On Air, an E&D short story (part two)

Hi, Friends! If you’re looking for Part One of “On-Air,” my new Elizabeth and Darcy short story, you can find it here.

On to Part Two…

On-Air: An Elizabeth and Darcy Short Story

(Part Two)

Like most staff members at PBN, Elizabeth didn’t have her own office, so she made a beeline for the only room she could be reasonably certain George Wickham wouldn’t enter.

She really ought to have known better.

“Get out!” she cried, when he leaned back against the ladies’ room door, clicking it shut.

Elizabeth glanced over at the line of stalls, willing one of them to open and reveal someone, anyone. (She’d even have been glad to see Darcy, though his presence in the ladies’ room would have been equally as suspicious.)

“Is anyone in here?” Wickham asked in that smooth voice of his—a voice that lulled one into believing everything was perfectly fine, no matter how dubious the situation seemed.

“I think it was his voice, more than anything else about him, that led me to…well, you know,” Jane had admitted to Elizabeth nearly four years earlier, as they’d sat together in the doctor’s office, awaiting confirmation of what Jane had already begun to suspect. “That sounds like such a silly excuse, but he just has this way of speaking that…well! You did tell him once that he had a voice meant for radio.”

Indeed, she had, much to her chagrin now.

“Anyone here?” Wickham asked again, stepping further into the ladies’ room. “I just need to wash my hands, but the plumbing in the men’s room is being—“

“If anyone is in here,” Elizabeth interjected, “they should know George Wickham is a coward and a sneak!”

Wickham’s mouth hardened—but only for a moment. Then he smiled. “Now, now: what would your dear little listeners think if they heard such mean words from their beloved Miss Lizzy?”

“They’d cheer me on,” she shot back. “In the stories I tell, honesty is more important than good manners. One can be faked; the other can’t.”

He shrugged. “A nice sentiment, but those stories didn’t save ‘Tales for Tots,’ did they?”

He might as well have kicked her in the stomach. She still couldn’t believe the news: two more weeks, then she was done.

Well, as good as done.

“You’re moving to a new time!” old Mr. Darcy had announced when he had finally gotten around to telling her why his son had convened that meeting in his office. With a clap of his hands, he’d added, “Tuesday at 10! Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?”

“Well, I suppose that might work during the summer, but come September, most children will be in school at 10, and—”

Wickham had held up a hand and smiled. “He doesn’t mean 10 am.”

The rest of the meeting had been short but torturous. Listening to Wickham had felt rather like tuning in catch the latest news, only to hear an unending whir of static. There must have been some kind of meaning to the noises coming from his mouth, but she couldn’t make sense of them. Old Mr. Darcy hadn’t helped matters; he’d only added, “Hear, hear!” or “Hmm, yes,” as Wickham droned on about innovation and revenues.

And Dr. Darcy? He’d said nothing at all, not even when Wickham had risen from his chair and clapped Darcy on the back. “All credit really belongs to Fitzwilliam here; he’s told us, a number of times now, that we won’t get ahead by trying the same old tactics.”

She’d whirled on Darcy then, throwing her arms wide.“And just how is moving a children’s show to 10 pm a good tactic?”

Still, he’d said nothing, given no explanation, no excuses either. He’d only stared at her, and no wonder. She must have looked unhinged; she had certainly felt it. But at least he’d met her eye, which neither Wickham nor old Mr. Darcy would do. Indeed, the younger Darcy had refused to look away from her, even when she’d glared at him for a full minute.

Wickham had finally ended the meeting with a laugh. “Well, I have heard there are parents who despair at getting their children to fall asleep. Perhaps moving your show to 10 pm will help them, Miss Bennet.”

“Yes, do tell us what you know about parents and children, Mr. Wickham!”

It had been a stupid thing to say. She saw that now, as he leaned against one of the sinks, crossing his arms.

“If you even drop so much as a hint about my time in Meryton,” he said quietly, “I’ll never send another dollar to that child.”

