On Air: An Elizabeth and Darcy Story (Part 7)

Whoa, is it Friday already! (Perhaps even Saturday, depending where in the world you live?) I meant to post this yesterday…and forgot! So sorry!

Here’s Part 7 — or really part 6.5 — of my Elizabeth and Darcy story, set in 1939. I believe there will be one final part of the story, which I hope to post around the end of March.

If you’re interested in the earlier parts, you can find them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6.

This part begins halfway through where I left off last time. I made some changes because I didn’t really like how I ended that last part. Just one of the many reasons I ought not write serially!

Thanks for your patience and understanding as I stumble through this story. Hope you find a bit of joy in it, and feel free to leave any feedback or suggestions! Thanks, all!

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On-Air (Part 6.5)

(An Elizabeth and Darcy Short Story)

It was her turn to laugh, and he wondered what he might give to make this a regular occurrence, hurrying through Grand Central, holding her hand, hearing her laugh.

Only when they had stowed their bags and settled into their seats did he allow himself to remember George Wickham—and only then because he owed it to his sister to make certain his deductions were, in fact, correct.

“Tommy,” he said, his voice catching on the boy’s name. “Is he…is Wickham…” 

“Yes,” she whispered, staring down at her hands, now balled into fists on her lap.

He leaned into her slightly, their arms touching.

“How did you figure it out?” she asked, glancing up at him. “When Wickham mentioned he had once been a postal clerk, I saw how you looked at me, as if you knew. But I don’t understand how you knew, just from that comment…”

“It wasn’t that comment alone.” He told her of the gossip Caroline Bingley had heard from the locals: that Jane Bennet had often been seen in the company of the town’s handsome young postal clerk—until the postal clerk left town and Jane had ended up pregnant.

“But there are a lot of postal clerks in the world. How did you know it was him?”

“I…I hired a private detective.”

“What?”

The word erupted from her, and at such a volume that the man sitting in front of them glanced back, eyebrows raised.

Darcy gave him a hard stare, until the man shrugged and turned back in his seat.

“Are you going to start harassing the poor passengers in front of us again?” Bennet whispered.

“Oh, so now you use your quiet voice.”

“Perhaps I was a little loud just then, but can you blame me? For God’s sake, Darcy, a detective! Have you told your sister?”

“Of course not. She’d be livid.”

“Rightly so! It’s rather high-handed of you!”

“I’m just looking out for her.”

“Isn’t she twenty-three or twenty-four?”

“In fact, she’s twenty-two.”

“Don’t you think she can look out for herself?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem!”

“Have you even talked to her about him?”

“Of course I have. I’ve told her I don’t trust him. He came out of nowhere; we don’t know a damn thing about him!”

“You actually said that to her?”

“Well, not in so many words, but—”

“Why didn’t you start with, ‘Georgi, I care about you. Tell me about this person you care about?’”

“No one talks like that, Bennet.”

“I do!”

“Really? If your sister were dating someone you didn’t trust, you’d sit her down and say, ‘Dearest sister, tell me the inner workings of your heart?’”

Her mouth quivered, as if she wanted to laugh. “I’ll tell you this: if one of my sisters went behind my back and investigated you, I’d—”

“Me?”

Their gazes locked, and then, blushing, she glanced away.

“Why would your sisters consider me important enough to investigate?” He nudged her lightly with his shoulder. “I’m just that man you happen to hate.”

She smiled at him then—a slow, arch smile that made his breath catch. “There may be some small chance that I don’t hate you.”

Never mind all the troubles weighing him down; in that moment, he felt lighter than air.

“Besides,” she added, with a careless wave of her hand, “my sisters may have heard something about you—from Tommy.”

“Ah, from Tommy.”

“He’s fascinated with your secret life as a pirate, of course.”

Darcy grinned.  “He must talk about me often, then.”

“Often? I don’t know about that. But you are rather…intriguing.”

“Is that Tommy’s word for me? Rather grown-up vocabulary for a child.”

“Well, he is a clever kid.”

“Must get it from his aunt.”

She laughed. “I don’t know where he gets it from, but—” All at once, her face fell, and her shoulders drooped. “Sometimes, when Tommy laughs, there’s this expression on his face that reminds me he’s not just Jane’s child, and in those moments, I find myself wishing…”

She sighed.

“You wish Wickham weren’t his father.” 

“It’s an awful thing to think, isn’t it? It’s almost like wishing him out of existence.”

“No,” he said. “It’s possible to love Tommy for who he is, even if you do despise his father. We don’t have to be like our parents, Bennet, no matter what we’ve inherited from them.”

