Just Got Kicked Out of Chat
"Well, I hope you’re happy," Fitzwilliam said, glaring at Elizabeth. "I just got kicked out of chat."
He pushed the button on the arm of his wheelchair and sped backwards away from his computer desk so suddenly that he hit the armchair at the other end of the room. He glared at Elizabeth, as though it were her fault.
A handsome man of maybe twenty eight and just a few years older than Elizabeth, with very pale skin, unruly, curly dark hair and bright hazel eyes, he managed to look uncommonly like a spoiled little boy glowering because someone had broken his little red wagon. He wore a dark pair of pants, and a green pullover, but his feet were bare and rested, limply, on the support at the bottom of the wheel chair.
Elizabeth, in her early twenties, had short curly black hair and lively eyes that seemed to take everything in at a glance. She wore a conservative blue suit and, holding a lab coat folded over her arm, returned his glare with a glare. "Look, Mr. Darcy, I’m not responsible for the behavior of your computer. I’m just here to give you physical therapy."
Darcy glowered harder and looked even younger and more spoiled. "I don’t want physical therapy," he said. "I don’t need physical therapy. I just want to talk on my computer and mind my own business. Why can’t you and my father understand that?"
"All right," Elizabeth said. "All right." She cast her eye around the opulent bedroom. Well, technically a bedroom, though it was easily the size of the apartment that Elizabeth shared with her father and four sisters. Not that she couldn’t afford to rent her own place but because if she, or her sister Jane should move out, it would leave her father and -- as yet not working -- sisters penniless and likely homeless. "Look, your father pays my fees, and they are not small, to come and give you physical therapy so that you can one day walk again."
Darcy stared at her, as though she were a very small bug swimming despairingly at the bottom of his coffee cup. He crossed his arms on his chest. "I don’t need to walk. What’s the point? I already missed out on college. I couldn’t go back now. And besides, I’d probably never walk normally. I’ll never have a normal social life. I’d much rather stay in here, trade my stock on line, and chat with all the friends I’ve met." He grinned at Elizabeth, but it wasn’t a friendly grin. "I’ve been chatting with this girl, called Caroline Bingley. She’s a beautiful blonde and has sent me all kinds of pictures. Would you like to see some of them, Miss Bennet?"
Despite herself, Elizabeth felt her cheeks heat. "I’m quite sure I do not, Mr. Darcy."
"She said that she didn’t mind that I was disabled, you see, Miss Bennet. So I don’t need to get better."
Elizabeth hissed out breath in annoyance. This Caroline Bingley, if she was indeed a woman and if it was indeed her real name, surely had googled Darcy and knew exactly how much the family was worth — from Pemberley house, in the Hill Top region of Newport, to the fortune the great great grandfather had made in the gold rush and that the grandfather had carried on with judicious investments once the gold rush turned to bust. If what the papers printed about the family were true, then the fortune, immense to begin with, had multiplied several times before the end of the twentieth century.
Which was why Darcy couldn’t care less if he ever walked again, of course. He could live from dividends for the rest of his life, buying wives and friends as the need arose.
Elizabeth put her hands to her waist and said, "Look, your father--"
"Oh, my father can mind his own business," Darcy said and, with unthinking rudeness wheeled away from her and back to his desk, where he resumed punching keys and trying to bring his Internet connection back to life.
#
"So you didn’t do anything?" George Darcy asked. He was a tall man, who looked much like his son, absent the spoiled brat expression and given a smattering of grey around the temples. Also, his eyes were blue, not hazel, and, right then encircled in dark, bruised skin.
He sat at his vast desk behind mounds of papers. At the back of him, a huge mahogany bookcase was covered in books and bound reports.
He had a laptop open in front of him and looked at Elizabeth with a baffled, shocked expression.
"Look, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth said. "Your son won’t let me do anything for him. No therapy, no attempts at moving. This is our fifth session and the only thing he seems to do is glare at me and be rude."
The elder Mr. Darcy sighed, and bent over the desk, supporting his head in his hand. "Oh, Fitz," he said.
"So, I think it would be best if I just quit."
Now Mr. Darcy looked up, in shock. "Quit? You don’t want— Don’t I pay you enough?"
Elizabeth felt heat rise to her cheeks. The last thing she wanted was for Mr. Darcy to think she was angling for a raise. "Oh, no. You pay me very well. Very generously. But, you see, I feel like I’m not doing anything. I certainly am doing nothing to help Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy walk again. I feel dishonest. A fraud."
George Darcy smiled. He reached for something on his desk and for a pen. "You are not a fraud, Miss Bennet, and I’m afraid what I pay you is insufficient to compensate for putting up with my son’s rudeness. None of the other therapists lasted so long. Please just go on with what you are doing," he said. "I want you to keep trying. I would like my son to feel the therapy is still there, still available. He remains very bitter over losing his ability to walk, but I hope he will come to his senses sooner rather than later."
He tore something from the notebook he’d used and then extended it to Elizabeth, who was shocked to see it was a check and that it was made out to her for the amount of ten thousand dollars.
"Mr. Darcy, I cannot..."
"Take it, take it. You’ve earned it." He looked up at her, very serious. "To be absolutely honest with you, Miss Bennet, I wouldn’t put up with Fitz and his temper tantrums for ten times that much. I appreciate your willingness to continue trying."
#
"Honestly, Jane," Elizabeth said. "I don’t know what to do. Most of the time I just want to strangle the man."
They were in the modest kitchen of their apartment, in the old part of Newport. The nicely painted white cabinets — Mary’s work — and the frieze of blue flowers around the top of the wall — Elizabeth’s effort — hardly disguised the fact that the sink was chipped, the faucets rusty, and the space so narrow that the two sisters stood right next to each other as Jane washed the dishes and Elizabeth dried.
