A P&P Modern Short Story, Part Three

Greetings, friends! Long, long ago (in March), I posted the first part of a modern P&P short story. I began the project as a way to get out of my writing rut. While I can’t say I’ve accomplished that particular feat, I have managed to write another installment of the story! If you’d like to start from the beginning, here’s where you can find Part 1 and Part 2. The only real challenge I set for myself was to use Austen Variation’s monthly theme somewhere in the text. This month’s theme: “Church bells are ringing.”

Hope you enjoy!

Meryton Academy’s motto was a Latin phrase Liz often forgot (Sapientia et Lux? Lux et Virtute?), but she had no trouble recalling the students’ unofficial motto: “Silentium et Torpor.” She wasn’t surprised that teenagers sometimes found the campus dull, especially in the dead of winter, when the sun set by 4:30 and most students spent their evenings holed up in the library or their dorm rooms.

But silent? She had never found that to be true. Yes, the 400-acre campus was surrounded by farms, farms, and more farms. But a boarding school (even a rural one) has a soundscape of its own: the peeling laughter of adolescents (who always find a reason to laugh, no matter how dull they find campus life); the whir of a tractor/garbage truck/back hoe/[insert your landscaping or construction vehicle of choice here]; an abundance of insects buzzing and birds singing, depending on the season.

And then there was there was the one sound that came every quarter of an hour, from 8:00 am to 8:00 pm: the school chapel’s carillon.

“When the church bells are ringing,” murmured Darcy—and then said no more.

Liz didn’t know what surprised her more: his words or the fact that he spoke at all. For the first five minutes of their walk across campus, neither had said a thing.

“Not going to sing the rest of the song?” she asked.

His lips twitched in such a way that he could have been suppressing a smile—or a frown. She could not make sense of this man. His profile—taut jaw, raised chin—made him appear forbidding, but she had only to think of how he’d looked when embracing his sister to know that he wasn’t nearly as stuck-up as he seemed. He’d not been merely contented or even happy; he’d seemed grateful, as if he knew that his sister’s affection was not to be taken for granted.

Also, he’d forgotten his hat (or perhaps he refused to wear one), so his dark hair was turning white in the falling snow. He looked both young and old at once—another contradiction to add to the list she was tentatively titling, “Fitzwilliam Darcy, MD-Ph.D.: The Study of an Intricate Character.”

“Well?” she said, determined not to let him lapse into another five minutes of silence. “I don’t hear you singing, Dr. Darcy. Have you forgotten the words to your beloved alma mater’s school song?”

This time, he definitely smiled, but it came and went so quickly she’d have missed it if she hadn’t been glancing (all right, staring) at him.

“I have not sung the school song since my graduation, nearly twelve years ago.”

“Hmm, that would put you at…30? Yes, you’ve reached the age of senility for sure. No doubt you’ve forgotten the rest of the lyrics.”

“I could recite it word for word—if I wished to do so.”

“I notice you did not offer to sing the song, though—and that’s what I asked.”

“But can you can sing it? From what I recall, most faculty never sang in chapel. They merely stood about, checking their watches and mouthing the words, hoping we wouldn’t notice that they’d never bothered to learn what we were required to memorize.”

“Touché! Now that’s a challenge I can’t resist.” She stopped walking, cleared her throat, and threw her arms wide, nearly hitting him in the chest: “When the church bells are ringing, the scholars of Meryton start singing!”

“You go, Dr. Bennet!” exclaimed a student, passing them on the path.

She offered a mock curtsy.

“That was…” Darcy shook his head.

“Stunning? Stellar?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Stupendous?”

“Truly terrible.”

She laughed. “I am indeed the worst singer at the school. In fact, Mrs de Bourgh has actually asked me to stop singing at chapel.”

“Mrs de Bourgh? I thought she was Cathy to you, Miss Bennet.”

“Oh, I only call her Cathy to her face, Mr. Darcy.”

They grinned at each other, and Liz wondered if he, too, had forgotten (and then suddenly remembered) that, twenty minutes ago, they had despised each other. Was he also having one of those days when nothing went quite as planned, yet everything seemed to be turning out far better than expected?