“That child? You can’t even say his name, can you? It’s Thomas, Tommy, the dearest little boy in the—”

“Look, there’s no evidence he’s mine. You know how it is with your sister. Men are always ogling her!  It’s not really her fault, I’ll grant you that. She’s like most women, only more beautiful. I hurt her by leaving; I know that now. So, maybe she tried to find a little comfort with someone else, eh?”

Elizabeth grabbed the nearest piece of soap and threw it at him, so quickly and with such force that it bounced off his forehead before he’d even had a chance to blink.

Another mistake. He lunged forward, grabbing her by the shoulders.

She must have yelped, though she felt too stunned to move or make a sound.

“Listen to me,” he said, inches from her face. He smelled of Barbasol and Lucky Strikes, citrus and tobacco, cloying sweetness and heady smoke.

Gagging, she shoved at his chest, sending him stumbling back several steps.

“Don’t get so hysterical,” he said, holding up his hands and huffing. “Just…just try to be nice, will you?”

“I’m not nice, and I don’t like you, George, not one bit!”

“Oh, but it’s in your best interest—the best interest of your sister and the child, too—to be a little more respectful, wouldn’t you say? That check I send every month—”

“Don’t pretend you’re taking care of us! If you truly cared for your son—and there is no doubt that Tommy is your son—you’d not have put my job, the one that actually pays the bills at Longbourn, in jeopardy!”

“Oh, don’t give me that! My pay is at least two times what you make—”

“Yes, and you send about an eighth of your income our way!”

“New York is a very expensive place to live as a bachelor! You can cook for yourself and clean your own clothes, but I—”

“Oh, boo-hoo, George!”

“Well, it’s true! Listen: if you’d just shut your mouth and swallow your pride, I might, just might, send more money to that sister of yours. But I don’t owe her anything. We weren’t married—”

“Thank God for that! Still, Tommy is your son, George! If you don’t owe Jane, you certainly owe him. Don’t you care for him at all?”

“I…” Wickham looked, just for a moment, almost stricken. Then he shook his head. “Look, I’ll be able to send a bit more now that I have a show of my own.”

“Now that you’ve stolen my show’s time slot, you mean?”

Wickham had used that smarmy voice of his to persuade Mr. Darcy to put him on-air, interviewing up-and-coming celebrities. Of course, he would never convince those celebrities to come on the show, not if it aired at 10 pm on a Tuesday (the time slot in which poor Colonel Forster’s Marching Musicians had languished for years). Surely a more popular time spot was necessary?

Wickham snorted. “You’re such a hypocrite, you know that? Just how did you get your show? There have been rumors.”

Elizabeth only just stopped herself from throwing another piece of soap at him. She’d worked hard to get where she was. Like many female employees at PBN, she’d been hired as a typist, and it had been her extra edits to the “Tales for Tots” scripts that had helped make the show better. Then, one evening, the main narrator, a perpetual drunk named Louis Hurst, had been too soused to go on-air, so she’d stepped in and read the script. This had happened enough times over the next few weeks that the network manager, Ed Gardiner, had promoted her. (If only Mr. Gardiner hadn’t gotten a better offer to run the CBS station in Chicago, where his family was from.)

“The truth is, Lizzy, you and I are more alike than different.”

“I am nothing like you, Wickham!”

“No? We’re both smart and ambitious—too smart and ambitious for a small town like Meryton. I had to get out of there. Jane didn’t understand that! She kept telling me my job as a postal clerk was ‘good enough.’ But I’m meant to be something more. I’m an actor, and a damn good one—just like you.”

“Then how about acting like a responsible father?” she said, crossing her arms. “And don’t tell me you’ve been responsible by sending us a check here and there. You didn’t start sending money to Jane until you came to PBN last year—and you only did it then because you were afraid I’d tell everyone here what you truly are.”

