On Air: An Elizabeth and Darcy Story (Part 4)

Happy New Year, Friends!

Here’s yet another part of my Elizabeth and Darcy story, set in 1939 New York. Darcy’s family owns a radio network, PBN (Pemberley Broadcasting Network), and Elizabeth is a voice actor and writer for one of the shows. I’m having fun making sparks fly between these two!

Of course, the problem with writing serial stories is that everything is uncertain: the storyline and the timing of future posts! I think I’m about halfway through, and I hope to post again in a few weeks. This post is a manifestation of my busy and slightly disorganized life: that is, it’s not edited because I ran out of time! Still, I hope you enjoy!

If you’re interested in Parts I, II, and III, follow the links. If you’d like to wait until the story is finished, I’ll let you know when that’s the case!

On to Part IV…

On-Air (Part 4)

(An Elizabeth and Darcy Short Story)

[Editor’s Note: I’ve put the last few paragraphs of Part III in italics, just to make the transition to Part IV a little clearer… ]

Yet as he stood under the warmth of an August sun, watching Elizabeth Bennet, her face tipped up to the sky, he had a hard time believing in his own plan.

Foolish, this idea that she, a woman he hardly knew, held the key to understanding himself. When he talked (argued, bantered) with her, he felt more alive than he had since leaving medicine six months ago. But what did that prove, except that he regretted the promise he’d made to his father—and to himself?

He turned his back on the meadow.

Next to him, Caroline Bingley cleared her throat, delicately at first—and then not-so-delicately.

He ignored her.

She shifted closer, the silk of her billow sleeve brushing against his arm.

He forced himself to remain utterly still.

With a heavy sigh, she tapped her long, red nails against the stone balustrade.

At this obvious sign of annoyance, he almost forgot himself and laughed.

Usually, she fawned over him, no matter how uncivil his behavior. He was, after all, a descendent of the Fitzwilliams, one of New York’s oldest and wealthiest families. Perhaps it was Caroline’s reverence for the past that caused her to address him, without exception, as Fitzwilliam. Her brother, on the other hand, only called him that if he was poking fun.

How was it that Caroline and Charles Bingley were not only siblings but twins?

Still, they were siblings, and so Darcy supposed he owed Caroline a bit of respect, if only for her brother’s sake.

With a fortifying breath, he turned to her. Tall and elegant, she met every conventional standard of beauty, yet there was something about her that made him feel as if he were looking at a photograph—glossy and still—rather than a living, breathing person. He had never known her to appear genuinely happy. Perhaps she thought it gauche, expressing something as simple as good cheer. That, or she truly was miserable.

Either way, he pitied her—except, of course, when he was in her presence, and then he pitied himself.

“Pardon me,” he said, forcing a smile. “My mind was elsewhere. You were saying?”

All signs of annoyance vanished; the obsequious hanger-on had returned.

“You are considering,” she said, with a trilling laugh, “how insupportable it would be to pass many afternoons in this manner!”

Her words were so far from his actual thoughts—and so oddly put, too—that he could only stare at her.

“I am quite of your opinion,” she continued, as if his silence was confirmation of all she had just said. “I was never more annoyed at my brother for settling here. The insipidity, the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of these people!” She cocked her head toward the meadow. “Do you know how often strangers wander across our grounds in this way?”

He only just barely stopped himself from turning back to look at the woman who was not, to him, a stranger.

“What I would not give,” Caroline continued, “to hear your strictures on them!”¹

“Strictures?” Bingley strolled up to them, throwing an arm about his sister’s shoulders. “Caro, you sound like something out of a book!”

She shrugged off her brother’s arm. “Since when do you read books?”

He laughed. “All right then, you sound like something out of a film—Greta Garbo, pretending to be royalty in Queen Christina.”

She glared at him.

“I meant it as a compliment!” he said, laughing again, then turning to Darcy. “Sorry for not joining you earlier; had to finish up my notes.”

Bingley had spent the last few hours making house calls in Meryton. He had asked Darcy to join him, and it had taken every bit of Darcy’s willpower to refuse. Just the sight of that black physician’s bag, dropped carelessly by the terrace doors, made his heart beat a little faster.

“We were just discussing the frequent interlopers on our land,” Caroline told her brother, turning her disapproving gaze toward the meadow.

“Interlopers?” Bingley squinted into the distance, but there was nothing (or no one) in the meadow now, aside from its usual occupants: the flowering grasses, the creatures who hid therein, and that single, solitary tree.

“Ah, good, she is gone! You ought to put a ‘no trespassing sign’ on the property, Charles.”

“Oh certainly, and one of those new-and-improved electric fences, too.”