At least, that was what he hoped, desperately so. He loved his father—loved him for his vitality and creativity, his ambition and drive. But he had also spent so much of his life trying to be someone different. He wanted to be his own version of a Darcy.

She closed her eyes. “Oh, Darcy…I’m sorry. I should have told you much sooner what I knew about Wickham.”

“Hey,” he murmured, when she twisted away from him, leaning her forehead against the train window. “Elizabeth.”

At the sound of her name, she turned back and met his eyes.

“You were just trying to protect your family.”

“And so are you,” she said, blinking rapidly, “which is why I should have—”

“Look, Bennet, even if you had told me earlier, I still would have hired a detective.”

“Oh, naturally.” She glared at him. “I suppose you’d have needed more than just my word as evidence.”

“Ah, there you are!”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I was wondering what had happened to that vexing coworker of mine—you know, the one with the propensity for taking everything I say out of context?”

She bit her lip, but it did no good: her laugh slipped free, sunlight masquerading as sound. “Who uses words like propensity and vexing these days?”

“Only pirates.”

When she laughed again, the man in front of them glanced back a second time.

“Sorry!” she said to him, biting back another laugh.

When the man was again facing front, she whispered to Darcy, “I really am a loudmouth, aren’t I?”

He couldn’t help himself; his gaze settled on her lips. “Maybe you are a loudmouth, but…I don’t think I could ever get enough of your laugh, Bennet.”

She went still and silent—a just punishment for his stupid sentimentality.

As he shifted in his seat, trying to think of some way to make this moment less awkward, she said, “Well, this is a muddle, isn’t it?”

He wasn’t sure if she meant the business with Wickham—or his feelings for her. So he said, “Yes.”

“So…this private detective. He knows about Tommy and Jane?”

“No, at least, not yet. I only hired the man a week ago, and all he’s been able to find so far is a list of Wickham’s previous addresses—including his six-month stay, five years ago, at Minuteman Lodging House in Meryton.”

“Ah. So it was the address plus Wickham’s comment about being a postal clerk…”

“Yes.”

“When are you going to tell your sister what you’ve learned?”

“I don’t know. I tried to convince her, just this morning, not to go with him on this birthday jaunt, to stay at home and celebrate with me, but…” He shook his head.

A cake, he’d told Georgi, giving her an awkward kiss on the cheek when she’d come to see him in the office. “Let’s leave PBN; we’ll go home, and I’ll bake you a cake.”

Never mind that he had never before baked a cake. The idea had just slipped out, like someone else’s memory: Elizabeth, Jane, and Tommy Bennet, hurrying home to enjoy a slice of cake baked by one of their own.

He could picture all of the Bennet sisters—though he had never met the youngest three—sitting around a table together, with Tommy on his mother’s lap as she drew in a deep breath to blow out the candles.

God, how he had wanted that moment for Georgi and himself. Maybe Georgi had wanted it too, for when he’d made the offer, she had paused, as if she might say yes. But then Wickham had bounded into the office, reminding her they had to leave for their trip to the Hamptons.

Darcy almost told her then what he’d gleaned about Wickham’s past. But this revelation, sprung on her without warning, would have sent her running to George Wickham, rather than away from him.

“Look,” he said to Bennet now. “You’re right: I probably shouldn’t have hired the detective, at least not without telling Georgi. But it’s not just my sister I’m worried about. My father has become increasingly dependent on Wickham at work, and I don’t trust—”

My father. He couldn’t bring himself to finish that sentence aloud—and not just because he hated to speak ill of the man who had raised him. Darcy had, for the first time in minutes, become aware of his own surroundings. It turned out that he and Bennet had an audience: the man sitting in front of them had now turned completely in his seat, so that he sat on his knees, his elbows digging into the top of the seat, his chin propped on his fists.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Darcy demanded.

“Oh, dear,” said Bennet, with something like a sigh—or a laugh.

“So I forgot my paper, and I’m bored stiff,” said the man, grinning. “If you’re willing to provide all of this free entertainment—”

“We are not,” said Darcy, glowering.

“I should warn you”—Bennet leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile—“my friend here is known for knocking the hats off the heads of gentlemen who annoy him.”

Darcy turned his glare on her.

“Well, one of us likes to knock off hats. Either way,” she added to the man in front of them, “your headwear is in no small amount of danger, sir.”

“Here,” he said, taking the cap from his head and offering it to her. “I’d give up my hat, no problem, if it mean listening to the two of you. You’re better than one of those dramas on CBS!”