He cleared his throat and said, “Listen, I owe you an apology for…”— just as she said, “Look, I’m terribly sorry that I… ”

This time, she turned away before he could catch her smiling foolishly at him. What in God’s name was wrong with her?

They walked on without speaking, her boots and his dress shoes crunching against the thin layer of snow gathering on the path. She told herself to raise the topic of Georgi and Ramsgate but felt instinctually that discussing the swim meet would break the spell between them. So instead she returned to the subject that had, ironically, become much safer ground: names.

“I’m surprised Mrs de Bourgh doesn’t realize you prefer to be addressed as Dr. Darcy. She’s usually very good with protocol.”

“Protocol! You make it sound as if I’m part of the British monarchy.”

“No, just Meryton Academy royalty.” She pointed to a building in the distance. “By the way, that’s my favorite spot on campus, so one day, when I sell my novel and make a billion dollars, I’m going to donate a portion to the school and have the library named after me.”

“You write novels?”

“Currently, no, I only write novel-length comments on my students’ papers. You don’t sound very concerned about my plans to take over the library.”

“I hear there’s more a bit more money in medicine than literature.”

“Must be why Cathy likes you so much.”

He smiled. “I actually haven’t had much contact with her. She wasn’t Head when I was a student here, and it was Mr. Bryce in Admission who handled Georgi’s enrollment. As for donations, it was always Dad—” He stopped and looked away.

She released a long breath, the warmth of it fogging the cold evening air. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said quietly, wishing she had something more to offer than a cliched condolence. “You and Georgi must miss him.”

God knew she’d miss her own father. He had his faults, for sure, but his sardonic humor and love of books—not to mention his amazing blueberry pancakes—made every homecoming worthwhile.

“It’s fine,” said Darcy—or was he Will now? Yes, he had become someone else, or she had, in just a half hour. “We’re fine. After all, it’s been over a year.”

“Well, they say time is a cure most capricious.”

“Shakespeare?” he suggested doubtfully.

“Actually, no. I realized I was about to spout another platitude at you, so I decided to spice it up a little.”

His laugh, quiet and deep, put her in mind of midnight—not dark so much as indefinable, a moment situated between the certainty of yesterday and the unknowability of tomorrow. She glanced back at the path they had traveled, their footprints marking the way. At the beginning of this strange trek across campus, had she really believed him to be cold and unfeeling?

“Well, here we are. Longbourn,” she said, then mentally kicked herself. She’d gone from spouting platitudes and making up Shakespeare quotes to stating the obvious. “I suppose you know your own sister’s dorm well enough.”

“I ought to. I used to live here; it was a boy’s dorm in my time.”

“Really? Don’t tell me they put Georgi in the same room.”

“Believe it or not, they did.”

“What? Was this some weird attempt to get you to donate more money to the school?”

“If so, it didn’t work. I took Georgi’s housing assignment as an omen.”

“I notice you left out whether it was a good omen—or a bad one.”

“At the time, I wasn’t sure myself. Now…” He met her gaze. “I didn’t want her to come to Meryton.”

Her lips parted in surprise.

“These last few years have not been easy for her,” he said. “I know what people think: she’s wealthy, so how hard can her life be? And in some ways—in many ways—that’s true, but…”

He looked so tired then, shoulders rounding forward, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. She was leaning forward on her toes, halfway to hugging him before she caught herself.

“Misfortune cares nothing for wealth,” she murmured.

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that Shakespeare?”

“That is another schmaltzy aphorism by yours truly. If Cathy fires me for writing impertinent emails and the novel gig doesn’t work out, I’m thinking of starting a self-help web site.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You are…”

“Truly terrible?”

“No,” he said, laughing. “Your singing is truly terrible, but you are….” He shook his head.

“How about merely tolerable, then?”

His eyes crinkled—then widened. “Oh god, you heard me say that about your class last fall.”

“What, that old comment? I’ve already forgotten it!”

“Clearly.”