Caroline pursed her lips. “Make fun of me if you like, Charles, but I am certain everyone in this drab little town knows you are a part-owner of a thriving department store, even if you must pretend to be a country doctor. I would not be surprised if the people so frequently cutting across our property are trying to ascertain when we are in residence—and when we are not.”

“You think we are going to be robbed—here, in the country?”

“Well, why ever not? It is a great misconception, Charles, that cities are more dangerous these rural backwaters.”

“You’re the one who urged me to buy Netherfield!”

“Well, you were the one determined to open a doctor’s office in the middle of nowhere! Where else were you going to live? That squalid little shack you rented when you first moved here? I couldn’t be expected to visit you there.”   

Bingley frowned. “It was not a shack. If you knew how other people had to live…”

She shrugged. “I am not talking of other people, Charles. Our father worked very hard to build Scarborough’s—to give us a different sort of life. You insult his memory pretending otherwise!” Caroline turned to Darcy. “My brother has become quite the radical. This is why I was so glad you returned to New York. I knew you, Fitzwilliam, would talk some sense into—”

“Your brother is doing very good work,” Darcy cut in coldly. Then he glanced at Bingley, his face red, his arms crossed, and felt a sudden pang of guilt. Had this arrogance been what Georgi had heard in his voice when he had spoken of George Wickham?

Meeting Bingley’s gaze, Darcy said, in a gentler tone, “Very good work.”

Caroline sniffed. “Oh yes, very good work! You should see him, accepting a chicken—a chicken!—in lieu of actual payment! What are we to do with a chicken?”

“Keep it for eggs or, I don’t know, eat it?” Bingley suggested. “Speaking of food, I’m going to the kitchen. I just want to make sure Jane—Miss Bennet—has what she needs to finish up dinner. She wasn’t supposed to work on Saturday, and now she’s working on Sunday, too.”

“She said she could use the extra work, Charles. Of course, if I had been consulted in hiring your housekeeper, I would have chosen someone quite different.”

“Look, I wouldn’t have hired a housekeeper at all, if you hadn’t insisted on Netherfield, Caro.”

“Have you left Manhattan, then?” Darcy asked her, almost in spite of himself. He tried never to ask Caroline questions, as it suggested a far greater level of interest in her than he actually possessed. But he thought he might risk it now, if only it would put an end to the siblings’ squabbles.

“Hardly! I only visit, on occasion. Scarborough’s keeps me far too busy,” she said, and for a moment, her smile seemed lighter, more genuine. “You must come see our fall fashion line—for your sister’s sake, of course. How is dear Georgiana? I have not seen her in ages—at least, not in person.”

“How else could you see her, if not in person?” Bingley asked, laughing.

“In the papers, of course! Her photograph has been in the Times and Vogue this past month.” Lips pursed, Caroline shot Darcy a glance. “Always with that same…gentleman.”

Was not Caroline’s obvious disdain for Wickham a point in his favor? It was clear that she thought Georgiana Darcy, daughter of the once-famous socialite Anne Fitzwilliam and the now-famous radio titan George Darcy, ought to be seen with someone “better” than a man unknown to New York high society.

“Charles!” Caroline called after her brother, who was making his way toward the house. “Where do you think you are going?”

“The kitchen, as I said, to make sure—”

“I will check on the progress of dinner.” With a glance back at Darcy, she added, “Do advise him to keep his distance from the housekeeper, Fitzwilliam—for his sake, if not hers.”

As he watched her disappear into the house, he thought of his own sibling discord and sighed.

“I know: she’s being awful,” said Bingley, coming to stand next to him.

Darcy felt himself flush. “I wasn’t thinking of her.”

“Well, I am.” Bingley pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s been especially bitter these past several weeks. Her D.A.R. application was rejected—again. Something about too many new members, but what they really meant was”—he managed a bitter laugh—“too Jewish.”

“It’s a ridiculous organization,” said Darcy. “A club for bored socialites, nothing more.”

Bingley smiled. “Says the grandson of the Manhattan chapter’s charter member.”

“Touché. I don’t suppose your sister can take any solace in Mrs. Roosevelt’s resignation, after that business with Marian Anderson.”²

“You don’t want hear what my sister has to say about Mrs. Roosevelt—and especially Marian Anderson. For Caroline, of all people, to act with such prejudice toward others…”³ Bingley gave an angry shake of his head.

Darcy could offer no words of comfort. Caroline’s attitude was repugnant—but utterly human, too. Working for the Red Cross, he’d seen firsthand how people responded when badly hurt: sometimes with grace and heroism, other times with bitterness and scorn.

“Enough of such gloomy talk.” Bingley clapped him on the back. “Let’s follow Caro to the kitchen; I don’t want her to say something cruel to Ja—Miss Bennet.”