“CBS?” Darcy no longer knew if he wanted to scowl or laugh.

“I’d choose PBN, if I were you,” said Bennet.

“Ah, PBN’s all right, I guess, but CBS has better shows.”

“Well, Darcy, here’s your chance: you can find out what the average listener thinks.”

“Are you in radio?” the man asked him, eyes widening. “I’d love to get into radio!”

“You don’t have the voice for it,” muttered Darcy.

“Yeah, you’re right,” said the man, good-naturedly. “But I could work behind the scenes; I’m great with wires and antennas and… you know, those doohickeys the radio men use? Now you”—he pointed at Bennet—“you’ve got a voice for radio!”

She glanced at Darcy, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Listen,” said the man, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a card. “I’m just thinking—”

Darcy sighed and held out his hand. At least twice a week, someone gave him his card, hoping to “get into radio.”

But the card, it seemed, was for Bennet.

“Just in case,” said the man, winking at her, “you’re not with this guy—or you don’t want to be anymore.”

“Are you serious?” Darcy said. “Are you actually—”

The man held up his hands. “I’m just saying! When I was listening—”

“Eavesdropping.”

“—I couldn’t tell if the two of you were an item!” He waved the card at Bennet. “So, what do you say?”

Now her entire body was trembling, but she managed to keep a straight face as she said, “Thank you, but no.”

“Ah, well, a guy’s got to take his chances, you know?” He started to turn away, but then, suddenly swung back around to face her. “You sure? Because I would never hire a private detective to snoop on my sister and—”

“You’ve taken more than your fair share of chances today,” said Darcy, half rising from his seat.

“All right, all right!” The guy turned and sat down, throwing over his shoulder, “But if you change your mind—”

“She won’t,” said Darcy, “but you may: try listening to more PBN, Tuesdays, 10 pm.”

Bennet glanced at him, biting her lip—then bursting into laughter.

Only when the man exited at the next stop—giving Darcy a jaunty wave and blowing Bennet a kiss—did Darcy allow himself to laugh, as well.

“I suppose,” said Bennet, nodding toward the older woman who just had taken the seat in front of them, “we should have a more ‘train-appropriate’ conversation.”

“Such as?”

“The weather is usually safe.”

“Very warm for the second of September.”

“Indeed.”

Silence, and then, “It’s your turn to come up with a topic, Darcy.”

“Books?”

“Normally, yes—but not on a train. I can never talk of books on a train. I get motion sickness, just thinking of reading while moving at 50 miles per hour.”

“The news, then?” But as soon as he said it, he regretted it. “No, let’s not talk of the news, either.”

She made a soft sound, something between a sigh and sad little laugh. “Yes, the  news is the worst topic of all. Were you at PBN yesterday when the broadcast came through? I…I didn’t see you.”

He again felt that baffling lightness, that sense that all was right in the world, when in fact, there were too many problems to count. Still, that she had looked for him…

“I was in my father’s office.”

They had been meeting with a board member and two bankers, discussing the possibilities of yet another loan. If they hadn’t heard the commotion through the closed door—the exclamations, followed by the broadcast, blaring at full volume, announcing Germany’s invasion of Poland—he might not have known for hours.

“This business in Europe will blow over,” his father had declared, when the broadcast had ended. “Now, Mr. Friedman, another cup of coffee? Or perhaps something stronger? It’s almost noon, you know!”

Darcy could not adopt his father’s optimism. Before Poland, it had been Austria, and then parts of Czechoslovakia. And it wasn’t just Europe that was crumbling: hundreds of thousands had died in Ethiopia, when the Italian army had invaded a few years earlier—and in China, millions had perished since Japan’s occupation of Manchuria in 1931.

How long could Americans pretend fascist rhetoric was mere bluster? When would it be come clear that all this talk of superiority and dominance was not, in fact, just talk? War would not remain safely tucked away on other continents—not for long.

“You sound shocked,” Bingley had said, when Darcy had telephoned him a few hours after the broadcast. His friend’s voice had crackled across the long-distance line. Static or frustration? Both, likely.

“The invasion of Poland changes everything, Bingley, even if we want to deny it. My father and his friends think we can stay out of war, but—”

“Yes, the invasion is awful, and we are going to war, sooner or later—but to be shocked about it? No, I can’t be shocked. After Kristallnacht, nothing the Nazis do should shock us.¹ Then again, what do I know? I’m just one of those trouble-making Jews.”