Their father, the Thomas Bennet who was so well known for his literary and high-brow novels, always promised them that as soon as he got a large advance for the next book he would buy a dishwasher. But he’d been waiting for the large advance and promising them a dishwasher since they were very young and they no longer believed him. Mr. Bennet was highly regarded in certain circles, but he would never be as popular as Stephen King, the person he jokingly referred to as "Big Steve."
So the girls washed by hand, and dried with dishcloths that had worn very thin indeed, having been purchased by their mother before she’d gotten tired of living in a very tiny apartment and birthing daughters, a good fifteen years ago, when the youngest daughter, Lydia, had been born.
Jane looked quite a good deal like their mother — blonde, beautiful, with broad blue eyes — was not at all like the current Mrs Miller (having, on the way between Bennet and Miller been Mrs. Tapper, Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Bordeaux and — for three days — Mrs. Bolero.) Jane was sedate and sweet and determined — against all evidence, or so it seemed to Elizabeth — to always think the best of people.
Now she looked at Elizabeth and her eyes looked disturbed. "Oh, Lizzy, he can’t be as bad as that. I understand he can be very irritating, but think... the poor man is an invalid. He’s confined to his room all day. Surely that would make anyone feel testy."
Elizabeth stuck her tongue out at Jane. Jane’s goodness always brought out the impish brat in her. "Oh, Jane, Jane. Don’t go feeling sorry for him. I tell you, he’s just a brat in a man’s body. Someone should spank him."
It was only when she saw the look Jane was giving her, and the dark blush on Jane’s cheeks that Elizabeth realized her words could be misinterpreted as being saucy or daring. Of course, Jane would never say it. She just looked dismayed.
"I don’t mean I want to spank him," Elizabeth said and, grabbing a dish, scrubbed at it with the dishcloth. "I just mean, he behaves so much like an annoying kid. Really. He offered to show me — presumably — naked pictures of some floozy or other Carol Bingley or something."
Jane opened her mouth and looked like she was about to speak, when their youngest sister, Lydia came into the kitchen. She somehow always managed to wear the most up-to-date and, unfortunately, most revealing fashions and today she reveled in a see-through crochet top, a tiny leather skirt, and five-inch high platforms. She carried what she referred to as her book bag, but which was about the size of a medium purse. Lydia was rarely caught with books in her hand. And yet, she did quite well in school and had been advanced to the twelfth grade.
Of course, she was also horribly late, and should have been home a good five hours ago. "Where have you been?" Elizabeth asked.
Lydia ignored her, reached for an apple from the basket on the kitchen counter, and bit into it with a loud crunch. "I am so tired," she said, through the apple, perching herself stylishly atop one of the kitchen stools and managing to look like an extremely young barfly.
"Don’t talk with your mouth full, Lydia," Jane said.
Lydia ignored her, also. "Well, today you can’t scold me," she said, through several bites of the apple. "I was working for school. My gifted counselor has arranged for me to do an internship with a local law firm. Markham, McAllister and Wickham."
"And they kept you there this long?" Jane asked, shocked.
"Oh, I was talking to their secretary, Bianca Hurst. She was telling me all these creepy cases they had. Very interesting." She finished her apple and left the core on the counter, three steps from the trash can. Ignoring Jane as she moved to pick it up and toss it, she said, "One of the people we talked about was your patient, Elizabeth."
"My patient?"
"Fitz Darcy. He went to school with Mr. Whickam. In fact, they were together when Darcy had his accident. Whickam has told Ms. Hurst that Darcy was like a major druggy. There was nothing he wouldn’t huff, smoke, snort, eat, drink or shoot up. Anything to get high. And he was addicted to, well, everything else, too, sex included. Mr. Whickam told Ms. Hurst it was like probably really good for Darcy that he got paralyzed, otherwise he’d probably be dead by now."
"I believe it," Elizabeth said. "The man is impossible. If we didn’t need the money so much, I’d just quit." She finished drying the dishes and put her dish towel away.
"Yeah, she also told me that Darcy’s problem with walking is all, like, in the mind."
"Yes," Elizabeth said. "Or, as his doctor said, there is reason to believe it’s psychological." She sighed. "I tell you, I think he just doesn’t want to walk. He wants to go on being in his room, and being nasty to everyone, and feeling sorry for himself. I wish I could quit."
"Well," Jane said, rinsing the sink. "Maybe dad’s new book will get a good advance and we won’t need--"
Lydia’s snort was barely audible, beneath Elizabeth’s giggle.
Elizabeth had come to dread going to the Darcys' home for therapy, so it was with great relief that, after her two morning appointments the next day she found the message in her voice mail telling her that Mr. Darcy - senior - would like to cancel the appointment, since he and the younger Mr. Darcy would be busy with some philanthropic event or other.
In fact, her relief was so great that Elizabeth who was at the moment driving her car through downtown Newport on her way to having lunch with her sister Jane, put the top down - her car was a twenty two year old Mustang convertible. Terminally ill and always in the shop, but a convertible nonetheless, which she appreciated in these hot Colorado days, when the sun beat down from a white-hot sky and seemed to set the landscape on fire. At least this year they'd got some rain and perhaps the forests wouldn't burn.
There were hopeful signs of early-spring greening in the trees that flanked Arabella Street - downtown's longest and most convoluted thoroughfare - and the median was displaying a fuzzy coat of green grass. Or perhaps weeds, but green all the same.
Elizabeth blasted her radio up, as her top went down. Lavai Smith's sultry voice came through the speakers, and Elizabeth started singing along, feeling that -- particularly with the Darcy's appointment being canceled --a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders and spring was springing to life.
She was not alone in this mood. At least, downtown swarmed with more people than usual, crowded around the entrance of the greasy spoons and family restaurants that crowded this area of downtown - two streets away from the expensive restaurants, the skyscrapers, the arts center and the philharmonic building.
Elizabeth parked in front of Telly's, her favorite downtown Greek joint. It was only two blocks away from the hospital where Jane was an intern, and therefore very convenient for her sister to visit during her limited lunch hour.
