Hi, Friends. For those of you who visited this story a few months ago, thank you for your understanding and patience during a difficult time!
If you’re just joining me, this is my latest on-going short story: a late-1930s retelling of Elizabeth and Darcy called “On-Air.” You can find Part 1 here.
When I posted Part 2 on Nov. 1, I left it unfinished and unedited due to some difficult news I had recently received. However, I have since been able to make a few edits and add more to the part.
So, here’s the revised Part 2. If all goes well, I’ll post Part 3 a week from today, on Dec. 30.
Enjoy!
***
On-Air (Part Two)
(An Elizabeth and Darcy Short Story)
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 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 strange, to say the least.)
“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 sometimes think it was his voice, more than anything else, that led me to…well, you know,” Jane had admitted to Elizabeth nearly four years earlier, when 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 for what I’ve done, and yet…”
“No. Not silly, not to me,” Elizabeth had said. After all, she understood the power of words, spoken in just the right way—and she had been the one to tell Wickham, when they’d first met, “You have a voice meant for radio!”
Would that she could take those words back 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—“
“If anyone else is in here,” Elizabeth interjected, “you ought to know that George Wickham is a coward and a sneak!”
Wickham’s mouth hardened. “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! 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 and then she was done.
Well, as good as done.
“You’re moving to a new time!” old Mr. Darcy had announced with a clap of his hands, when finally he had gotten around to telling her why his son had convened that meeting in his office. “Tuesday at 10! Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?”
Elizabeth hadn’t thought so. “That time might work during the summer, but come September, most children will be in school at 10, and—”
“Oh no,” Wickham had interjected, with mock concern, “he doesn’t mean 10 am.”
The rest of the meeting had been utterly bewildering, 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 Wickham’s mouth, but she couldn’t make sense of them. Old Mr. Darcy hadn’t helped matters; he’d only said, “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 him 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.”
“And just how is moving a children’s show to 10 pm a good tactic?” she’d demanded of Darcy.
He had given her no explanation—and no excuses either. He’d only stared at her. She must have looked unhinged, arms thrown wide, face flushed with anger. But at least he’d met her eye, which was more than Wickham and old Mr. Darcy had been willing to do.
After a long moment of tense, unbroken silence, PBN’s owner had offered a weak chuckle and shuffled out of his son’s office, muttering something about another meeting. Wickham had hung behind for just a moment, flashing Elizabeth a condescending smile.
“I have heard there are parents who despair at getting their children to fall asleep. Perhaps moving your show to 10pm will help them.”
It had been a cheap parting shot, which was perhaps Elizabeth’s only excuse for blurting out, “Yes, do tell us what you know about parents and children, 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 so much as drop a hint about my time in Meryton,” he said, voice clipped and cold, “I’ll never send another dollar to that child.”
“That child? His name is Tommy, and he is the dearest little boy in the world, quite in spite of the man who fathered him!”
“Look, there’s no evidence he’s mine. You know how it is with your sister. Men are always ogling her. It’s not her fault, I’ll grant you that,” he added, putting up a hand when she tried to interject. “ I hurt her by leaving. I see that now. She’s like most women, only more beautiful. She wanted comfort, and there were plenty of men willing to oblige. ”
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 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 backward.
“Don’t get so hysterical,” he said, huffing and holding up his hands, as if he were the one under attack. “Just…just try to be nice, will you?”
“I’m not nice, and I don’t like you, George, not one bit!”
“Well, 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. 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, stricken. Then he shook his head. “Look, I’ll be able to send a bit more money now that I have a show of my own.”
“Now that you’ve stolen my show’s time slot, you mean?”
For that was exactly what he had done. By using that smarmy voice of his, Wickham had persuaded old Mr. Darcy to put him on-air, interviewing up-and-coming celebrities. He would never get the newest stars to come on this debut radio 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 would serve the show better?
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 had 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 made the show better. Then, one evening, the show’s 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 local CBS station!)
“The truth is, Lizzy, you and I are more alike than different.”
“I am nothing like you, George!”
“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? And don’t tell me,” she added quickly, when he started to speak, “that 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 realized I worked here!”
“Now, that’s just not—“
“Don’t deny it! Jane showed me the warning you sent with the first check.” Elizabeth gave a humorless laugh. “You know, when I first realized you were working here, I hadn’t even thought of ruining your reputation, though you had thoroughly ruined my sister’s. I only wanted to avoid you.”
“Well, keep avoiding me then,” he said, turning to leave the ladies’ room. “If you do, I’ll keep sending those checks.”
***
She had just emerged from the lobby of the PBN building when she heard him call out, “Bennet!”
Elizabeth walked faster.
