Prejudice & Pride

by Lynn Messina

  Before Bennet can figure out what this means or why he’s unsettled by it, Darcy’s brother appears in the doorway. “Reynolds says we have guests for dinner. Did I forget something?”

  Darcy assures her brother of the gathering’s impromptu nature and stands up to make the introductions. George Fitzwilliam is taller than Bennet, and though little more than eighteen, he cuts an impressive figure, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His features are not as handsome as his sister’s, as they lack a certain pleasing symmetry, but his face is strong and his manners are good humored and unassuming. Almost immediately, Bennet decides he likes him because he’s not shy about teasing Darcy about her ambitions for his future, which are considerable. She clearly expects a lot from him—single greatest classical pianist is mentioned several times—but rather than let her outsize expectations intimidate him, he lobs them right back at her, stating he expects her to cure world hunger by the end of the decade. Darcy effortlessly takes this treatment in stride, a fact that doesn’t amaze him as much now as it would have only a few hours ago.

  With three younger brothers, Bennet converses easily with George about his experience at the conservatory and his aspirations—actual, not fantastical—as a musician. He doesn’t look at Darcy often, but whenever he does catch a glimpse, he sees an expression of polite interest and her tone of voice has none of the hauteur or disdain that had previously given it inflection. Watching her court the good opinion of his aunt and uncle, two people of whom she had openly professed disdain only six weeks before, is a revelation. Never, not even in the company of her good friends at the Netherfield or her dignified relations at Rosings, has he seen her so gracious and outgoing, so down-to-earth or approachable, as now. Bennet can’t imagine what she stands to gain from this display of such engaging behavior.

  Dinner is announced and Darcy leads them into the dining room, with its large picture window overlooking Fifth Avenue. The meal is lovely and elegant but without the buttoned-up severity Bennet would expect from a refined feast served by two liveried servants. As soon as his salad is placed in front of him, George takes out his phone and Instagrams the elaborate mélange of peas, prosciutto and butter lettuce leaves. Darcy rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything. As a close friend of Bingley’s, she’s accustomed to such self-conscious treatment of food.

  “So what do you do?” George asks Mr. Gardiner as the dessert plates are being cleared.

  Prior to this question, the conversation had centered on travel and music and whether George should become a Yankees or Mets fan and how one can survive a two-week cruise without gaining two hundred pounds. Now, as the focus shifts to his uncle’s profession—a profession that Darcy once scorned as hucksterish—Bennet tenses his shoulders in expectation of an awkward or even unpleasant exchange.

  “I’m a used-car salesmen,” Uncle Edward says.

  “He owns about two dozen auto malls in Illinois and Indiana,” Bennet quickly adds, as if quantity would somehow make up for quality.

  “I’ve always loved the term auto mall,” Darcy says. “I imagine animated little cars shopping for hubcaps and windshield wipers.”

  Bennet is astonished by the whimsy of her comment, and he stares at her with his mouth half-open as his aunt suggests a tattoo parlor for detailing.

  “And a fitting room, naturally, so they can change their oil in private,” Darcy says.

  George proposes a jewelry store for hood ornaments and Bennet’s uncle says he has one of those. “Only the owners, not the cars, pick them out. The vast majority of our customers are humans, though we have gotten the odd Mustang or two.”

  Darcy laughs, and the uncomfortable exchange Bennet fears never materializes. The conversation jumps easily from car dealerships to road tests to driving lessons, and he listens in surprise as George tells an anecdote of Darcy’s failed attempt to teach him how to drive.

  “I’m talking full-on crash position, like on an airplane that’s about to go down,” he says, giggling as he re-creates the pose.

  “He’s exaggerating,” Darcy says. “It was more like a catcher’s stance—you know, hunched over. My head never actually touched my knees.”

  “But you were still in the parking lot, right?” Bennet asks.

  “An entirely empty parking lot,” George says. “Not another car in sight.”

  Bennet looks at Darcy and shakes his head sadly. “I taught three younger brothers to drive, so you know I’ve been there, but you have to at least get out of the parking lot before you can legitimately fear for your life.”

