Prejudice & Pride

by Lynn Messina

  With every word she utters, Bennet feels his compassion melting away until it dissolves completely into a fit of anger. Even as his resentment grows, he resolves to remain calm and let her down easy when she finishes her speech. She concludes by citing the fact that she’s speaking now, despite all her oaths to say nothing, as proof of her affection, and by expressing her hope that they can spend time together in a couple-like fashion. Maybe dinner at a restaurant in East Hampton? Lobster, perhaps, if he has no objection to shellfish?

  Darcy speaks of apprehension and anxiety, but her manner reflects no uncertainty. Such confidence only angers Bennet further, and when she finally stops, his shoulders stiffen and he says, “I’m sure there’s a proper protocol for how one should behave in a situation like this, but I don’t know it. I should probably express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed and thank you for your feelings. But I won’t do that because I’m not thankful. Neither one of us wanted this, you clearly no more than I. I’m sorry if my response hurts you, I really am, but I’m confident the pain will quickly go away. Considering how reluctantly you’ve succumbed to your feelings, I’m sure you’ll overcome them easily enough.”

  Darcy, leaning against the mantelpiece with her eyes fixed on his face, is at once surprised and resentful. Her face becomes pale with anger—turmoil is visible in every feature. Struggling for the appearance of composure, she doesn’t open her lips until she’s certain she has attained it.

  After a pause, she says in a voice of forced calm, “You’re very angry. Can I ask why you’ve decided to be so mean in your rejection?”

  “You can,” he says, “but only if I can ask why, with every intent on offending and insulting me, you decided to tell me that you liked me against your will and better judgment? That’s justification enough for my own callousness. But I have other reasons, and you know it. Even if I didn’t already dislike you, do you honestly think I’d give the time of day to the woman who has made my brother miserable?”

  As he says these words, Darcy changes color. She listens without attempting to interrupt.

  “I have every reason to think the worst of you. There isn’t a single thing you can say to justify what you did to Bingley and John. Despite their growing feelings for each other, you broke them up to ensure nothing came of it. Can you deny it?”

  Bennet pauses, and watching her, realizes with no small indignation that she isn’t the least bit remorseful. She even smiles at him with affected incredulity.

  “Can you deny it?” he asks again.

  With an assumed calm that requires some effort, she replies, “I don’t want to deny that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your brother or that I’m glad I succeeded. I should have done myself the same favor.”

  Bennet pretends not to hear the insult and says, “It’s not only the way you callously and calculatingly broke my brother’s heart that makes me dislike you so much. I learned all about you months ago from Georgia Wickham. What favor were you doing for a friend on that occasion?”

  Now she’s less tranquil and, as her flush deepens, she says, “You’re very interested in her life.”

  “I am,” he concedes, “as anyone would be who has heard her terrible story.”

  “Her terrible story!” Darcy jeers with contempt. “Oh, yes, her story is very terrible indeed!”

  “It’s all your fault,” Bennet says scathingly. “You deprived her of the inheritance left to her by your own mother, and now you mock her misery.”

  “And this,” Darcy says as she walks with quick steps across the room, “is what you think of me! Thank you for explaining it so fully. Clearly, I’m an awful person.” She stops pacing and turns to look at him. “But perhaps you wouldn’t have minded my faults so much if I hadn’t insulted you by explaining honestly the evolution of my feelings. This entire exchange might have been avoided if I’d simply flattered your ego by saying I eagerly welcomed the attraction I felt. I’m sorry your feelings were hurt, but can you honestly blame me for having reservations about a relationship with someone whose station in life is so beneath my own? Your education, your family, your career are not what I envision for myself.”

  Bennet feels himself grow even more angry—an impressive feat considering how livid he already is—and it takes everything he has to speak calmly. “You’re wrong if you believe that the way you declared your feelings has anything to do with my reaction. All it did was let me off the hook. If you had behaved more like a decent human being, I’d have felt bad about refusing you.”

  He sees her start at this, but she says nothing, so he continues, “You could not have made this offer in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

  Again, her astonishment is obvious, and she looks at him with incredulity mingled with mortification. He goes on: “From the very beginning, from the very first moment I met you, I’ve been appalled by your arrogance, your conceit, your behavior, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others. Those traits formed the foundation of my dislike, which succeeding events have only made stronger.”

  “That’s enough,” Darcy says. “I understand your feelings and am now embarrassed by my own. Forgive me for taking up so much of your time and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

  With these words, she quickly leaves the house, and Bennet hears her pull the door forcefully behind her.

  As soon as she’s gone, the enormity of the episode strikes him and he finds himself replaying it moment by moment. The more he thinks about it, the more stunned he becomes. To have received such a proposal from Darcy—to discover she’s been in love with him for months, so much so as to wish to establish a relationship, which she had prevented her friend from doing—is incredible. It is gratifying, he realizes, to have inspired such strong affection without meaning to do so. But the satisfaction he feels at the compliment is fleeting, immediately supplanted by disgust for everything else: her ridiculous pride, her shameless acknowledgment of what she did to John, her inexcusable satisfaction in claiming it and her mocking cruelty toward Georgia.