“Now, that’s just not—“

“Don’t deny it! Jane showed me the letter you sent with the first check.” Elizabeth gave a humorless laugh. “You know, I didn’t even think of ruining your reputation, George, though you had thoroughly ruined my sister’s. I just wanted to avoid you.”

“Well, keep avoiding me then,” he said, turning to leave the ladies’ room, at last. “If you do, I’ll keep sending those checks.”

***

She had just emerged from the stairwell of the PBN building—no rickety elevator for her, not on this hellish day, thank you very much!—when she heard him call out, “Bennet!”

Elizabeth picked up the pace.

Or tried to, at any rate. Gripping the handle of her overnight case with one hand and her pocketbook with the other, she didn’t think she could move much faster. Still, she tried; she’d push herself to the point of collapse, if it meant avoiding a conversation with the man who had helped orchestra her show’s demise. Besides, she was almost sure to miss her train to Meryton. She’d spent far longer than she’d intended commiserating with the rest of the “Tales for Tots” staff about their likely fate.

“Bennet, wait.” He caught up with her then, and they strode down Fifth Avenue together, almost in sync. (He had longer legs, and she wore high heels; sometimes life just wasn’t fair.)

“I’m late,” she bit out, when he wouldn’t leave her side. “Also, I hate you.”

“Yes, I know.” He sighed—or was that was just the sound of traffic, whooshing past them? “But we could share a cab. Then we’d reach Grand Central in time.”

She stopped, so suddenly that the person behind her snarled, “Watch it, lady!” before shoving past.

“How do you know where I’m…oh, never mind.” She glanced at her watch. “Fine, hail a cab.” It was Jane’s birthday; if she missed this train, she’d also miss the small celebration Mary and Kitty had planned.

“Miss Lucas told me you were headed home,” said Darcy, when they were settled into the back seat of the taxi.

Elizabeth stared out the window, wondering if she’d made the right decision. Not only did she have to sit next to him—a hint of pine and leather, with a dash of ink mixed in? Well, it was better than Barbasol and Lucky Strikes, she supposed—but the traffic was so bad she might as well have walked.

Another light turned red.

“I’m not headed home.”

“Miss Lucas said you were trying to catch a train to Meryton.”

She’d have to speak with “Miss Lucas” about sharing her plans with Fitzwilliam Darcy! “Well, I am going to Meryton.”

“That’s not home, then?”

“No…yes…I…” Meryton was home, once; she supposed it might be again, if she lost her job at PBN.

She glanced over at him, frowning. “Why are you so chatty all of a sudden?”

“I’m not chatty.”

“Not by normal standards, but considering how little you had to say a few hours ago—you know, when I learned ‘Tales for Tots’ was all but being cancelled—I’d call you very chatty indeed.”

She found herself in another staring match with him. Well, this time she wasn’t going to blink—not until he explained himself.

But then he asked, “How long have you known George Wickham?” — and her eyes began to sting.

“Here we are!” called the cabby, bringing them to a stop.

Darcy leaned forward, pulling out his wallet, but Elizabeth beat him to it, having slipped some money into the front panel of her overnight case, in the hopes she’d have time to buy a sandwich for the train. (She wouldn’t.)

“Let me pay my own cab fare,” she said, elbowing him aside, “at least while I still can.”

Then she jumped out of the cab and strode off—at least until he caught up with he again.

“Why are you following me?” she demanded, her heels clacking against the terrazzo floor of Grand Central’s cavernous lobby. She wished she had time to look up and marvel at domed ceiling; it was one of her favorite things to do, just before returning to Meryton. It reminded her why she loved the city, even as she was headed to the meadows and farmland she adored in equal measure.

“I’m not following you.” And indeed, he was ahead of her now. “Hurry up, Bennet. Our train leaves in two minutes.”

“Our train?” she would have echoed, had she the breath for it. But she took off at a run, as did he, and for some odd reason—shock, exhaustion, her contrary nature—she found herself grinning as they raced across the lobby and down the stairs to the train platform. What a picture they made, dodging and weaving, clutching their bags, reaching up occasionally to make sure their hats didn’t fly off their heads.