“Bingley—”

“Sorry, Darce. I know I sound bitter, but—”

“No, I’m being a jackass. Do you…do you have any family in Europe?”

“Probably, but my father’s parents made a complete break—name change and all—when they immigrated, so I don’t really know. If my father hadn’t married into a more observant family, I doubt I’d ever have been to a synagogue.” Bingley had paused then, for so long that Darcy had feared the line had been disconnected.

Finally: “If Jane, that is, if the people here in Meryton knew I was Jewish—I don’t really advertise it, you know—well, I can’t help but wonder: would they still want me to be their doctor?”

“They’d be fools not to, Bingley.”

“But we’re all fools, in our own way. That’s the problem. We tend to live our lives as we’ve always lived them, and if someone asks us to change…Bah! Enough of this! I promise, when you come to visit this weekend, we’ll ban all talk of news and other serious matters! I won’t even bring up my practice—or how you should join it.”

“Then what the hell are we going to talk about?”

“I’ll regale you with amusing stories about some of my patients. Or, better yet, I’ll wax eloquent on the beauties of a certain angel I happen to know.”

“So that’s not serious, then?”

“Actually…it is. I know what you said last weekend, and I know you’re right. I don’t want to ruin her reputation! But, well…damn it, Darcy. Maybe you ought to give me more advice on my love life, after all!”

“You truly want my advice?”

“No, not really. I just want to talk about Jane. I’ve never met a more beautiful woman, Darcy—never. And I’m not just talking about her looks, though if we are talking about her looks, there was this moment, yesterday, when—”

“Save it, Bingley. I’m not paying long-distance to hear you carry on about your latest infatuation.”

“That’s just it: I’m not sure it is infatuation. Look, I know you’re not a romantic. You’ve never lost your head over a woman, but…”

Except he had, hadn’t he? Yesterday, when he’d made that phone call to Bingley, he’d gone days without talking to Bennet—and still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Now, sitting next to her on the train—arguing, bantering, talking, flirting—he didn’t want to go another minute, much less another week, without hearing her voice.

Of course, now she was silent, for he had brought up the news, and before that, they had been focused on Jane, Tommy, Georgi, and Wickham. Was there any in-between topic—one more substantial than the weather and less solemn than the problems of their families, or the world—that they could discuss? Was it possible, in these times, to be two regular people, searching for something like happiness?

Apparently not, for he asked, “Do you want to talk about it…the news from Europe, I mean?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. Can I tell you something terrible? When I’m in my apartment,  I I turn off the radio as soon as a news broadcast airs—not a good position to take, as employees of a radio network, is it?”

“With so much bad news in the world, it’s almost an act of self-preservation.”

“Yes, exactly! So many countries, at war or on the verge of it! So many people out of work, or without homes or food. The worst of it is, it’s not compassion that’s making me turn away from all this—just plain old guilt. Because when I wake up in the morning and I catch sight of the drawing Tommy sent home with me last week, or when I hear Charlotte, in her dry, humorous voice, describing her horrible date from the night before, or when I’m walking to work and I see a daisy, poking its way through the crack of a sidewalk—I just feel so incredibly happy! And then I think, What right do I have to be so happy when the world is such a mess?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “Do you spend much time, admiring daisies growing out of sidewalks?”

“Oh, all the time,” he replied, smiling back.

“All right,” she said, after they had fallen silent for another long minute, “so news is out of the question. You’ve got to come up with something else, then. We still have twenty minutes left on this train.” 

“I already suggested books.”

“Well, try again!”

“Oh, fine…mountains or the ocean?”

“Do you mean, which do I prefer? Mountains, I suppose, though I’ve never been.”

“Never?”

“Well, I’ve never really been to the ocean, either, unless you count looking out at it from the Coney Island boardwalk.”

“You’ve never been to the mountains? Not even the Catskills?”

“Meryton and Manhattan, Darcy—those are my domains. What, did you think I had the time or money to take jaunts around the world, like some people I know?”

He flushed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Neither did I,” she said, tone softening. “I know you’ve not been traveling for pleasure. I heard…well, Jane told me you and Dr. Bingley used to work together overseas. I suppose you’ve been to many mountains…and a few oceans, as well?”

He sighed and said nothing.

“Oh, you are so frustrating, Darcy! You can’t start a conversation and then stop it, when it suits you.”

“Well, I wasn’t trying to talk about me. I wanted to know more about you.”

“Oh.”

“Look, I’m not good at making conversation, alright?”