  Agitated by these reflections, Bennet dashes upstairs to change into his running clothes again and hits the beach at full force, even though the sun is still directly overhead and the peanut butter sandwich he’d intended to eat for lunch is lying half made on the kitchen counter. In the upheaval of Darcy’s visit, he forgets all about it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bennet wakes at the first light of dawn still marveling over the events of the previous day, and unable to fall back to sleep, decides to go for an early-morning jog. After yesterday’s regime of exhausting exercise, he barely has the energy for another run and yet he has too much energy. He needs to do something to burn off the agitation.

  By the time he returns to the Parsonage, the sun has fully risen, but his host is still asleep and Bennet makes himself comfortable at the kitchen table with a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast. He sips his coffee; answers texts from his mother, Lydon, John and an old college friend who’ll be in the city the following week; and logs into his email. Naturally, there are a half a dozen new messages from Meryton, each one with its subject line using more capital letters and followed by more exclamation points than the last. In person Meryton is very easy to distinguish from a teenage girl, but over email the difference grows disconcertingly vague.

  The majority of new messages are from his boss, and the rest are from various associates: Hannah in special events, Evan in the registrar’s office, Alexis in curatorial, Darcy Fitzwilliam, Julian Martindale from—

  Immediately, his eyes track back up to the previous line and he confirms he read it correctly. Darcy had indeed sent him an email earlier that morning.

  As curious as he is apprehensive, he clicks on the message and begins to read.

  Don’t worry. I have no intention of pestering you further with my feelings. I think it’s best that we both forget yesterday as soon as possible. The only reason I’m writing now is
to address the charges laid at my door, which, I’m afraid, I simply can’t let stand. I spent the entire night trying to let it go, but my character compels me to try to exonerate myself where possible.

  Regarding the matter of your brother and Bingley—yes, I noticed right away that Bingley was very taken with your brother and enjoyed flirting with him. I didn’t think anything of it until the night of the ball, because I’ve seen Bingley not only flirt with dozens of handsome men but fall in love with them too. It’s what she does. Then, on the night of the ball, I heard your boss, Mr. Meryton, say with satisfaction that John had succeeded so well in charming Bingley that he expected them to announce their engagement soon. From that moment, I observed my friend very carefully and noticed that what she felt for John was different from her light flirtations in the past. I could see that her emotions were truly engaged this time. I also watched your brother closely for indications of how he felt. He was as cheerful and engaging as ever but treated Bingley no differently than he treated any of the other women in the room. It seemed to me that he was in work mode, which required him to be equally charming to all female donors. Naturally, you know your brother better than I, and if you insist my actions caused him pain, then it must be true, in which case your anger with me is entirely understandable. But I’m compelled to say that even the most acute observer would’ve failed to perceive the depth of his feelings, so well were they hidden. My objections to the marriage were not just those I mentioned yesterday, though they, of course, stand. My biggest concern was that Bingley had fallen for a man who would marry her for her money regardless of how he felt about her personally. I’m sure that makes you angry to hear, but I won’t apologize for drawing the only conclusion available to me at the time. The data seemed conclusive, especially in light of the comments Mr. Meryton made as well as things your own younger brother said.

  At this point, I felt obligated to act, especially after I discovered that Bingley’s brothers had the same concern. After a brief discussion, we decided we had to move quickly, so we followed Bingley to London, where I pointed out with all necessary frankness the many ways your brother was an unsuitable match for her. My opinion would not have mattered to Bingley had I not also been able to convince her of your brother’s indifference, which came as a great disappointment because she’d believed her feelings to be reciprocated. Over the years, Bingley has piled up many romantic disasters and, no longer trusting herself, has come to rely on my judgment. To convince her that she had misread the situation required very little effort, and she naturally agreed she shouldn’t return to New York for a while.

  That’s the extent of my participation in the matter, but do let me point out that your brother did not try to contact Bingley. He made no attempt to explain either in writing or in person how he felt about her, nor did he question her sudden lack of interest. This calm acceptance of her behavior only reaffirmed for all of us his lack of interest. In light of this evidence, I can’t apologize for my actions because they appeared to be correct.

  With respect to the other, more weighty accusation of having deprived Georgia Wickham of the inheritance left to her by my mother, all I can do is tell you it’s absolutely not true. Georgia is the daughter of the wonderful woman who oversaw the running of Pemberley for my family. She grew up in the house with me, and my mother, caring for her greatly, happily supported her education, paying for private school in the city and footing the expense of Rhode Island School of Design. It was necessary because Mrs. Wickham, whose husband had a gambling problem, would never have been able to pay for either. My mother was not only very fond of Georgia, whose company she enjoyed, but believed strongly in her talent and thought she would be a great artist one day. I would agree about her talent, but it has been many years since I found her company enjoyable. Being in school with her allowed me to see a side to her that my mother never did, and I found her vicious, vindictive, scheming and mean.