  Darcy looks at him and smiles. “You have your threshold. I have mine.”

  It’s well after eleven by the time they leave, and before Bennet opens the door to the taxi to escort the Gardiners to their hotel, he leans in and gives Darcy a kiss on the cheek. It’s an automatic gesture, something one does at the end of a pleasant evening when one is feeling genial toward one’s host, but he becomes keenly aware of the impropriety as soon as his lips meet the warmth of her flesh. He straightens awkwardly and stiffly offers his hand to George for a departing handshake, even though he has already performed that courtesy.

  As soon as the cab pulls away from the curb, his aunt turns to Bennet and demands a full explanation of what just happened. She understands the general outline—dinner with Darcy Fitzwilliam—but she can’t wrap her head around the fact that Bennet knows her. How could he not mention that they’re such good friends?

  Naturally, the only thing for Bennet to do is to insist he and Darcy are not good friends, but his aunt and uncle won’t hear a word of it. Rather, they parse the evening for evidence of Darcy’s affection, for this is the conclusion they’ve come to: The only way to account for such attentions from such a quarter is to assume a partiality for their nephew.

  His aunt practically sings it, so pleased is she by the development. Well aware that his denials will only make it worse, he suffers in silent dignity for the rest of the ride to the hotel, which, luckily, isn’t very long. He climbs out of the car to walk them to their room, but the Gardiners contend it’s far too late for such courtesies and insist on paying for his taxi back to Queens. Too exhausted to argue, he accepts the twenty-dollar bill his uncle slips him and promises to see them in the morning for breakfast before they ship out.

  The cab ride home is long but not long enough for Bennet to figure out his feelings for Darcy, and he lies awake for hours trying to make sense of them. He certainly doesn’t hate her. No, hatred had vanished some time ago, and, recalling it, he’s embarrassed that his dislike had ever risen to such a strident level. Although he’s been reluctant to acknowledge Darcy’s good qualities, he sees them clearly now, especially in the wake of Ms. Reynolds’s testimony, and feels considerable respect for her. But more than that, more than respect and esteem, he feels grateful—grateful that she doesn’t seem to hold the past against him. Nobody would blame her if she did, for his behavior at the Parsonage had been petulant and acrimonious and unjust. And yet rather than bear a grudge, which is something even she owns she does very well, Darcy treated him with friendliness and familiarity, going out of her way to make his aunt and uncle comfortable. If Bennet thinks about it too much, and, indeed, it’s impossible for him not to, the only conclusion he can reach is the one the Gardiners did in the taxi hours ago: Darcy cares for him. It’s a wholly improbable proposition, and yet her welcoming treatment of him and his family this evening was even more unlikely. If the supposition is true, if Darcy’s feelings toward him remain unchanged, then it’s up to him to decide what happens next. Does he want to encourage her affection? Is there a future in it for them or merely more heartbreak?

  Bennet doesn’t know, and by the time his exhausted mind stops puzzling over the question long enough to let him fall asleep, it’s almost time to get up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Bennet doesn’t expect to get the worst news of his life via text. Like everyone, he expects to be woken by a ringing telephone at 4 o’clock in the morning.
The message, conveyed before noon by John using far fewer characters than such a weighty matter necessitates—as if now’s the time to start worrying about data overages—strikes Bennet at first as a joke. In the cab on his way back to the Longbourn after leaving his aunt and uncle at their ship, he shakes his head over his brother’s perverse sense of humor.

  Then he recalls that his brother doesn’t have a perverse sense of humor and reads the message again: Lydon in possession of FBI.

  Because the most obvious interpretation of the text is also the least plausible, Bennet wonders three things: 1) What does FBI stand for? 2) Why does Lydon have it? 3) Why does John think this is remarkable?

  Operating on only three hours’ sleep, Bennet’s not at his sharpest. It’s barely 11 o’clock, and he feels as if he’s already put in a full day: meeting his aunt and uncle for breakfast before escorting them to the cruise terminal at West Fifty-second street, helping them settle into their quarters and waving them off. John, who was only able to carve enough time out of his schedule to meet them for coffee, had gone back to the office while Bennet took the Gardiners to the dock. Standing on a pier with his arm raised for twenty minutes had hardly invigorated him, and as Bennet yawns widely in the cab, he’s not surprised he can’t decipher John’s message.