It always amused Elizabeth that people thought it strange she hadn't chosen to take medicine like Jane. And it was true, she too could have secured a scholarship easily enough. But she could never have endured the bullying that Jane had endured and was still enduring through her training. Nor the long hours, the lack of sleep, the general feeling that you needed to jump through hoops to be worthy of being a doctor. If it came to that, Elizabeth doubted very much she wanted to deal with insurance billing when she had a practice. It was difficult enough as a physical therapist, when only a minority of her accounts even used insurance.
But Jane was an angel, and took it all in stride and with a smile. In fact, she was smiling when she came in and joined Elizabeth at their usual corner table. Elizabeth signaled their waiter that they were ready for their usual lunch, and then turned back to her sister.
Jane was not just smiling, actually. She was grinning. And there was quite an unwonted spark in her wide blue eyes.
Um... "Who is he, Jane?" Elizabeth asked.
"What?" Jane looked like someone wakening from a deep dream.
"Who is putting a smile on your lips?" Elizabeth asked. "And don't bother saying there's no one. You look exactly as you did in highschool when Mike gave you his ring."
She abstained from making a face. Mike had also broken up with Jane in college, when the prospect of making a much more "glittering" marriage to an older socialite had emerged. Jane had an unmitigated ability to pick total losers. In fact, Elizabeth's only consolation, through all this, was that Mike could not possibly be happy without Jane and that his wife, who had paid his medical school bills, had also dumped him for a younger model this year.
Jane blushed and said, "Oh."
Elizabeth wondered briefly if Mike had made a comeback. But before she could open her mouth to speak, Jane said, "Oh, not really someone. I mean, I'm sure we're friends. I hope we are, at least, good friends, but we're not..." The waiter brought them their plates and set them in front of them, and Jane hesitated before proceeding. "Look, Lizzy, he's asked me to go with him to this charity function tonight and he said I should bring you."
"A what? And he said you should bring me? Who is he and what does he know about me?"
The high blush on Jane's cheeks intensified. "His name is Charles Bingley. He is a doctor - well, a pathologist, actually -- at the hospital and he's tall and blonde and always nice and polite to everyone. I don't work with him, but I consulted him last month about one of my cases and we've been sort of friends ever since. And he asked me to bring you because I talk a lot about you and he'd like to meet you."
Elizabeth hesitated. Dubious as she always was about Jane's taste in men, sooner or later she was bound to run into a nice one, and a doctor sounded better than the long string of would be poets and struggling artists who'd imposed on her sister since Mike had broken up with her. "All right. At least he's a doctor," she said. "And he wants to meet me, which shows good sense. You have my permission to like him. You've liked many a stupider person."
"Lizzy!"
"Well, it's true." Lizzy wrapped her souvlaki in her pita, doused it liberally with sauce and took a bite. "So, what's this thing tonight?"
"Oh, they're building a new children's wing, and they're having a fund raising ball. Charles said he'd pay for all our tickets, since he intended to make a large donation, anyway. Oh, but, it's formal, Lizzy, so you can't show up in a business suit."
Lizzy grinned. "Formal, is it? I'll see if my prom dress still fits."
"Lizzy!"
"Oh, don't worry about it. I'll run by the Brown Bag and see what they have on the consignment racks. I won't embarrass you. And he's Charles, is he? Does he have a last name."
Color came and went on Jane's cheeks. "Bingley. His name is Charles Bingley. Doctor Charles Bingley."
Elizabeth grinned, "Doctor and Doctor Bingley. My, how good that sounds." She ignored her sister's "Lizzy!" though, because something about the name tickled her memory. "Wait, isn't Bingley the name of the woman that the Darcy guy--"
"Yes," Jane said. "When you mentioned Caroline Bingley, I thought it might be her. She's Charles' sister. But, Lizzy, if it is her, you must have misunderstood what Mr. Darcy told you."
"Fitz Darcy. Mr. Darcy is his father. Misunderstood?"
Jane nodded. "Yes. Caroline Bingley is a photographer, you see. Art photographer. She does city scapes. Quite well known for it."
"Oh," Elizabeth said. She shrugged. "It must have been a different Caroline Bingley, then."
Lizzy had the next two hours free, since Darcy had canceled his appointment. She hurried to the Brown Bag, the best used-discount-and- consignment store in downtown Newport.
The neighborhood did not match the shop's quality, though. The Brown Bag was stuck in a neighborhood full of head shops, porn theaters and, for some reason, shops that sold wigs.
Elizabeth took the time to set her car alarm - a radio shack addition - before leaving the car. Most of the time no one would bother breaking into her tiny and shabby vehicle, but in this neighborhood, you never knew.
She hurried through the dirty streets and into the welcome haven of the Brown Bag.
The shop took up two floors of what had once been a restaurant. The downstairs floor was twice the size of the top one, and overlooked easily enough from a railing that surrounded the nearest edge of the top floor.
Elizabeth found herself called from that railing.
"Lizzy," someone screamed as soon as she came in. "Up here."
She looked up to get rather a much better view than she wished to have of her sister Lydia, wearing a flowered, flimsy top, a denim mini-skirt, fishnet stockings and much too high heels. Lydia was leaning over the banister and grinning ear to ear, waving at Elizabeth.
"Come up," Lydia called. She waved again, motioning with a hand that held a pair of improbably pink, cat-eye shaped sunglasses.
Elizabeth started up the spiral staircase, wondering if she should talk to Lydia about her choice of underwear. As casual as Lydia was about sitting positions, she could give someone the wrong idea with black lace. But talking to Lydia about anything - particularly her clothes - always seemed like such a waste of time and effort.
"So great of you to come help me pick a dress," Lydia said, meeting Elizabeth down halfway the stairs. She giggled, as she grabbed at Elizabeth's arm. "How did you know?"
Elizabeth blinked. "How did I know what?" she asked. "You're picking a dress?"