  My mother died five years ago, and as fond as ever of Georgia, she left her 1,000 shares in Fitzwilliam, intending for her to use the dividends from the stocks to subsidize her career as an artist. The income would be modest but sufficient. Georgia’s own mother died soon after, and immediately after the funeral, Georgia told me that she’d rather have a lump sum than the stocks themselves and requested that I buy them from her at a generous price. She had a plan, she explained, to go to Paris to study and paint, and while I doubted her intention to follow through on it, I was perfectly happy to agree to her wishes. I gave her $400,000 dollars and considered our association at an end. She did go to Paris, as she’d planned, but rather than study, she burned through the money. Three years later, broke and in debt, she got in touch with me to request the return of her shares, which, she argued, I’d swindled her out of by taking advantage of her grief over her mother’s death. Surely, she said, I couldn’t ignore my dear mother’s wishes. You can hardly blame me for not complying with this request or for denying it the dozens of times she reiterated it. My refusal infuriated her, and I don’t doubt she disparaged me to anyone who would listen. Eventually, she gave up and disappeared. I didn’t know where she went or what she did for money and I didn’t care. I was just relieved not to have to deal with her. Then, last summer, she resurfaced in the most awful way possible.

  As you know, I have a brother George. Since he’s ten years younger than me, I was made his guardian. George is a very gifted pianist and has just finished his studies at a prestigious conservatory in London. Last July, he went to Ramsgate to spend the summer with a friend’s family. The Younges are lovely people but hardly sophisticated, and when Georgia made a great show of “bumping” into her old friend George, they happily welcomed her into their home. Through this contrivance, Georgia grew very close to my brother, who, naturally, remembered her from his childhood as the funny, kind girl who would take him to the park or to Serendipity for ice cream. Georgia managed to convince him not only that he was in love with her but also that the only way they could be together would be to elope, because I’d never approve of the relationship. Given that George was only seventeen at the time, I would not have approved of any serious relationship with anyone, let alone marriage. Still, George was set on it, but then I happened to drop by Ramsgate the morning of their intended flight, and George, wracked with guilt, confessed everything to me. Georgia at once made herself scarce, and the Younges were mortified by what they let happen right under their noses. Make no mistake: Georgia’s goal was to get her hands on my brother’s fortune, which is equal to my own, but I’m sure revenging herself on me was also a strong motivation. Her revenge would have been complete indeed.

  This is, I swear to you, the truth about my association with Georgia Wickham, but if you still need corroboration, you can ask Celia, who, as one of the executors of my mother’s will, knows every detail of the sordid story. She’ll be happy to confirm what I’ve told you. That said, I hope you will take me at my word and acquit me of any cruelty toward her. I’m not surprised you believed her—you had no reason not to. I apologize for not explaining all of this yesterday, but my thoughts were in too much of a jumble to be articulated clearly.

  I appreciate your taking the time to read this letter.

  Sincerely,

  Darcy Fitzwilliam

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bennet is not swayed. Indeed, he’s entirely unmoved by the claim that John appeared to be wholly indifferent to Bingley at the Netherfield ball. Clearly, the interfering friend had seen only what she’d wanted to see, and, having her wishes obligingly fulfilled, felt justified in her actions. She all but called his brother a gigolo, a description that incites Bennet to fury, and expressed no regret at all for that. Her tone wasn’t penitent but arrogant. It was all pride and insolence.

  But when the subject switches to Georgia Wickham, to a truly horrifying account of immorality and greed, Bennet no longer knows what to think. His instinct is to reject every detail, and as he reads through the seemingly endless block of text, he mutters und
er his breath a series of denials: “This is ridiculous!” “This can’t be true!” “She’s lying!” When he’s finished reading the message, he turns off his phone and puts it at the other end of the table, determined not to think about it anymore.

  And yet, thirty seconds later, he’s reaching across the table and flicking on the device to read the passage about Georgia again. Determined to consider the information dispassionately, he examines the meaning of every sentence. Darcy’s account of Georgia’s relationship with the Fitzwilliams matches Georgia’s own account perfectly, including the kindness of Darcy’s mother. But as soon as the women get to the will, their stories diverge wildly. With Georgia’s words still fresh in his mind, Bennet is inclined to accept her version of events—he doesn’t want to believe he can be so easily deceived. Also weighing in Georgia’s column is Darcy herself, whose intolerant air makes her version of anything harder to accept.

  But it’s possible, Bennet thinks as he reads and rereads the email, that I might be a little prejudiced against the horrible woman.

  Keeping that bias sharply in mind, he considers the facts once more, this time resolving to be truly dispassionate. The first thing he acknowledges is that he doesn’t know anything about Georgia that she herself hasn’t told him. She is, without question, a great person to be around—funny and thoughtful and gracious—but charm does not equal character. He need look no further than his brother Lydon for proof of that. Next, he thinks about how quick she was to trust him with her story. They’d met only the week before, were still more like strangers than friends and yet she’d confided her tale of woe without any provocation. At that time, she professed having no fear of seeing Darcy but just a week later, she left the city rather than attend the ball. And, now that he thinks about it, what was up with her swearing him to secrecy over the whole miserable affair and then blabbing it to anyone who would listen after Darcy had returned to London? Even Hannah in special events, whose connection to Georgia must be remarkably slight, was told the whole of it during an elevator ride to the third floor. She had said that respect for Mrs. Fitzwilliam would keep her from exposing her daughter.