Or tried to, at any rate. Gripping the handle of her overnight case with one hand and her pocketbook with the other, she lengthened her stride, ignoring the ache in her arms and feet. She’d gladly suffer if it meant avoiding a conversation with the man who had helped orchestra her show’s demise. Besides, if she didn’t hurry, 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.
“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 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 a 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?— but the traffic was so bad she might as well have walked.
Another light turned red.
“I’m not headed home,” she muttered.
“Miss Lucas said you were trying to catch a train to Meryton.”
She was going to have to speak with “Miss Lucas” about sharing her plans with others, particularly men who made her blood boil!
“If you are not traveling to Meryton,” he said, “then where—“
“I am traveling to Meryton, not that it’s any of your business.”
“So Meryton is not home?”
“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 am not chatty.”
“Not by normal standards, but considering how little you had to say a few hours ago—you know, during that meeting 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 elbowed him aside. ”Let me pay for my own fare, 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 the domed ceiling; it was one of her favorite things to do before returning to Meryton. The majesty of this place 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. You’re following me.” 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 was running now, and for some 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 must have 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 the boarding stairs just as the conductor shouted, “Last call!”
“Come on, Bennet.” Darcy extended a hand, and she found herself—in spite of everything—clutching his fingers, laughing as he tugged her up onto the train.
“Don’t think I have forgiven 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 one little bit—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 the one writing ‘Tales for…’ Oh.” She stopped, closing her eyes. “I almost forgot.”
She turned from him then, hugging herself as she stared out of the train window.
Only after skyscrapers and city streets had given way to rolling green fields did he break the silence: “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?”
Though his voice was quiet, she startled at the sound of it, 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.”
“Well, after today’s meeting—”
“Even before today, you didn’t like him.”
She studied the cracked leather of the seat in front of her, wishing she had chosen to sit somewhere else—or even missed this train. “What gives you that idea?”
“You never speak with him.”
“Our paths don’t cross.”
“He sometimes stops and chats with—what’s his name? Denny? His desk is near yours.”
“Perhaps I’m too busy to chat during work hours,” she retorted, hoping he hadn’t noticed her many chats with Charlotte. “Besides, how often I speak with someone is not proof of anything. After all”—she shot him an arch smile—“I speak with you often enough.”
“Yes, but then you don’t dislike me, Bennet: you hate me.”
Their eyes met, and her stomach gave a delightful lurch, as if she were taking a running jump from Longbourn’s rickety old dock and catapulting herself into the Hudson.
“All right, so I don’t like him.” She returned her gaze to the window. “Why does it matter what I think of him?”
“He’s been escorting my sister around town.”
She bit her lip and closed her eyes, the only way she could keep herself from looking at him. 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 the money Wickham 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. Even Lydia brought in a few dollars, here and there, by offering dance lessons. (Her only customers: a few old men who were, at their best, hoping for some conversation and, at their worst, hoping for something else entirely.)
As it was, the Bennets had just enough to stay out of debt; they had just enough to keep Longbourn. If they lost even that little bit of money from Wickham…
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 their short engagement, and Elizabeth had only found out because Jane had been unable to hide her happiness the morning after Wickham had proposed to her—the morning before Wickham had left town.
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 bit like Wickham, and plenty of townsfolk had seen the handsome postal clerk take Jane to the movies, to the church picnic, to the school committee potluck—well, 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. “Then there’s your father’s opinion of him: George Wickham can do wrong!”
“Maybe I value your opinion, too,” he said quietly.
She spun toward him, glaring. “If that were true, you’d never have moved ‘Tales for Tots’ to such a ridiculous time!”
He looked up at the ceiling of the train car, as if praying for patience, or perhaps an escape hatch. “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 drew in a long, slow breath, then turned to her, his expression a study in self-restraint. “Right now, ‘Tales’ is up against ‘Let’s Pretend’ every Saturday morning.”
“Exactly! That’s when families expect 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.
“You’ve been trying to make ‘Tales’ sound more like ‘Let’s Pretend,’ but what if the listeners who love you best”—his tone was achingly gentle— “want to hear the stories you were telling when you first started writing for the show?”
“No.” She cleared her throat, then gave a curt shake of her head. She would not cry! “There were detractors from the start.”
“But you brought the ratings up considerably your first month as narrator.”
“It was the novelty of a new voice on-air, not the writing. Plenty of listeners wrote in to say my stories weren’t cheerful enough—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,” he finished when she could not. “What if you were wrong, Bennet?”
She snorted. “It appears I have been wrong about many things.”
“Aww, poor Bennet.”
She tried to glower at him but found herself smiling instead.
“Maybe the listeners on Saturday mornings aren’t the ones you really want,” he said. “Right now, you’re telling stories to pre-schoolers—to the children too small go out and play on their own. What if you tried bringing your stories to older children—those too mature for ’Let’s Pretend’ but a little too young for ‘The Lone Ranger’ and ‘Dick Tracy’?”