She was mid-laugh when she became aware of the intensity of his stare. Though not as beautiful as Jane or as bold as Lydia, she had nonetheless developed some measure of confidence in her ability to gauge another person’s interest in her. So she suspected he was looking at her in much the same way she was looking at him, as if she desperately wanted to press her lips to his throat and kiss her way up to his mouth.

“I should let you get back to your apartment.”

Or he was looking at her as if he desperately wanted to find a means of escape.

Then he glanced at her legs, and she thought, Maybe yes?

“You should get inside. You must be freezing.”

Definitely no.

She had forgotten to pack her sweat pants for the walk home, so she’d made the trek wearing her parka, a thick woolen hat, a sturdy pair of boots, and…gym shorts.

“Well, I’m a New Englander, born and raised. Thirty degrees Fahrenheit and light snow? That’s balmy by January’s standards!” She gave this speech a little too jauntily, as if her bright tone could make up for the very inappropriate thoughts she’d been having about the legal guardian of one of her students.

His smile seemed a little melancholy. “I can see why my sister likes you, Dr. Bennet.”

Dr. Bennet. Right. Back to reality, Liz: you are here to discuss his sister’s request to attend the Ramsgate swim meet, not to exchange sparkling banter and certainly not to imagine kissing him.

Yet before she could find a graceful segue, he had turned, head bent against the snow, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dress pants, as he walked away.

“Wait!” she cried, racing after him. She nearly skidded down the path, almost sliding into him. “We need to discuss the meet!”

He stopped but did not turn. “There is nothing to discuss. She cannot attend.”

Liz shivered, and it had nothing to do with the snow or her bare legs. Still, she thought of Georgi and pressed on: “You saw her at practice—how she came alive, how much she wanted to be there. I’m sure you have your reasons, but if Georgi wants to attend, then I think you ought to listen to her.”

Now he turned to face her, and she saw, with something like horror, that Will Darcy was gone. Here stood Dr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, M.D.-Ph.D., the cold, forbidding man in a three-piece suit, the devil she did not want to like. Sure, there were snowflakes on his eyelashes and his hair had started to curl around his ears. (And yes, she still wanted to kiss him.) But these facts did not soften the hard truth: this was a man who did not like to be crossed.

Well, she was a woman who took an unfortunate amount of pleasure in crossing her so-called superiors. “Give your sister the respect she deserves, Dr. Darcy. Let her decide for herself.”

“Decide for herself?” He seemed barely to open his mouth to utter these words. Had she not caught the slight twitch in his jaw, she might have supposed him turned to stone.

“Yes, it’s a revolutionary idea, I know: allow a seventeen-year-old, almost ready for college, a little autonomy!”

“Has my sister told you why I do not want her to attend?”

Her stomach flip-flopped; she always felt a little nauseous when she realized she had likely missed something important.

“No.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “No, she has not, and if there is a reason why she cannot, then I—”

“Well, I have a fairly good idea of why you want so badly for her to attend.”

“Oh, really? You’re going to tell me what I’m thinking, is that it?”

“It’s obvious,” he scoffed. “It’s just as you said: we both saw her at practice today. Georgi is clearly the strongest swimmer on your team, and you do not want to lose.”

Her mouth fell open. “What? No! I—”

“I suppose you’re just doing your job, but life isn’t all about winning, Coach Bennet. My sister’s health is a hell of a lot more important than the numbers in your wins and losses columns.”

The challenge of being a boarding school teacher—or at least one of them—is that you live where you work. It’s also a benefit (best commute ever), but when you want to scream a string of obscenities at the top of your lungs and yet you are supposed to model consideration and reason—well, it doesn’t always make for an easy day (or night) at work. Then again, perhaps it’s not so bad to be reminded that we shouldn’t always give into our worst instincts.

At least, that’s how Liz tried to see it when Georgi came bounding up to them.

“Hey, Will! Dr. Bennet! You got here before me!”