He reached the train first, pulling himself onto boarding stairs just as the conductor shouted, “Last call!”

“Come on, Bennet.” Darcy extended a hand, and though she hated to follow his orders, she found throwing herself forward, laughing as he tugged her up onto the train.

“Don’t think I forgive you,” she said, grinning as they fell into the open seats at the back of the car.

He returned her grin. “I know: you hate me as much as ever.”

In truth, she didn’t hate him, not at all—and that made the events of today so much worse.

“What are you doing on my train, Darcy?”

“I’m going to see a friend.”

“You have a friend? Let me guess: you met him—or her—at a wine tasting, or a rare book exhibition, or perhaps an auction for overpriced art.”

“You really must be exhausted, Bennet, to have come up with such drivel. Perhaps I met him—or her—in a pirates’ cave, or at a witches’ coven, or while serving on the board of a big, evil monopoly, like Standard Oil.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Perhaps you should be writing ‘Tales for…’ Oh.” She stopped, closing her eyes. “I almost forgot.”

They fell silent for a long while. Only after skyscrapers and city streets had given way to rolling green fields did he speak again: “I met Bingley—my friend—in medical school. He lives in Meryton, or thereabouts.”

“Ah.” She kept her gaze on the window, watching his pale reflection in the glass. “Another doctor.”

“No.” He exhaled. “An actual doctor.”

Again, silence—at least until they were two stops from Meryton.

“How long have you known George Wickham?”

His voice was quiet, but she startled, having fallen into one of those half dozes that only trains, and very long days, had the power to induce in her.

“What?”

“George Wickham. You don’t like him.”

She studied the cracked leather of the seat in front of her, wishing she had sat somewhere else—or even missed this train. “Why do you care?”

“Because he’s been escorting my sister around town.”

Biting her lip, she glanced over at Darcy. What if she told him the truth—the whole truth—about George Wickham? Surely Georgiana Darcy should know what kind of man he was.

But that money he sent each month…True, it wasn’t as much as she provided the family, nor was it their only source of income. Jane had a part-time job as a housekeeper, at some posh place called Netherfield; Mary earned a little money by playing organ at church; and Kitty worked twice a week at the local bakery.

As it was, the Bennets had just enough to stay out of debt; they had just enough to keep the house. If they lost even that little bit of money from George…

Besides, wasn’t it up to Jane to reveal the name of Tommy’s father? She had, thus far, refused to confirm any rumors. No one except Elizabeth had known of the engagement, and Elizabeth had only found out because Jane had been unable to hide her happiness the night after Wickham had proposed to her.

To the people of Meryton, George Wickham had been little more than the town’s handsome and friendly assistant postal clerk. He’d arrived out of no where and disappeared just as suddenly. (“His mother is very ill,” explained William Sir, the postmaster. “He found a better job elsewhere,” guessed Miss Mary King, his most frequent customer. “He was too fond of gambling,” whispered Captain Carter, the town’s chief of police.)

If there were people who suspected the truth—Tommy looked a good deal like Wickham, and plenty of townsfolk had seen Wickham take Jane to the movies, to dinner, to the church picnic and the school committee potluck—they didn’t speak of the matter. It was too shocking, and besides, Jane Bennet ought to have known better. One can hardly blame a man for taking what’s offered.

Oh, how those kinds of whispers made Elizabeth sick! It would have felt so good to see George Wickham get his just deserts. But this wasn’t about her desire for revenge; it was about Jane and Tommy and Longbourn.

“Isn’t it up to you and your sister to decide if he’s worthy?” she said at last. “Besides, you have your father’s opinion of him: George Wickham can do wrong!”

“Maybe I value your opinion, too,” he said quietly.

She spun in her seat, glaring at him. “If that were true, you’d never have moved ‘Tales for Tots’ to such a ridiculous time slot!”

