nor how it was inserted into the conversation, but he’s positive it’s no business of Lady Catherine’s. Darcy, he notes, seems to agree—she looks a little embarrassed by her aunt’s ill breeding.

  Before he can address the comment, Collins says, “The Webbs are Aunt’s neighbors in Vail. Do you not know them?” His eyes are wide with feigned curiosity. Obviously, he knows the answer.

  Lady Catherine makes a moue of disgust at this condescending explanation and continues her interrogation. “Do you draw?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “What, none of you?”

  “Not one,” he says without appearing the least bit repentant for this grave oversight in his education.

  “That’s very strange. Did your tutor have no talent?”

  “We never had a tutor.”

  “No tutor! How was that possible?”

  “We went to school.”

  “You mean public school?” she asks, as if simultaneously intrigued and appalled by the concept. “Were there no sufficient private schools in your area? Surely, your father could afford the investment—or didn’t he think you were worth it?”

  At this second mention of his family’s financial status, Bennet imagines a head-to-head battle between the brazen society matron and Mr. Meryton, a hotly contested showdown to see who can make the most inappropriate observations about money, wealth and power. Amused by these thoughts, he says calmly, “Despite the disadvantages of my upbringing, I’ve managed to cultivate a deep and abiding appreciation for art and I now work in an art museum to ensure that others can as well.”

  “Art museums serve a function,” Lady Catherine allows cautiously. “At which one do you work?”

  “The Longbourn.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Bennet nods. “It’s the collection of wealthy industrialist Cyrus Longbourn. The museum was established by a trust when he died in 1913.”

  “I’ve never heard of him either.”

  “Oh, but you have, darling,” Collin says with a grin. “I’ve been volunteering there for months. I’m sure I mentioned it.”

  She considers her nephew silently for several moments, then fixes her gaze on Bennet. “That monstrosity in Queens?”

  “Yes,” he says with satisfaction, “that monstrosity in Queens.”

  “And what do you do at this monstrosity?”

  “I work in the development department.”

  Although this answer displeases her, it actually gives her a great deal of joy, providing her with an opportunity to offer advice on the behavior and performance of institutional development projects, with which she has an intimate familiarity. Suffering through an endless string of proposals, pitches and propositions has allowed her to cultivate an opinion on every stage of a fundraising campaign down to the selection of the font for the prospectus, and she generously bestows the wisdom of her experience on Bennet.

  Then she says, “I’m on the board of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “What sort of art does this monstrosity—what do you call it?”

  “The Longbourn,” he supplies.

  “What kind of art does the Longbourn exhibit?”

  “Mostly Impressionism,” he says. “We have one of the best collections of Impressionists in the world.”

  Catherine scoffs. “I don’t believe in Impressionism.”

  “My aunt is a fan of representational art,” Darcy says.

  Bennet is surprised—she’s barely acknowledged his presence
before now. She and her cousin have both been fairly quiet during the meal, and he wonders if their silence is for his benefit or their aunt’s.

  “Paintings should bear a close resemblance to what they portray,” Lady Catherine explains. “A seaside should be represented as a seaside, with all its features clearly delineated and immediately recognizable. Dots are for Dalmatians and children with chicken pox. Aristotle with a Bust of Homer by Rembrandt, The Death of Socrates by David, Madonna and Child by Duccio—these are masterful and precise and create within the bosom of the observer precisely the appropriate feelings. That is art.”

  Speaking diplomatically, Bennet says, “Without question, those are all great works of art, and, though I’d hesitate to suggest that there’s a particular way in which art is supposed to make one feel, they do indeed evoke a particular sensation. My definition of art, however, is more expansive. I think there’s a mastery in capturing the transient effect of sunlight on a rambling brook or wind blowing across a plain. Perhaps you should reconsider your opinion on Impressionism. The Met has an outstanding collection.”

  “Upon my word,” Catherine says, “you give your opinion very freely for a man in your position.”

  “What position is that?” he asks with more than a hint of disingenuousness.

  “Beggar at the feast. Are you not here to cultivate my patronage?”

  “I’m not, ma’am, no,” he says simply, aware that it’s the truth. He never actually believed Lady Catherine de Bourgh would take to him or the Longbourn. “I’m here because my friend Collin invited me to get away from the city for the weekend. If you’d like to have your patronage cultivated, please make an appointment with my brother John. He’s in charge of individual giving.”

  Lady Catherine seems quite astonished at not receiving the deference due her status, and Bennet suspects he’s the first person who’s ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.

  Delighted with the exchange, Collin gives him a thumbs up, a not-so-subtle gesture his aunt observes and immediately criticizes—not for the rudeness of its implication but for the inferiority of its execution: One should not overrotate the distal phalange.

  “Like this, Aunt Catherine?” Celia asks with a cheeky grin, as she also gives Bennet her approval.

  Darcy remains silent, but Bennet thinks he detects a lightening of her countenance.

  After the cheese course, the party returns to the drawing room for coffee, and while Catherine is engrossed in conversation with Darcy and Collin answers texts, Celia sits down next to Bennet. They talk of the Hamptons and New York, of traveling and staying home, of new books and bands with so much spirit and flow they draw the attention of Catherine and Darcy. Darcy’s eyes had frequently turned toward them with a look of curiosity; that her aunt, after a while, shared the feeling is not in doubt, for she doesn’t scruple to interrupt.

  “What’s that you’re saying, Celia?” she calls out. “What is it you’re talking about? What are you telling Mr. Bethle? Let me hear what it is.”

  Unable to avoid a reply, her niece says, “We’re talking about music.”