She glanced at him. “That’s not a bad idea, you know.”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“The name of the show would have to change, but…” She stopped, brow furrowing. “How do know so much about children’s radio, anyway? You’ve been at PBN for…what, a few months?”
“A few months is more than enough time, when you’ve spent most of it reading tedious ratings reports.”
“Aww, poor Darcy.”
His lips quirked. “I’ve enjoyed listening to you, at least—to your show, that is.”
She raised a brow. “In comparison to tedious ratings reports, I suppose ‘Tales for Tots’ must be…tolerable.”
He uttered a soft laugh, and again she felt that delightful lurch.
“You’re never going to let me forget that comment from our first meeting, are you?”
“No, I’m not. And since you’ve been so good as to point out all of my failings, allow me to give you a little advice in return: you are terrible at running meetings.”
“That’s not advice, but thank you.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me, the moment I came into your office today, what was going to happen?”
“Because I didn’t know what was going to happen. I did advocate for a time change, but I suggested Wednesday at 4:45.”
She blinked. “That’s when NBC and CBS run many of their shows for juveniles. Do you really think we could compete?”
“If you were willing to write for a slightly 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? 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 and a shake of the head.
“All right, I understand: you can’t insult your father. Then tell me why you stopped being a doctor.”
Another wordless response: a stiffening of the jaw and a hard glare.
“Well?”
“Fine. I’ll tell you,” he said, as a conductor called, “Meryton, next stop!”
She sat up straighter. “You will? All right then, tell me!”
“I’ll tell you,” he said again, leaning forward so that his forearm brushed hers, “when you tell me how you came to know George Wickham.”
She stood abruptly, just as train came to a screeching halt. With a gasp, she slammed into the hard back of the seat a row ahead of her.
“Geez, lady! Watch it!” cried the seat’s occupant, a middle-aged man who had splattered coffee on his newspaper as a result of the inadvertent jolt. Elizabeth could not help but laugh, recognizing him as the same man who had nearly run into her on the street just ninety minutes earlier.
“You think this is funny?” the man said, shaking his newspaper at her.
“I certainly don’t,” said Darcy, rising to his full height and crossing his arms. “Perhaps you ought to watch it.”
The man shrank back into his seat, and Elizabeth felt, all at once, so very tired.
“Exit front for Meryton!” called the conductor.
“Sorry for the trouble,” Elizabeth said to the man with the newspaper, not sure whether she was apologizing for the spilled coffee or the unwarranted intimidation. To Darcy, she said only, “Let me pass.”
He hesitated, brow furrowing, before stepping out into the aisle. When he reached for her case on the overhead rack, she said, “Leave it!” — and again his brow furrowed. But he made no comment, perhaps because there was no time. She had already grabbed her case and was hurrying to the front of the train.
A few minutes later, they stood outside the Meryton station, two unmoving figures amidst a bustle of commuters.
“Do you really want to know what I think of George Wickham?”
She felt Darcy’s gaze but would not, could not, look at him. Instead, she kept her sights fixed on her sister, who was hurrying toward her from across the parking lot. Balancing Tommy on one hip and a bag of groceries on the other, Jane looked as tired as Elizabeth felt—and still Jane smiled that beautiful smile of hers, all warmth and understanding.
“George Wickham,” said Elizabeth, trying to keep her voice steady, “would have done exactly what you did on the train.”
“What?”
Finally, she looked at him—and knew immediately that any comparison between Darcy and Wickham was patently unfair. Still, resentment welled up in her, a corrosive combination of weariness and anger. Would she always live a life dictated by the whims and caprices of the men around her?
“You behaved in such a gentlemanlike manner, standing up for me on the train. Such a show of chivalry!”
He stared at her.
“Lizzy? Lizzy!” Jane hurried forward, grinning. “Oh, you look marvelous in that hat, doesn’t she, Tommy?”
“Yay for hats!” exclaimed the boy, squirming from his mother’s arm and throwing himself at Elizabeth.
Stumbling back a step, she laughed, her bitterness crumbling in an instant. So much for exhaustion! She dropped her bags, swung Tommy into her arms, and laughed again; it was impossible to feel sorry for herself when being plied with slobbery kisses. Then she met Jane’s gaze, mouthed, “Happy birthday,” and laughed a third time.
When Tommy slid back to the ground, he looked up at her, then looked at the man standing beside her. Elizabeth hadn’t forgotten Darcy—how could she, when he stood so near?—but she had worked hard to ignore him, at least while greeting the two most important people in her life.
“I like his hat better than yours,” Tommy declared, pointing at the elegant gray fedora on Darcy’s head. “But I like my hat best of all.”