Lydia looked surprised. She stopped, still holding on to Elizabeth's arm, and gave Elizabeth a shocked look. "You mean you don't know? You didn't come to help me choose a dress?"
Elizabeth shook her head. "I came because I was invited to a philanthropic ball," she said. "By a friend of Jane's."
"A ball at the civic center? A fund raiser for the hospital?" Lydia asked. "Tonight?"
"I guess," Elizabeth said, and shrugged.
"Well, then we can go together. I'm going too, you see. With Mr. Whickam."
She started to pull Elizabeth up the stairs again, but Elizabeth had stopped cold. "Wait a minute there," she said. "Does this man know you're fifteen?"
Lydia giggled. "Yes, silly. He knows I'm the highschool intern and we always start at fifteen." She looked at her sister and giggled harder. "It's nothing like that, Elizabeth. The office bought tickets for everyone, interns included. But Whickam was stood up by his girlfriend, Caroline something or other. So he said he would pick me up at home and drive me there, since all the other ones are coming from the other side of town. Really. You don't need to worry."
Maybe not, but Elizabeth was glad she would be there to chaperone the whole thing. And here to make sure that Lydia didn't dress like a high priced whore. Or even a low-priced one.
She followed Lydia up the stairs and an hour later they'd picked a dress for Lydia and, ten minutes after that, a dress for Elizabeth as well.
Lydia's was a barely-contained frothy pink concoction with frills around the edge of its irregularly-shaped decolletage and skirt. But it did not expose an undue amount of Lydia's precocious upper endowments and, with the frills, came almost down to her knees. So, even if it made her look like she would presently burst out of her cocoon and emerge naked like a lewd butterfly, Elizabeth considered it a minor battle won.
For herself, Elizabeth picked a black silk dress, almost knee length and plain looking but cut in such a way that it disguised her slightly too small top and seemed to make her legs go on forever.
At the counter, she also picked a pair of fashion-jewelry earrings that looked like diamond studs. They would go with the silver strand with the single - and tiny - diamond pendant that Mr. Bennet gave each of his daughters as they graduated from highschool. That and perhaps a sparkly comb in her dark hair would have to do. She hoped with the black dress it would all look elegant and not as if she were trying to save money. Which she was.
Of course, she found herself paying for Lydia's dress, too. She wondered how Lydia had meant to pay for it, if Elizabeth hadn't come along.
Lydia hung from Elizabeth's arm as they left the shop. "Oh, we're going to have so much fun tonight, Lizzy. With all the millionaires in the room, we shall all catch ourselves husbands."
"Lydia, don't talk nonsense. I don't want to catch a husband and neither do you. You make it sound like fishing. I have my career and I'm self sufficient, and I hope I can live quite well by myself and if I ever am enticed into matrimony it will only be because--"
"Oh, Lizzy, look."
They'd just emerged from the shop into the glare of the sun and the seedy surroundings and Elizabeth wondered what exactly in this neighborhood could justify that sort of gasp from her younger sister.
Perhaps Lydia, self centered as a gyroscope, had simply decided to distract Elizabeth from her admonition.
But then she realized a very tall man, with curly brown hair and an obsequious smile was walking purposefully towards them.
"Oh, shoot," Elizabeth said, starting to pull Lydia away and thinking that now they'd be solicited, if nothing worse.
But Lydia looked up at Elizabeth, as if baffled by her sister's attitude and said, "It's Mr. Whickam. Remember? I told you about him?"
Mr. Whickam? In this neighborhood?
"Hi Lydia," the man said, two steps away from them. "And this must be one of your older sisters."
"This is Elizabeth," Lydia said, and immediately assumed the pose, top pushed forward, feet shifting back and forth in a little leisurely dance in place that Elizabeth thought of as look, I have legs and breasts, breasts and legs. It was a quintessential Lydia pose, and Elizabeth was glad to see that Mr. Whickam was not paying attention at all.
Instead, he stared at Elizabeth.
"Lydia had told us she was coming to the Brown Bag and I suddenly realized where that was and thought I'd better come and pick her up. Lots of unsavory people around here. But I see she called her sister to pick her up."
Elizabeth nodded, choosing to let him keep his illusions. "I heard you're taking Lydia to the dance," she said.
"Oh, I'm picking her up, yes -- but the office is taking all of us. It's a community involvement thing we do," Whickam said, all eager embarrassment. "I ... I hope you don't mind. I know how it must look, but this woman I've been seeing canceled and since I'm coming from your side of town, I thought I could just pick Lydia up and take her to the ball and bring her straight back afterwards."
Elizabeth demured. It still meant time alone in the car with this much older man and Lydia... But, looking up into Mr. Whickam's clear green eyes, she saw no reason to come across as a kill joy. He seemed all right enough. And not in the least like a lecher. And besides, Lizzy assumed Jane's doctor would be driving and he might find it a little overwhelming to have a third sister along. Bad enough to have a third wheel to distract him from Jane, but a fourth one and that one Lydia with her breast-and-leg-dance might just make him run screaming into the night.
"I'll be there too, Mr. Whickam. At the dance. As will my older sister, Jane. So it's quite all right, you see."
"George, please. Call me George. And you will be? At the dance? Not with Fitzwilliam Darcy, I hope? You'll pardon me. It's just Lydia told me you're his physical therapist?"
Elizabeth gave a theatrical sigh and exhaled noisily, in exasperation. "If you can call it that. He won't let me do anything in the way of therapy, but yes. And no, I won't be there with him. I'll be there with a friend of my older sister's."
George smiled. "Good. I wouldn't want you involved with the likes of Fitz Darcy. I mean, don't get me wrong, talking like this of an old friend and all... I'm sure it's not Fitz's fault. He was the poor little rich boy, always ignored and left at home when his parents went on this cruise of the Mediterranean and that trip to the Orient and... Well, let's just say he has problems. More problems than someone as young and intelligent as you should have to deal with."
"I have no intentions of dealing with Fitz Darcy," Elizabeth said. "Other than as a patient. I think I can safely promise you never to have anything else to do with him at all."