  “Music! Then do speak louder. It’s one of my favorite subjects. I must participate in the conversation if you’re talking about music. There are few people on the East Coast, I suppose, who enjoy music more than I do or have a better natural taste. If I’d ever studied, I should have been a great proficient. And so would my children, if I’d had any. They would have performed delightfully. How does George get on, Darcy?”

  Darcy, speaking with affectionate praise of her brother’s proficiency, announces that he finished at the London conservatory in June and will start Juilliard in the fall.

  “I’m glad to hear he’s doing so well,” Lady Catherine says, “and do tell him for me that he can’t expect to excel if he doesn’t practice a great deal.”

  “I assure you, ma’am,” Darcy says, “he doesn’t need such advice. He’s had the importance of practice drilled into him since the age of four, when he was discovered to have a great natural talent for music.”

  “So much the better. It can’t be done too much,” she says, “and when I talk to him next, I’ll reinforce the message. I often tell young people that no excellence can be acquired without constant practice. That goes for you, Mr. Bethle, and your playing, as well. I haven’t forgotten you said you played a little. Perhaps now would be a good time to start improving?”

  Imagining there’s very little Lady Catherine forgets, Bennet thanks her for her interest and suggests he should first perhaps practice in private. It’s been years since he last played, and although he’s confident he can cobble together something recognizable, he’s not sure his audience would enjoy it. Celia dismisses his refusal as mere modesty and insists that he play.

  “If I were being modest,” he says, sitting down at the instrument, “I would have said I don’t play. This is pure recklessness, and I’m sure you’ll live to regret it.”

  Celia scoffs again and pulls a chair closer to the piano.

  Bennet starts with scales to familiarize himself with the instrument and is relieved to discover he still has the basics down pat. A few moments later, he launches into “Fur Elise,” the bane and balm of all beginning piano players. Lady Catherine listens to half of the song and then talks, as before, to her other niece until the latter excuses herself. Moving with her usual deliberation toward the piano, Darcy stations herself next to Bennet.

  He sees what she’s doing, and at the first convenient pause, turns to her with an arch smile and says, “You’re trying to throw me off by staring at me while I play. But I will not be unnerved, even if your brother is training to be a professional and I went to public school. I’m stubborn and don’t intimidate easily.”

  Darcy rests her elbow on the piano. “It won’t work.”

  “What?” Bennet asks, amused.

  “Provoking me into an argument. I’m on to your game now.”

  “What game?”

  “You like to say things you don’t mean just to get a rise out of people.”

  Bennet laughs at this description of himself and says, “How am I going to make a good impression on your cousin if you go around revealing my true character? You should be careful or I might retaliate. Then your cousin will truly be shocked.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Darcy says, smiling.

  “Do tell,” Celia says. “I should love nothing more than to be shocked by Darcy’s behavior.”

  “Very well,” Bennet says, “but prepare yourself for something truly dreadful. The first time I met Darcy was at the Longbourn’s gala fundraiser, where she coldly rebuked every offer to dance.”

  “Well, saying no is a woman’s prerogative,” Celia points out thoughtfully.

  He nods. “True, and I would deny no woman her prerogatives. But if you could just imagine the scene: a dozen adoring young men girding their nerve to request the honor of a single dance with your beautiful cousin and she rejecting them all with an abrupt shake of her head like a Roman emperor in the Colosseum turning his thumb down—perfectly rotated, of course.”

  “I didn’t know any of them,” Darcy explains.

  “Right, and nobody can ever be introduced at a party,” Bennet says. “Well, Celia, what shall I play next? ‘Chopsticks’? Or maybe you prefer ‘Chopsticks.’ Which would be less grating to your nerves? My fingers await your orders.”

  “Perhaps I could have handled it better,” Darcy says, “but I’m not good with strangers.”

  “Should we ask your cousin the reason for this?” Bennet says, still addressing Celia. “Should we ask her why a sophisticated woman with a first-class education and every advantage of birth is unable to interact with strangers?”

  “I know the answer to that one,” Celia says. “It’s because she doesn’t try.”

  “Conversing easily with strangers is a talent I don’t possess,” Darcy says. “I know other people excel at it, but I do not.”

  “I know other people ca
n play this piano better than I—I’ve heard them,” Bennet says reasonably. “But I also know it’s not the instrument’s fault that I’m so terrible; it’s my own for not practicing.”

  Darcy smiles and says, “You’re perfectly right. Neither one of us performs for strangers.”

  Before he can respond, Lady Catherine interrupts to ask what they’re talking about now. Bennet immediately launches into an alarmingly enthusiastic rendition of “Chopsticks.” Her ladyship approaches, and after listening for a few minutes, makes copious remarks on the quality of his performance, mixing with them many instructions on execution and taste. Bennet receives them with all the forbearance he has, and when he can no longer suffer it politely, indicates with a speaking glance to Collin that it’s time to go.

  His host readily agrees and makes an extravagant good-bye to his aunt, who expects nothing less.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Collin leaves Bennet a basket of muffins, three sections of the New York Times and a note apologizing for the sparse selection in muffins and newspaper sections. Undaunted, he makes himself comfortable in the kitchen with a steaming mug of rich coffee and a generously buttered muffin. The newspaper turns out to be three weeks old, but the article on teacher evaluations in city schools is interesting. The debate over high-stakes testing has yet to be resolved.

  All in all, he’s perfectly satisfied with his morning.

  The sun is beating down with its usual ferocity, but the oppressive heat of July is tempered by the ocean breeze blowing gently through the window. He thinks about what he’ll do first—take a walk, lounge on the beach, go for a swim—while wondering if he’ll ever move from this chair.