“You said Caroline hired her?” he asked, following his friend into the house.

Bingley cleared his throat. “Actually, no. I hired her. I was visiting her son, Tommy; he had a mild case of pertussis a few weeks ago. I started talking with her about this and that and…well, I learned she was out of work, and it just seemed to be the right thing to do.”

“So you hired her without knowing her capabilities as a housekeeper?”

Bingley glanced over at him. “I know what you’re thinking, Darcy.”

No doubt he did. Several years earlier, they had both been working in California, running a medical clinic for farmers displaced by the dust storms. Two months in, Bingley had become infatuated with one of the nurses, leading him to overlook her mistakes—small ones, at first, but increasingly more egregious errors with each passing day. Darcy had advised his friend to step away and ask an objective, more experienced nurse to supervise, but Bingley had assured him he had everything under control. Only when a patient received the wrong medicine—luckily, without any severe repercussions—had Bingley woken up to his own blindness. He’d had to let the nurse go, ending both her employment and their relationship.

“I know you’re looking out for me,” said Bingley, “but the situation is entirely different here. Look around.” They had just entered the main hall: airy, light, and spotless. “Jane—Miss Bennet is doing a fantastic job, and even if she weren’t, who cares? It’s just a house, not a patient. No one will be harmed if she lacks experience!”

Darcy winced. Bingley, of course, was referring to Shelly, the nurse from his past, but his words applied to Darcy, too. After the error he had made, six months earlier, who was he to judge the mistakes of others?

“Besides,” Bingley continued, as they made their way down a corridor lined with portraits that must have belonged to the previous owner, “it was Caro’s idea to hire a housekeeper in the first place. She couldn’t manage such a large house on her own, and God knows I can’t.” As if to underscore this point, he stopped, turned around, then turned around again. “I think we’re lost.”

“You are not lost, Charles!” Caroline breezed past them, carrying a basket of steaming muffins. “The breakfast parlor is this way.”

“It’s not time for breakfast; it’s nearing 4!”

“The breakfast parlor is just what they call the room, Charles!”

“Who’s ‘they’? Anyway, I want to go to the kitch—”

“Miss Bennet is almost finished preparing dinner. Do not bother her. Now, come along! I am certain Fitzwilliam is famished.”

In fact, he wasn’t, but he followed Caroline and a reluctant Bingley into a room with a simple round table and four Windsor chairs—a much better space for the three of them than the massive dining room where they’d eaten in near silence the night before.

“Why don’t we eat here all the time?” asked Bingley, plopping into one of the chairs and looking about with something like wonder. “Three weeks, and I’ve never seen this room before!”

“That is because you are exceptionally unobservant, Charles,” said Caroline. To Darcy, she said, “Muffin?”

“Er, no, thank you. Bingley, how can you have lived here three weeks and not toured your own house yet?”

“That is precisely what I asked him!” Caroline exclaimed.

“I’ve been busy! It’s no mean feat, setting up a practice on one’s own.” Bingley shot Darcy a not-so-subtle glance. “This town really could use a pair of doctors, you know.”

Darcy frowned.

“When I’m home,” Bingley continued, reaching for the basket of muffins, “I eat whatever Ja—Miss Bennet leaves for me in the kitch…Ow!”

Caroline had swatted his hand, snatching the basket from her brother’s grasp. “These are for our guest!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Caro, he said he didn’t want any. Why did you request muffins before dinner, anyway? That hardly seems your idea of a sophisticated hors d’oeuvre.”

She flushed. “In truth, they were meant for our breakfast tomorrow, but as Fitzwilliam is taking the early train to Manhattan, and as the muffins were fresh, I thought they ought not go to waste. Please,” she added, pushing the basket toward Darcy, “do have one.”

Before his sister could protest, Bingley plucked two muffins from the pile, tossing one of them to his sister. She caught it instinctively, then squeaked, as if she had caught a mouse instead of a muffin.

“It’s clear you want one, Caro,” he said, laughing as he bit into his own. “You’ve been eyeing them with more longing than I’ve seen you eye anything, even”—he glanced at Darcy and winked—“that Tiffany bracelet I got you for your birthday.”

She glowered, sniffed the muffin, then took a squirrel-like nibble—followed by much larger bite.

“Oh, these are good!” she said, sighing gustily. “I will give Miss Bennet this: she is a competent cook.”

“More than competent, I’d say. See, Darcy?” Bingley grinned at him. “Even Caro agrees she’s a professional.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Caroline dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “She brought the child with her to work, did you know?”

“Tommy’s here?” Bingley pushed his chair back. “Then I definitely have to visit—”

“No, you will not!” Caroline slapped her palms against the table, as if she might keep him in his seat with the force of her movement. “You are being irresponsible, Charles!”