Chatper 3
Elizabeth had only eaten a rice-cake for dinner — on the drive between two appointments -- and ended up eating an apple while trying to apply makeup for the party in front of the ancient mirror of the dresser in the bedroom she shared with Jane.
Jane watched her with open amusement. "You can't possibly mean to put on eye liner while biting into the apple."
"I can and I will," Elizabeth answered, promptly putting it on askew, in a curve towards her earlobe. She grinned sheepishly. "Just not straight," she admitted as she set the apple down and wiped at the mess with a tissue. "Seriously, Jane, I'm all aflutter at meeting your agreeable Dr. Bingley."
Jane frowned. "He's not my Dr. Bingley."
"Well, if that is true, we must take care to correct it quickly." Her eyeliner applied to perfection, she took a last bite of the apple and applied her lipstick — a very light shade that almost matched her lips except for enhancing them, just slightly.
She slipped her black dress on — she always put it on after the makeup to avoid smears — and twirled for Jane. "How do I look?"
"Very nice. Do you mean to go barefoot?"
"Not at all. As soon as I find my shoes, I'll slip them on." Finding her shoes, however, proved a matter of more delay than she expected. They were not in the closet, where she usually arranged them, they were not under the bed, they were not in any of the corners where they might have got to. "Drat it," Lizzy said. "Kitty or Lydia must have taken them. Is Lydia dressed yet?"
She was half bent over, looking under the bed as she spoke but something, perhaps some small sound that Jane made, made her look up. Jane had that hesitant look she got when about to report that something was less than admirable about an acquaintance, friend or family.
"What has Lydia done now? Out with it."
"Oh, she's done nothing wrong," Jane said. "But... Lizzy, Mr. Wickham came and picked her up before... before I got home. I don't even think Father saw her go. Kitty says he said that the entire firm was going to dinner before the party and that he was simply driving Lydia there."
Lizzy frowned at Jane. "My impression of the man was good," she said and demurred because she couldn't say she liked the idea of a thirty year old, no matter how handsome and polite, whisking off her fifteen year old sister. "But I wish we'd met him, or that our father had. All the same, I'm sure he was only ferrying her, as he said. Only... Only they should have waited till an adult saw her off and gave their consent. And I don't like it at all this dinner-thing before. How are we to know she is all right?"
"Well," Jane said, but shook her head. "I bet when we get in, we'll see Lydia right there."
"Doubtless dancing barefoot in the middle of the floor," Lizzy said.
"Doubtless," Jane said, and added. "Speaking of barefoot..."
Lizzy sighed and hurried next door to the room shared by Lydia and Kitty. It was smaller even than the one she shared with Jane, and scantily furnished — with two white metal beds, side by side, and a wardrobe that accommodated the clothes for both the girls. Or at least that was the idea. In reality, there were clothes strewn all over, from the foot of both beds, to the faded rose carpet on the floor, to the bedside tables. The girls both wore the same size, and often exchanged clothes. It was impossible to tell whose clothes were whose, or indeed, where Lizzy's shoes might hide, if they were there at all.
"Why are you in my room?" Kitty asked, coming in behind them. A well formed girl of eighteen, she had even features and a mass of brown hair, but lacked somewhat of her younger sister's vivacity and verve.
She was dressed for an evening at home, in ratty jeans and much-faded blue t-shirt and looked not so much upset as disturbed at finding her sisters in her room.
"I'm looking for my shoes," Lizzy said. "My black pumps. Remember, the ones I bought last month, when--"
"Oh, yeah," Kitty said, and dove to the floor, in a perfect commando move, extending an arm under the wardrobe. "Lydia wore them when we had the pep rally and she--" She brought out a hand with a sandal. "No, that's not it." Her hand snaked under the wardrobe again.
The doorbell rang.
"Oh, Lizzy, Dr. Bingley must be here."
The doorbell rang again, followed by the sound of the door opening and two masculine voices. "Oh, no, Dad is talking to him," Jane said. "I'd better hurry before he questions him about post modernism in the works of Stephen King or demands that he do deconstructionist analysis on the comic page of the paper."
Lizzy started to laugh, but stopped. Her father had in the past reached almost heroic heights in search of ways to discourage what he considered unsuitable suitors for Jane.
Kitty brought out a hand, this time with the right shoe. "Here's one," she said, and started looking again.
Jane and a male voice could be heard downstairs. Lizzy didn't want to ruin Jane's date by being late. "Hurry up, Kitty," she said, just as Kitty gave her the second shoe.
Lizzy hopped out the door, on one shod foot, and held herself up with her hand on the doorsill, while she slipped the other shoe on.
And found herself staring at Jane and a handsome blond young man less than three feet away.
"Charles, the partially-barefoot woman is my sister, Elizabeth."
"Charmed," he said, smiling, and shaking her hand as she straightened. "And I don't say that to every barefoot woman I meet. You look a lot like Jane," he said.
Which just proved love was blind, Lizzy thought -- and she couldn't doubt the man was in love every time he looked at Jane — because Jane was blonde and blue eyed and beautiful, and Lizzy was dark haired, pixie-faced and — on a good day — not too unpleasant to look at.
But the man was trying to be gallant and she decided to accept it as such.
They walked to the door in the most amiable of moods. "I'm sorry if I intruded," he said. "But Jane said you have an older dresser in your room and I wanted to see it before I left. Antiques are my hobby and I thought--"
So, he was impetuous, but he seemed proper. He admired the dresser, too, which was by no means antique, just old. And he was proper enough to look shocked, as Mr. Bennet, who waited by the door, bid them farewell by saying, "Well, young man, since you're taking both of my daughters on a date, I expect you to have made up your mind and be engaged to one of them by the time you return."
Dr. Bingley mumbled something, but blushed and was, obviously, embarrassed until Jane said, "Please, Charles, pay no attention to dad. He lives in his own world not shared with the rest of us."