  Before the truth finally penetrates his dulled brain, he actually googles FBI to find out how the kids are using the acronym these days.

  But once he realizes that the text means exactly what it says—Lydon is in the possession of the FBI—he loses all feeling in his fingers and the phone drops to the floor. He stares at it, a bright blue rectangle against the dark-gray backdrop of the cab’s worn mat, and tries to imagine what Lydon could have done to be arrested by the FBI.

  Has he been arrested? What does in possession actually mean?

  Bennet picks up his phone and dials John, but the call goes straight to voicemail. He leaves a message telling him to call him back as soon as possible, hangs up and immediately dials his number again. He does this over and over as the taxi travels down Continental Avenue.

  He’s still calling when he arrives at the Longbourn, and he’s so angry, frustrated and panicked, he doesn’t notice Meryton standing in the lobby waiting for him until he almost knocks the man over. He offers an absentminded apology and then realizes that his boss might know something. He opens his mouth to ask, but Meryton is already firing him.

  Firing him?

  “Obviously, I know you’re not directly involved, as you’re far too upstanding and ethical a person to even consider theft,” Meryton explains, his eyes focused somewhere to the right of Bennet’s shoulder, “but the connection is too pronounced to ignore and, naturally, you’ll be tarred with the same brush as your brother. In the face of such a scandal, the Longbourn needs to be seen as acting swiftly and conclusively. I’m sure you understand.”

  Bennet doesn’t understand anything, and he asks Meryton to stop talking for just a moment so he can gather his thoughts. But the executive director can’t be halted.

  “Although this disgrace is deeply devastating for me personally, I have to put concern for myself aside and think of the Longbourn. Henry’s grandchildren are already using this debacle as proof of their grandfather’s incompetence.”

  Before Bennet can scream in frustration, his phone rings and he barks, “John!” into the receiver without looking at the display. Meryton, ravaged by the shame delivered unto him by this appalling and as yet unexplained episode, doesn’t notice him walk away.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Bennet asks, his heart racing in dread now that the moment of truth has arrived.

  “Lydon and Georgia Wickham stole $450,000 dollars from the museum by hacking into the bank accounts. Lydon gave her access to Meryton’s computer and the passwords. The FBI traced them to London and apprehended them there. Apparently, they flew out Wednesday night rather than going to the oligarch’s daughter’s party. I’m at the FBI downtown trying to get more information, but they won’t tell me anything.”

  Bennet wants to ask how Lydon could be so fucking stupid, but he already knows the answer and doesn’t waste his breath. “Stay there,” he says. “I’m coming right now.”

  He slides his phone back into his pocket, flicks a glance at Meryton, who’s now reprimanding the brochure rack for pressuring him into hiring a third Bethle, and walks toward the door. Before he can reach for the handle, the door opens and Darcy enters. It’s a testament to the urgency he feels that her sudden appearance barely registers. He doesn’t pause to wonder why she’s there or to speculate as to what her presence might mean.

  Bennet’s pale face and agitated manner make Darcy start, and before she can recover herself enough to speak, he hastily says, “I’m sorry but I have to go. I have to go now. I’ve got to get a cab.”

  “Oh, my God. What’s wrong?” she asks fervently, then recollecting herself, adds calmly, “My car is here. It can take you wherever you need to go. I have nothing planned. I was only here to ask you for a tour of Art & Style.”

  Bennet hesitates for the briefest moment before accepting the ride and follows Darcy out to the black car, which is idling in the driveway. He instructs the driver to take them to Federal Plaza on Broadway and Worth, then leans back in the leather seat and closes his eyes. Fucking stupid Lydon.

  Seeing how miserably ill he looks, Darcy asks if he’d like an Advil and a bottle of water. “You look as if your head is throbbing.”

  “No, thank you,” he replies, forcing himself to open his eyes and look at her. “I’m fine. I just got some really terrible news, and I’m still trying to process it.”