“And you are being pretentious!”

“I’m being realistic!” To Darcy, she added, “Did you know our dear little housekeeper had a son—out of wedlock!”

“That has nothing to do with her qualifications as a—”

“Oh, so now you care about her qualifications, do you?” Caroline huffed. “I cannot believe you, Charles! You’ve lived here for one month, and already, you’re the center of town gossip!”

“I don’t care about gossip. Besides, how would you know anything at all about Meryton? You’re hardly ever here!”

“I was in line at the post office the other day,” said Caroline, “minding my own business, when some woman I do not even know came up to me and said—this is a direct quote, Charles—‘That girl will ensnare your brother!’”

Bingley’s face reddened. “People are fools, Caroline, and if you believe their malicious rumors, you’re just as—”

“Miss Bennet scared off the town’s postal clerk, did you know that?” Caroline leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table with such force her fingers whitened. “He took her to dinner once or twice and then, suddenly, he’s gone and she’s pregnant!”

“Wait, so he ran out on her, and now it’s her fault?”

“Oh, come on, Charles! She tricked him, and he decided to leave town, rather than get saddled with a woman who only wanted to trap him!”

“Tricked him? Trap him?” Bingley uttered a humorless laugh. “Do I need to explain the ‘Facts of Life’ to you, Caroline?”

His sister flushed. “All I’m saying, Charles, is that if she is willing to throw herself at postal clerk, what do you think she will do to catch a millionaire?”

“I’m done.” Bingley stood. “I’m not listening to you malign her anymore. I’m going to the—”

“No.” Darcy’s voice was low and hoarse. “Keep your distance from her, my friend.”

Bingley gaped at him. “What?”

“Thank you!” Caroline lifted her chin. “I knew you would—”

“I don’t agree with what you’ve said about Miss Bennet,” he cut in, frowning at Caroline. “She seems a fine person, but—”

“You’ve met her?” Bingley and his sister asked in unison.

“Yesterday, at the train station, but that’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” Bingley asked, crossing his arms. “Because from my perspective—”

“That’s exactly the problem,” interrupted Darcy. “You’re only looking at it from your perspective. You’re not doing Miss Bennet any favors, Bingley, by showing her, or her son, such attention. Have you thought about your reputation? Or hers?”

“Reputation?” Bingley scoffed. “What, are we living in the nineteenth century? It’s 1939! I don’t care about my—”

“What of your practice, Bingley? If people think you’re involved in some kind of immoral—“

“Immoral!”

“—behavior, do you think they’ll keep coming to you?”

“Fine then! Let them return to old Dr. Goulding, who never makes house calls and charges them exorbitant rates!”

“You’re not thinking this through.” Darcy sighed. “She’s an unwed mother, Bingley. What does it look like, her working her all day in your house without anyone but you present?”

Bingley opened his mouth to answer, then closed it, his eyes fixed on some point behind Darcy.

“Er, hello?” Bingley asked, clearly befuddled.

Darcy knew, before he turned to look, who stood in the doorway. It was probably the sound of her indrawn breath, or perhaps the subtle scent she wore, vanilla with a hint of something spicier. Those were the rational clues, but he found himself certain it was actually the anger, radiating from her in invisible waves. He’d been in too many meetings with her not to recognize it. He remembered thinking, just after their first meeting, how was she was perfect for radio: not just because her voice was pitch-perfect or her ideas were so full of vigor. No, it was her ability to transmit feelings without saying a single word.

“Your dinner,” she said, marching into the room and depositing a casserole dish onto the table.

She flashed him a single, furious glance—then gave a mock curtsy to the table before turning and marching right back out of the room.

© 2025 Christina Morland

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Notes:

1. I’ve sprinkled Caroline Bingley’s words from canon with a few phrases of my own here. The following is the original quote from Jane Austen, Chapter  6: “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner,—in such society; and, indeed, I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise—the nothingness, and yet the self-importance, of all these people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!” (Austen)

2. In April 1939, the Daughters of the American Revolution (an elite women’s organization based on family connections to those who served in the American revolution) denied Marian Anderson, a Black opera singer, the right to hold a concert in Constitution Hall, one of the DAR’s concert venues. In protest, First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt resigned her membership.

3. I wasn’t sure if “prejudice” and “prejudiced” were used to refer to racial and religious discrimination during this time. The OED was unclear on this matter, so I looked in the archives of the NY Times. While most references to the word “prejudice” refer to one person having a non-racial bias against another, there are several examples of the word prejudice being used to reference antisemitism and racial bias in the 1930s. So, I feel confident that Bingley could have used this word without sounding too twenty-first-century-ish!