“Well, at least I’ve never been bored when talking with you. Now, don’t start grinning at me like that, as if you’re proud of yourself. You just admitted you’re terrible at talking with people.”

“I didn’t say terrible. I said ‘not good.’”

“Don’t you suppose, with all your education, you ought to be able to hold a simple conversation, now and then?”

He shrugged. “So I don’t have a talent for small talk.”

“Perhaps you ought to practice.”

“That’s what I was trying to do.”

“You gave up fairly quickly. So—mountains or the ocean, Darcy?”

He smiled. “Neither. Or both. It’s a false dichotomy.”

“You don’t like making things easy, do you?”

“Well then, show me how it’s done, excellent conversationalist that you are.”

“Very well: what is the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen? Where should I go one day, when I finally have the chance to travel?”

“The Basque Mountains,” he said, without stopping to think. “I never climbed or hiked them, just saw them from the distance, but it was an incredible sight.”

“Were you…were you in Guernica?” she asked softly.

“Not when it was bombed, but afterwards, yes. There was this morning, just after dawn. I’d been up all night in the clinic, and I couldn’t sleep, so I walked around the city. Ruins and rubble, everywhere. People had lost everything and—well, it was awful. It should have been the ugliest place in the world. But there was something about the way the light and shadow played across those mountains, something about that particular shade of green…”

God, he sounded like a fool. No, there could be no in-between conversations for him.

“Despite what I said earlier,” she said quietly, “I think we’re allowed—no, we are obligated—to find joy in difficult times. Especially in difficult times.”

“And I think,” he said, forcing himself to hold her gaze, “that I have found joy.”

It would have been convenient if, in that moment, the conductor had called out, “Meryton, next stop!”—but they had to suffer through three or four minutes of silence—punctuated only by awkward glances or the occasional, uncertain laugh—before the train pulled into their station.

“Is your sister not coming to meet you today?” he asked, looking around the platform for Jane and Tommy Bennet.

“No, I told her not to bother. She came last week because I wanted to make it home in time for cake, but tonight—” She shrugged. “Well, the sun will be up for another half hour, and I prefer walking. Longbourn is only a mile from here; I’ll cut through a pasture for most of that mile, so don’t worry: I’ll be safe, unless the cows decide to attack. What about you: is Bingley coming to pick you up?”

“I was going to take a taxi.”

“You could…well, you could walk with me, if you wanted.”

He met her eyes, and she blushed, looking away.

“I mean, it’s such a nice evening, and we’ve been cooped up inside most of the day, and Netherfield is just beyond Longbourn, and—”

“Yes, Bennet,” he cut in, smiling. “I want to walk with you.”

“Your fancy shoes will be caked in mud.”

“I don’t mind. Here, give me your—”

“Hey!” She clutched her small carpet bag to her chest. “I did not ask you to walk with me so that you would carry my bag!”

“Well then”—he felt his lips curl into a slow, satisfied smile—“why did you ask me to walk with you?”

“Look at you: one moment, so awkward, so shy—”

“Shy?”

“—the next moment, the most arrogant man I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, I see: you wanted to walk with me so that you could pelt me with insults, is that it?”

“Of course.”

They rambled along without speaking, the country road giving way to the spongy grass. The pasture wasn’t particularly muddy—it hadn’t rained significantly in weeks—but they dodged enough cow dung and swatted at enough mosquitos to make the walk anything but picturesque.

Still, he couldn’t imagine anywhere else he wanted to be—not even those mountains in Spain.

“I owe you a story,” he said eventually.

“Do you? Oh.” She stopped walking suddenly. “No, Darcy, you don’t have to explain—”

“I said that if you told me about Wickham, I would tell you why I stopped—”

“But you don’t have to talk it about, not if you don’t want.”

He drew in a breath. “Usually, I don’t, but now, with you…”

She slipped her arm through his. “Tell me whatever you like, Darcy.”

“Are you ever going to call me Will?”

“Will?” She laughed. “I’m so relieved! Fitzwilliam has too many syllables.”

“It has one fewer than Elizabeth.”

“Which is why you call me Bennet, isn’t it?”

“I call you Bennet because it suits you. But then, so does Elizabeth. And Lizzy,” he added, trying out the nickname for the first time.

She smiled and made a humming sound, low in her throat, so that he almost stopped walking and kissed her, then and there.

“I’m avoiding the topic, aren’t I?”

“Like I said, you don’t have to—”

And like he’d said, he wanted to tell her. So he did, in a rambling, roundabout way that matched their steps through the pasture. He told her of his mother’s death, of his time in medical school, of his father’s disappointment, of his travels through Europe and Asia—but in no particular order, so that the stories wound together, the tangled threads of a tangled life.