But within minutes of getting in his car — a very nice BMW — he was talking again, lively and very charming, complimenting Jane and then Lizzy, telling tales about eccentric doctors at the hospital and altogether making the ride pleasant.
Lizzy was in the best of moods, as she made her way into the expansive salon with its polished floors and sparkling chandeliers. The best of society in Newport was gathered there but such was Lizzy's luck that the first person she saw was Lydia, in the middle of a large group, talking much too loud and laughing without restraint.
And the second person she saw was Fitz Darcy, in his wheelchair. Despite the wheelchair, he looked charming and personable, in a black tux, his hair, for once, combed. But the minute his eyes rested on Lizzy, his expression closed into a frown and his eyes looked like thunder.
Well, Lizzy thought to herself. There goes the evening.
As it turned out she was right. The truth was that Lizzy simply wasn’t cut out for this sort of glittering affair. Women around her swirled, in elegant dresses that must cost more than Lizzy made in a month. Their jewelry was, surely, not costume. And they knew it. And they knew Lizzy’s was, too.
Oh, Jane was all right. She had her Doctor Bingley to whisk her across the floor. And Lydia was taken out to dance by one older gentleman after another. They both danced beautifully. All the Bennet girls did. Their middle school offered ballroom dancing as an elective in gym and they had all taken it in eighth grade.
Lizzy found herself with nothing to do but stand around. She wouldn’t dream of interrupting Charles and Jane, who seemed to have eyes for each other only. Instead, she told herself she would make herself useful by keeping a sharp eye on Lydia. She was relieved to see that Whickam was doing the same and that he stepped in and "rescued" Lydia whenever one of the older gentlemen got too hot and heavy.
After a while of standing there, looking at the couples, she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. "Miss Bennet," a gentleman’s voice said. "You must forgive me, but you seemed a thousand miles away."
Coming back to Earth, Elizabeth noticed that Mr. George Darcy was standing in front of her, smiling slightly. "I don’t suppose you’d give an older man the thrill of his life and consent to take the next dance with me?"
"Of course," Elizabeth said, mechanically. She wanted to say no, because it seemed very strange to dance with an employer. But really, Mr. Darcy was devoid of all lecherousness and she could only imagine he was trying to be polite.
Being led to the dance floor by the elder Mr. Darcy, she caught sight of the younger, who looked peevish and annoyed, while pointedly ignoring a beautiful, model-like blonde woman who was talking to him.
"Ah, yes," Mr. Darcy said. "That is Carolyn Bingley. I understand she’s a well known artist and she knew my son from college. He invited her to the party, which we must hope is progress of a sort." He smiled at Lizzy.
For some reason seeing Darcy with the blonde woman annoyed Lizzy. She assumed it was because it brought to mind the whole peevish-child act with his net connection and his virtual friends.
"He’s been so anti-social," his father said. "And you know, to this day he won’t admit the true circumstances of his accident." He sighed. "He was always difficult."
Mr. Darcy danced beautifully, but Elizabeth had no intention of spending the dance discussing the younger Mr. Darcy. "You have another child?" she asked, knowing very well what the answer would be from a thousand social page reports. "A... daughter?"
"Ah, yes, Georgiana. Fitz dotes on her," Mr. Darcy said. "Poor child, Fitz and myself are all she has. My late wife died shortly after Georgiana was born. She is currently in a finishing school in Switzerland, but you’ll be able to meet her when she comes home for the summer. When you come over for your sessions with Will, that is."
The prospect of still taking care of Fitz Darcy come Summer made Elizabeth want to slit her wrists. She concentrated on the dance and tuned out the rest of Mr. Darcy’s patter. She wondered why, considering what his son seemed to be, the man talked about him non-stop. Had he never been able to forget his hopes for his child?
This seemed to be the case, as, when he led her back to her place and thanked her for the dance, he said, "Have patience with Fitz. He’s not all bad. Or at least he was a very sweet little boy, always obedient and kind to all. I don’t know what... I’m sure Anna and I were too busy with our work and social appointments. We neglected him. But that sweet, kind little boy should still be in there, somewhere."
Lizzy very much doubted it. Standing around, the rest of the evening, she had the opportunity to witness something that only helped cement her bad opinion of Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Fitz Darcy’s date had wondered off, tired of being snubbed and, to Lizzy’s shock, Charles Bingley approached. From the affectionate way they greeted each other, it was clear that Charles Bingley and Darcy knew each other quite well.
Lizzy didn’t mean to hear. Well, perhaps just a little. At any rate she couldn’t help overhearing when Bingley said, "You could at least talk. What’s the point of standing around here in that stupid manner."
"Uh, Bingles, I’m sitting around here in a stupid manner," Darcy said.
The tone of humor in his voice shocked Elizabeth who would never have imagined the man to have any sense of self-deprecation. But the rest of the conversation only confirmed her opinion of him.
"There are a lot of beautiful women," Bingley said. "You could talk to one of them. You know, not all women like to dance."
"Your partner does, Charles. She’s very beautiful. Go back to her and show her some new steps. I haven’t seen you look so happy since college."
"She’s an angel, Will. But look... There’s her sister. She’s a very funny, pleasant young lady, Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
"Oh, I know Miss Elizabeth Bennet," Darcy said, his tone full of annoyance.
"But then..." Bingley said. "Well, I don’t understand you. If you know her, why don’t you talk to her?"
"Trust me, Charles, the last thing in the world I would ever want to do is talk to Miss Bennet."
Elizabeth didn’t want to hear anymore. She crossed the room to the other side and spent the rest of the night pretending to be passionately interested in the view out the window.
When Charles picked her up to take her home, Elizabeth made sure that Lydia had left with Whickam, headed for home, and was relieved to note that the Darcy men had also left.