Liz couldn’t bring herself to look at Georgi; she was sure the girl (too perceptive by half) would read every bit of anger, shock, and heartache in her expression. So she looked at Will, at Dr. Darcy, at the devil himself—yet it gave her no comfort to see how he, too, was struggling to control his expression. It was a reminder that, for all the ways he had distressed her, he had done so because he loved his sister.

“I thought you were ahead of us,” he said to his sister. “I thought you’d gone back to the dorm to shower.”

“Yeah, I meant to, but Anne”—Georgi turned and waved over her friend, who stood hovering a few feet away—“had to grab a package from the mailroom before it closed, and I said I’d go with her.”

“Don’t be mad at her, Mr. Darcy,” said Anne. “It’s all my fault she’s late, I swear.”

“I’m not mad—at anyone,” he said, glancing at Liz.

She refused to meet his eye.

“Oh, good! Well, see you inside, Georgi,” called Anne, heading toward the dorm.

“Right, see ya!” Georgi turned to her brother. “Hey, listen, I was wondering, do you think Anne could come with us to dinner? I mean, I know it was just going to be the two of us, but her family’s from England, so she never gets off campus, and besides, I hear she loves American fast food!”

Maybe it was the delay in his response or the forced quality to his laugh, but Liz could tell that this was the moment Georgi realized that she had not come upon her brother and teacher having a friendly chat.

“Oh, right,” she whispered, glancing between them. “You were talking about…about Ramsgate.”

There was something about the way Georgi said the word, something about the way Will’s face paled, that broke Liz’s heart. She didn’t know what he’d meant about Georgi’s health; the school doctor would have told her if she hadn’t been physically cleared for athletics, and the school counselor would have let her know if Georgi had been struggling with other concerns—at least, if the counselor knew about those other concerns. And Liz was beginning to suspect the counselor did not know.

“What did you say to her?” Georgi asked, and it struck Liz that both Darcys had a propensity to grow quieter, rather than louder, when they were upset. “What did you tell Dr. Bennet?”

“Nothing.” There was a slight quaver in his voice. “Nothing.”

When Georgi turned to look at her, Liz thought to smile or say something encouraging. But she couldn’t manage it, not without sounding inauthentic, and she knew Georgi would pick up on any false note immediately.

So she simply met her eyes and said, “It’s probably best for you to skip the Ramsgate meet.”

“Right.” She turned toward the dorm. “Fine. It’s what I expected, anyway.”

“Georgi, listen.” Will started after her, slipping on the ice, only just catching himself before he reached her. “Listen, I—”

“You don’t trust me, is that it?”

“No. No! That’s absolutely not—”

She hurried ahead of him. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore, and you should get back to Cambridge.”

After all the ups and downs of the last twelve hours—hell, the last one hour—Liz didn’t think it was possible to feel more heartache, especially for a man who had insulted her by suggesting she put winning about her students’ well-being. Yet to stand there and watch him, as he stared forlornly after his sister—well, she felt like crying, for both of them.

Slowly, he turned back to her. “Why did you think she ought to go to the swim meet?”

She almost told him he ought to have asked that question before assuming he knew the answer; she almost laughed scornfully and walked away. Almost.

“Because she is just starting to make friends,” she said instead. “Because she seemed so lonely last term. Because Anne asked her to room with her at the Ramsgate meet. Because…” She took a breath, trying to steady her voice, only to find that her eyes had filled with tears. “I have to go.”

“Dr. Bennet. Liz…”

“You were right, you know,” she called out over her shoulder. “It’s too cold out here for shorts!”

Another challenge of being a boarding school teacher: for all the good days, there are some really awful ones, too. The trick is to take a deep breath,  say a cheery hello to the four girls you pass in the hall, and stumble into your apartment before letting yourself sink to the floor to have a good cry.

Actually, the real trick is making yourself get up from the floor, head to dorm duty, and grade the pile of essays you just collected. And that–that requires a certain willingness to laugh at yourself, which is exactly why Liz had the hiccups when she showed up to dorm duty that night, a stack of papers tucked under her arm.

Thanks for reading! (Edited to add: Click here to read the next part, available on July 14).