“I’d planned on practicing in New York,” he told her, “so that I could be close to home, but my father was so angry with me for turning down his offer to work at PBN that he sent me a bill in the mail for the cost of my tuition at Harvard and Johns Hopkins.”

She stared up at him. “Truly?”

“Well, when you think about it, it was only fair. Most men have to pay their way through school. Anyway, after that, well—the opportunity to travel, to escape, seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. It wasn’t the best paying job, but then, I didn’t have to worry about rent or dinners, so…” He managed a bitter laugh. “So much for taking up the practice of medicine for others’ benefit.”

“You were still helping others,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder. “And it sounds like you loved…love it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then…why stop? Your father’s accident, I suppose, but still—”

No. Even after he’d received word of his father’s accident, he’d waited months to come home.

“What…what finally convinced you to come back?” she asked tentatively, when he had not spoken for several minutes.

They had reached a house—her house, he supposed. Longbourn was a lovely colonial, ramshackle in places, yet with enough space and character to suggest it had once been the seat of a small but prosperous estate.

“I lost a patient,” he murmured into the twilight.

“Had you never before…?”

“That’s the odd thing: I’d lost a number of patients before, and this patient…well, it was 50/50. It wasn’t my fault, or so everyone told me, but she—”

She looked like his sister. That was what he could not say aloud, not even to Elizabeth. The day before operating on the girl, he’d received a letter from Georgi, pleading for him to return home. Why had it taken a girl’s death for him to come to terms with his own selfishness?

He didn’t have to stop practicing medicine. No matter what Bingley had promised about their talks this weekend, Darcy supposed that was why his friend kept inviting him to Netherfield on the weekends: he wanted to convince Darcy to return to medicine, if not with him, in Meryton, the somewhere.

But PBN was a mess. His family was a mess. The world was a mess. Here he was, with money, and time, and talent—what was he supposed to do? What was the right way forward?

“We are torn in so many directions,” Elizabeth murmured, almost as if she’d heard his thoughts.

But no: she was staring up at the house, lost in her own thoughts. The front bay window was open, and in the darkening twilight, the light from living room outlined the form of two young women, twirling each other in circles.

“Heaven,” one of the girls sang, at the top of her voice, “I’m in heaven!”²

“And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak,” crooned the other girl, before they doubled over, laughing.

“Meet Kitty and Lydia,” said Elizabeth, smiling.

It struck him then, as he glanced between her and Longbourn, how she must have felt torn: torn between Manhattan and Meryton, between a job she loved (a job he had imperiled) and her love for her family, between all that she wanted to see in the world and all the reasons she had to remain close to home.

He wished he knew what to say: how to solve all of her problems—and how to solve a few of his problems, as well. But he didn’t, so he said instead, “Do you dance?”

“Of course.” She considered him. “Do you?”

“Of course. Anyone can dance.”

“Oh, anyone, eh?”

He looked at her, smiling up at him, and—just as the song predicted—his heart beat so that he could hardly speak. Still, he managed to say, “Do you want to find out?”

He dropped his bag; she dropped hers. He held out his hand; she took it. Fred Astaire’s voice floated across the grass, swirling between them: Dance with me/I want my arms about you/The charms about you/Will carry me through to…

“Heaven,” he murmured into her hair.

“Yes, heaven,” she whispered back, her lips against his cheek. 

September 2, 1939, and the world was falling apart. It was a hell of a time to fall in love.

© 2025 Christina Morland

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1. Kristallnacht, or the “Night of Broken Glass,” occurred on November 9-10, 1938, when Nazi leaders, the Hitler youth, and associated supporters throughout German territories vandalized synagogues and Jewish-owned businesses, attacked and arrested tens of thousands, and murdered at least 91 Jewish people. Kristallnacht was not just an aberrant outbreak of violence but the result of long-held anti-semitic views, not to mention a series of anti-Jewish laws and hate speech instituted by the Nazi government and largely supported by (or at least tolerated by) Germans who were not Jewish.

2. Kitty and Lydia are singing and dancing to “Cheek to Cheek,” written by Irving Berlin and sung by Fred Astaire in the 1935 film Top Hat. Here’s a video, if you’re interested!

Author’s Note: Many thanks to Glynis, who suggested in a comment some months ago that Darcy needed to have Wickham investigated by a private detective. Darcy, it seems, has great respect for Glynis’s understanding (and deep dislike) of Wickham!