#
"What could he possibly have meant?" Jane asked, looking bewildered. She sat on her bed, clutching her bed-time-reading novel, a paperback with a regency lady on the cover. She’d removed her make up and let her hair fall in loose curls down her shoulders. And she’d taken off her lenses and replaced them with her reading glasses, which were old-fashioned and rather large. It ought to have made her look dowdy, particularly when her attire consisted of an old T-shirt with a teddy bear on the front.
But Jane was one of those women who are blessed with looking good in everything. In her dress-down state she looked more angelic than ever. Lizzy thought that if Bingley were to see Jane now, he would be lost forever.
"I hope he meant I’m not worth talking to," Lizzy said, while scrubbing at her face with a make-up removal cloth. "If he meant anything else, it is probably too indelicate for me to contemplate."
Jane laid her book out on her knees. "I don’t know, Lizzy. I think we’ve got the wrong end of the stick here, about your patient. Charles calls him William Darcy, by the way. He says Darcy thinks his name is absurd and prefers to be called William or Will, instead of Fitz, which is what his father calls him." She was quiet a moment. "Charles says they were roommates in college and that Will was not at all... as Whickam said. He says Will was studying medicine because he really wanted to help people. He says Will likes people and is always anxious to make things better."
"Well, he could have fooled me." Lizzy said, as she loosed her hair and started brushing it vigorously. It was an activity akin to sweeping the beach. You could do it as much as you liked, but in the end it showed no difference at all. "He’s the most obstinate, the proudest, the most–"
"Lizzy!"
"Oh, Jane, I don’t care if you think I’m uncharitable. I daresay your Charles is a good sort. He seems to be. But I’m sure he’s as naive as you are and always looked for the most innocent explanations for whatever Darcy was doing." She took off her dress and hung it carefully. She’d need to have it dry cleaned soon. Slipping into her nightgown, she said. "I’m afraid my observations of the man accord more with Mr. Whickam’s view. And I’m only sorry that I have to continue working with him because I need the money. On the other hand, I am at least giving his father some hope, I guess. It’s amazing how much he loves his son."
Jane said, "I still think there’s some other explanation here–"
Lizzy wasn’t ready to argue. Instead, she changed subject to, "I understand Mr. Whickam brought Lydia home on time and was treated to Dad’s dissertation on the decline of the modern language usage as it pertains to the verbification of nouns"
Jane giggled, "Also known as you shall not pronounce the word contact in my house and pretend it’s a verb."
"And he didn’t run screaming out the door," Lizzy said. "So he must be a good sort. I must admit I don’t like him taking Lydia out, though. Too much of an age difference. And, to be honest, I don’t think he’s interested in her at all. But I wonder if we could persuade him he really wants to date Mary."
"Mary?"
Mary was in her final year of literature in college and intending to be an editor when she grew up. The idea of her making small talk with debonair lawyer Whickam sent even Jane into peels of laughter.
"I don’t see why not. He understands the verbification of nouns now. Count on it, we’ll have them dating by Christmas."
Jane giggled until she fell asleep. As for Lizzy, she lay awake dreading having to see Darcy the next day.
#
"Well, paint me blue and call me Harriet," Mr. Bennet said at the breakfast table.
Used to this sort of sudden exclamation, his girls didn’t bat an eye. They assumed he’d read some particularly disturbing piece of news in the many literary journals he read on line, on his laptop, while having breakfast. The laptop was a gift from all the girls combined and it had all but weaned him from his addiction to print. It had also brought down the costs of subscriptions dramatically, because he no longer need buy fifteen literary journals a month.
For Elizabeth the biggest savings was in cutting down on the fire hazard of all those journals stuffed everywhere in Mr. Bennet’s closet-sized office.
After a while of silence, while Mary and Kitty buttered their toast, Jane ate her oatmeal and Lizzy sipped her tea – Lydia having left earlier and probably without eating – Mr. Bennet said, "Well, well. I just got the oddest email."
"Yes, dad?" Jane asked.
"My British editor wants to come and meet me. He says he’s in Denver for a conference on the future of literature and he would like to drop by and meet me." He beamed at the girls. "This is my chance to show him how rich I’ve been getting off the literary profession. Where do you suggest we put him? In the linen closet or the bathtub?"
"Father, the couch in the living room pulls out," Kitty said, looking puzzled.
"So it does. I hope he doesn’t mind that spring poking him in the back all night long," Mr. Bennet said. "Or if he does, maybe he’ll give me a little better advance next time."
"When is he supposed to arrive?" Mary asked. "A real, live professional editor would be interesting to talk to. Perhaps he’ll give a talk to my class about publishing in England."
"Um..." her father said. "My dear, in my experience one should never invite an editor to talk. They don’t have much to say, really, which is why they hire writers. What?" he asked Jane’s disapproving expression.
"Don’t talk nonsense Father," she said. "You know your NY Editor, Mr. Gentry is really quite nice and a gentleman."
"And unfortunately not inclined to the female persuasion. Which is too bad, or I’d marry him off to you and ensure greater advances in that way."
"Dad," Jane said.
"Well, well, this editor is of a quite different stripe and I know very little about him, save that he answers to the name of Mr. Collins and he has compared my work to Shakespeare’s, an over-wrought comparison that promises great fun during his visit.
#
Imagining the British visitor and hoping against hope he’d be tall, dark and handsome, Elizabeth managed not to think about the William Darcy all the way to the house.
Which was good because she got alarmed enough when a housekeeper intercepted her on the way to Darcy’s bedroom. "No, miss. He’s not there. He’s downstairs in the pool."
"The pool?"
"He’s been trying to exercise in the water." She led Elizabeth down a corridor and into an elevator, as she spoke. The elevator took them to the daylight basement, part of which was a huge, enclosed area with an indoor pool and – Elizabeth noted in passing – a Jacuzi tub and a sauna as well. "There are extra swimsuits in that changing room there," the housekeeper said. "If you should need to get in the water and help him work."