“Now, Tommy!” Jane offered Darcy a sheepish smile. “Excuse us, sir. My son is, well, he’s…”
“Honest,” said Darcy. “What color is your hat, Tommy?”
“Guess!”
“Blue.”
“No!”
“Black?”
“Yes!”
Darcy nodded. “It is a pirate hat, isn’t it?”
Tommy gaped at him. “How did…”He turned to Elizabeth. “How did he know?”
“Because he is a pirate himself,” said Elizabeth, and she couldn’t help herself: she looked up at him and grinned.
He did not grin back. He must have thought her ridiculous, irrational—one moment raking him across the coals, the next smiling at him as if they were friends.
God, how she wanted to be his friend. More than a friend.
“He doesn’t look like a pirate,” said Tommy.
“Yes, well, he works very hard to hide it.” Elizabeth picked up her bags, then nudged Tommy toward his mother. “Go on. I’ve heard it’s someone’s birthday, and we need to make her a cake.”
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you!” sang Tommy, grabbing Jane by the hand and shaking it heartily.
Laughing, Jane said, “Thank you, Tommy. As for the cake, Kitty and Mary have made one already, though I am not supposed to know. They even tried to clean up after themselves in the kitchen.”
“Wonder of wonders!” Elizabeth started forward. “Should we go then?”
“Well, yes, I suppose, but—“ Jane cast a curious glance at Darcy, and Elizabeth blushed.
She knew, of course, that she ought to introduce the two of them. Jane could not have thought him a stranger to Elizabeth, not after the banter they had just exchanged. To not introduce them might make Jane feel as if Elizabeth was embarrassed by Miss Jane Bennet, the unwed mother. To introduce them would have meant watching Darcy’s face when he learned that she was Miss Jane Bennet, the unwed mother.
Elizabeth had real reason to be angry with Darcy after what had happened at PBN, but she did not want to be thoroughly disappointed in him, too.
With a sigh, she said, “Jane, this is Dar—Dr. Dracy, my boss. He happened to be on the same train.”
Her sister’s eyes widened. “Dr. Darcy? You’re staying with Dr. Bingley this weekend, aren’t you?”
Now it was his turn to appear surprised. “You know Bingley?”
“His name,” said Tommy, tugging at Darcy’s knee, “is Doctor Charlie, and he’s the best doctor in the world!”
Darcy gave a solemn nod. “He’s your doctor, I suppose?”
“He fixed this boo-boo”—Tommy pointed to a barely-visible scab on his forearm—“right here.”
Darcy bent down and examined it for a long moment. “Yes, very good.” Then, to Jane, “Meryton is lucky to have such a good doctor.”
“Indeed! I’m also the part-time housekeeper at Netherfield, which is how I knew you’d be coming to stay. Miss Bingley wanted me to make sure your room was all in order before you arrived today.”
Darcy said, “I hope you did not have to work on a Saturday—and your birthday, to boot.”
“Oh, it was no trouble,” replied Jane, smiling.
Elizabeth watched Darcy, who was in turn watching Tommy. The boy was now running circles around Jane, who kept shifting the grocery bag from one hip to the other so that Tommy, in his enthusiasm, would not bump the contents.
Darcy was surely too observant not to see what Elizabeth saw: it had indeed been inconvenient for Jane to come to work unexpectedly on a Saturday.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I am very grateful to you for getting the room ready for me, Mrs…”
When his voice trailed, Elizabeth almost glanced away. She did not want to see the usual progression of reactions—dismay, disapproval, disdain—flit across his face. She would never again be able to see him in the same way.
But no: she would not look away. She would watch him, and be better for it too: she really did need to get over this silly crush of hers!
“Miss Bennet,” said Jane, with a slight tilt of her chin. “Miss Jane Bennet.”
Did he know Elizabeth was watching him? Was that why he kept his expression so perfectly schooled, so unassuming and polite? Or did he really not care that Jane was an unwed mother?
Elizabeth wasn’t sure the answer mattered. Either way, that silly crush of hers was becoming something far more dangerous.
“Thank you, Miss Bennet,” he said, nodding to Jane. Then, to Tommy, “Will you wear your pirate’s hat to your mother’s birthday party this evening?”
“No, silly!” Tommy laughed. “Aunt Lydia and I made party hats!”
“Right, of course. Well, I suppose I should let you all…” A pause, and then, finally, he looked at her.
No, it was not the same as taking a running jump from Longbourn’s rickety old dock; it was like leaping from the Empire State Building.
“Enjoy the weekend, Bennet,” he said, just before striding off toward a line of taxis at the station entrance.
“You too,” she murmured, trying not to grin like the fool she was.
© 2024 Christina Morland
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