  Bennet falls silent, and Darcy, knowing better than to intrude on private grief, waits in wretched suspense for him to explain. As the car heads into the Midtown Tunnel, he says, “There’s no point in trying to hide it, because it’ll probably be on the news tonight. Lydon stole $450,000 from the Longbourn.”

  Darcy is astonished. “What?”

  “With the help of Georgia Wickham, Lydon stole almost half a million dollars from the museum. It had to have been her idea,” Bennet adds, his tone growing more agitated as he considers it. “Lydon is lazy, but he’s not conniving. That trait is all Georgia, and I knew it. I knew it, but I didn’t say anything to Lydon. If I’d warned him, this never would have happened.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Darcy says, “sorry and shocked. But it’s certain, absolutely certain?”

  “Oh, yes, the FBI is very certain,” he says and laughs without humor. “They were traced to London and arrested there. I don’t know what happens next. Extradition, I suppose. John is at the FBI’s office waiting for news.”

  “What’s been done? Have you hired a lawyer?”

  Bennet admits that hiring legal counsel hadn’t occurred to him yet, and he doesn’t know what difference it will make. “The case is hopeless. If only Lydon weren’t so fucking stupid.”

  Darcy shakes her head in silent agreement.

  “If only I hadn’t been so fucking stupid,” Bennet continues. “I know how impressionable Lydon is. I should have tried to steer him away from her the very first time he mentioned her name. I knew they were hanging out and did nothing.”

  Darcy doesn’t answer. She turns her eyes toward the window and looks out at the passing landscape with a gloomy air.

  Now, in the calm of the car, Bennet has the clarity of mind to think about Darcy’s strange appearance. He doesn’t know if her interest in the Art & Style exhibition is genuine or merely an excuse to come see him. He ponders the plausibility of both explanations for several minutes—the show did get a rave review from Holland Cotter in the Times—before conceding the irrelevance of the answer. In light of this—how did Meryton put it?—deeply devastating personal disgrace, Darcy can’t even bring herself to look at him. Whatever relationship they might have had is impossible now. Everything is impossible now. He doesn’t hold her decision against her, for he knows it’s the only one she can make. The Bethle brothers might
have been borderline respectable before, but now they’re mired in scandal and shame. Tarred by the same brush, as Meryton said.

  Bennet cannot find any humor in the situation, but he does concede with bitter irony that Lydon’s transgression has made his own feelings startlingly clear, for now that he knows he doesn’t have a chance with Darcy, he desperately wants one.

  Eventually, they arrive at 26 Federal Plaza, and Bennet calmly, politely and sincerely thanks Darcy for all her help. He knows it’s the last time he’ll see her, and as much as he wants to linger, he’s too smart to waste time on futile gestures. John is waiting in the FBI’s office and might, for all he knows, have new information. At the very least they should see about hiring a lawyer for Lydon. And their parents. Someone has to call them.

  Not it, Bennet thinks glumly as he walks across the plaza, but he knows the mess they’re in won’t be resolved with something so easy as a childish refrain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  John and Bennet settle in for the long wait for information, and the wait is very long indeed. Elsewhere in the world, gigabytes of data travel at the speed of light, but in the FBI’s office news dribbles in so slowly it might as well be arriving by mail coach. It takes three days for them to even discover where Lydon’s being held, and for those first seventy-two hours they imagine him in some CIA black site trussed up like a turkey.

  Although the investigation into the theft clears Bennet and John of all wrongdoing, the lead agent still treats them with suspicion, as if they’ve somehow been wily enough to escape detection. The other agents treat them with boredom and answer their questions with a dull monotony as if responding a child’s repeated query of why, why, why.

  As angry as Bennet is with the unjust treatment, he doesn’t have the luxury of righteous indignation. Lydon is guilty of the charges. Regardless of his frame of mind when he entered into Georgia’s scheme or the sufficiency of his understanding of it, he committed the crime. The only reasonable target of Bennet’s outrage is Lydon; he doesn’t rail against Georgia because you can’t fault a snake for being a snake.