He looked up and closed his eyes. “I…That wasn’t my intention. I did tell my father that it might make sense to move ‘Tales’ to a different time, but—“

“But nothing! You sank the show, Darcy!”

“It was already sinking, Bennet!” He took a deep breath. “Right now, ‘Tales’ is up against ‘Let’s Pretend’ every Saturday morning.”

“Exactly! That’s when families expect that short, sweet stories for little children!”

“And that makes sense, but only if more listeners choose ‘Tales’ than ‘Let’s Pretend.’ That’s not happening, Bennet.”

All at once, her chest burned and her eyes filled with tears. She told herself to turn away, to hide her humiliation, but she could not.

“That is why you’ve been trying to make ‘Tales’ sound more like ‘Let’s Pretend,’” he said quietly. “But what if the listeners who love you best want to hear the stories you were telling when you first started writing for the show? You brought the ratings up considerably then.”

She shook her head. “There were just as many detractors. They said my stories were too bold, too frightening, even. Besides, we’ve never had more listeners than ‘Let’s Pretend,’ not even when our ratings were at their best.” She sighed. “After my first blush of success, our ratings just…plateaued, so I thought—”

“You thought you needed to soften the writing. But what if you were wrong, Bennet?”

“It appears I have been about many things!”

“Stop being so touchy, and listen to me. Maybe the listeners on Saturday mornings aren’t the ones you really want. You’re telling stories to the toddlers, to the pre-schoolers, the ones too small go out and play on their own. What if you tried bringing your stories to older children—the ones too mature for ’Let’s Pretend’ but too young for ‘The Lone Ranger’ and ‘Dick Tracy’?”

She frowned up at him. “That’s…not a bad idea. The name of the show would have to change, but…how do know so much about children’s radio, anyway? You’ve been at PBN for…what, a few months?”

“A few moths is more than enough time, when you’ve spent most of it reading tedious ratings reports.”

Her lips quirked. “Poor Darcy.”

“Well, I’ve enjoyed listening to you, at least—to your show, I mean.”

She raised a brow. “Well, I guess in comparison to tedious ratings reports, ‘Tales for Tots’ must be…tolerable.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “You are the most defensive person of my acquaintance, Bennet.”

“Well, it seems I have a reason to be defensive.” She sighed. “Why didn’t you just tell me, the moment I came into your office, what was going to happen?”

“Because I didn’t know what was going to happen. I did advocate for a time change, Bennet, but I suggested Wednesday at 4:45.”

She blinked. “That’s when NBC and CBS run many of their children’s shows. Do you really think we could compete?”

“If you were willing to write for an older audience, yes. I think you have a shot.”

“We might have had a shot, once—but now we’re going to be on Tuesdays at 10.” She wrinkled her nose. “PM.”

What could he say? Well, he could say a great deal, if he wished. Clearly he disagreed with his father’s decision, but it was just as clear that he wasn’t going to speak against him.

“Your father—has he changed these last few years,” she asked, “or have I just come to know him better?”

Darcy’s only answer: a soft snort, a shake of the head.

“Fine, fine. You can’t insult your father, I understand. At least tell me why you stopped being a doctor.”

He turned and glared at her.

“Well?”

“I’ll tell you,” he said, as the train slowed and a conductor called out, “Meryton, next stop!”

She sat up straighter. “Well, then?”

“I’ll tell you,” he said again, leaning forward so that his forearm was nearly touching hers on the armrest, “when you tell me how you came to know George Wickham.”

She stood abruptly, bumping into the seat ahead of her as the train came to a stop.

[Author’s Note, Oct. 31: Honestly, I have several more lines to write in this part, but here’s the thing: something pretty awful has just happened in my world, and I’m not going to be able to finish this in time. A friend has passed away unexpectedly, and I don’t know what else to say. I’ll be back to this as soon as I can. In the meantime, give the people you love a big hug, or send them a note to tell them you love them. That’s all that’s important, isn’t it?]