Elizabeth was trying to calm herself. Water therapy was, of course, very beneficial and it was possible that particularly patients who were hysterically paralyzed would find it easier to move in the water. But she wondered what had come over Darcy and she was almost afraid to imagine it.
Without changing, she started into the vast room where the pool was. She could see Darcy’s wheelchair by the pool, and she could hear the splashing of water.
"Ma’am," the housekeeper said very softly behind her. Elizabeth turned around. The woman looked visibly embarrassed. "If I may say so, you’ve done him a world of good, Miss Bennet."
But I’ve done nothing, Elizabeth thought, as she approached the pool which was olympic size at the deep end, but had a shallow end, like neighborhood pools, and a set of steps descending into the water. Mr. Darcy was sitting on the steps, leaning back. He smiled at her as she came in. Like that, half submerged in the water, he looked perfectly normal. She could see part of his broad chest and all of his broad shoulders, and his smiling face and soaked dark hair. He might be a jock at college. Which was probably how he’d attracted all the girls.
"Your housekeeper tells me you’re anxious to work in the water," she said hesitantly, prepared for the rude reply.
Instead, he straightened and nodded. "I’ve been lifting myself, holding on to the side," he said, "and trying to move my legs. So far nothing has happened."
She wanted to laugh and cry at once. "You should never, never again come here and try to hold onto the side without someone with you. Can you swim as... you are?"
He shrugged. "I can keep afloat and scream if I should fall in, if that’s what you mean. I don’t want you to worry about that. My problem is – why isn’t anything moving?"
"Oh, Mr. Darcy," she said. "Even if your doctor thinks it has a psychological cause, you’ve now been without moving much too long. Your brain has forgotten how to move each muscle. You must... relearn. Rebuild pathways. There are groups of muscles... Let me explain it to you."
And explain she did, and he tried some of the exercises to strengthen the muscles he could control. He never suggested she get in the pool with him – which was good. By the time Lizzy finished the therapy session, she was almost hopeful about Mr. Darcy’s prospects.
Chapter Four
Lizzy had to admit that she was impressed at Darcy’s tenacity and will power. Or will to do for himself, of something. When his impromptu immersed-physical-therapy was done, he didn’t simply – as she expected – call for a servant to help him out. Instead, he managed to lift himself wholly out of the water, and pull himself to sitting on the side of the pool without help, in a maneuver that betrayed he’d done this before.
“Do you come here often?” she asked him.
He looked up at her, startled, and grinned. “What a pick-up line!” and quickly, as she felt her expression sour, he added. “I’m sorry. It struck me as funny. But if you mean to the pool, no, I don’t come here often. I don’t see much point, since I can’t swim. I have, however, come down to sit in the hot tub.” He frowned thunderously. “Sometimes I get painful muscle cramps on my...” he looked down at his lower body and his frown increased. “Legs,” he said as if that part of his anatomy had done him wrong. “And nothing helps, save sitting in the hot tub a while.”
While she was too puzzled, wondering if he was mad at her, the legs or the hot tub, he looked around, “I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Bennet, but I forgot to bring a towel with me. Would you mind horribly getting me one from there?” he pointed at a shelf at the other end.
Lizzy didn’t mind at all. The reason she didn’t mind at all was that Fitzwilliam Darcy, in skimpy black swimming trunks, sitting on the side of the pool, streaming water from his hair down to his still submerged ankles, was an unexpectedly and disturbingly enticing spectacle.
Part of it was that his legs were not withered, as she expected from a patient who hadn’t walked in many years. She remembered his father explaining it to her when she’d first come in. How, because Fitz’s trouble was believed to be psychological they’d tried to keep his legs in shape, in case he decided to get up and walk. For the purpose, they’d used electrically-wired sleeves which administered shocks to the muscles and kept them working and in shape, even if the mind could no longer move them. Lizzy vaguely remembered reading about their being used for the late Christopher Reeves, but she had never seen them in action before.
Well, she hadn’t seen them in action either. But she saw their results now. While the lower half of Darcy’s body was nowhere near as Herculean-looking as his top half, it looked quite normal. And he looked quite normal, sitting by the side of the pool, reaching for the towel. Broad shoulders. Light covering of hair on the chest. No hair on back. Graceful neck and really quite a well-shaped head and... Lizzy stopped herself ... was she thinking of Fitz-I’m-so-rich-I-could-loan-money-to-the-treasury Darcy as an attractive male? Forsooth. The envelope might not be wholly bad, but she’d had a look at the contents and they’d definitely shifted in shipping.
Darcy rubbed at his hair to dry it, then cursorily dried his upper body and much of his lower, before half-swinging, half pulling – with his hands – his legs fully out of the water.
Again this had the look of a practiced maneuver and one she wouldn’t expect Darcy to have any experience in. The man had servants for everything. And had already told her once that he didn’t need to walk because he had servants. Why would he wish to do this stuff for himself?
While she was trying to figure it out, Fitz Darcy had got hold of the remote control for his wheel chair, which was right at hand, and pulled his chair close. And while Lizzy didn’t mean to stare, she watched with fascination as Darcy pulled himself into his chair. The last time she’d seen such ability in a man as physically disabled as Darcy, it had been in an elderly gentlemen who had no relatives nearby, no servants, and thought a home nurse would detract from his privacy – not to mention his pocket book. But why would Darcy do this? It would seem to indicate, she thought, that Mr. Darcy really wished to recover more than anyone could imagine.
“I hear my friend is dating your sister, Ms. Bennet,” he said, still panting slightly from his exertions.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, taken completely by surprise.
Darcy unfolded the towel he still clutched in his hand, so it covered his lap – probably a reflex gesture, as he usually wore a blanket across his legs. “My friend, Charles Bingley. He’s quite smitten with your sister... Jane is it?”
“Do you see Doctor Bingley often?” Elizabeth asked, perturbed, wondering what Bingley had said about Jane, what he thought of them all, what he might have shared with his friend. If he came from the same sort of background as Darcy, he probably found their apartment unspeakable.
“He comes over for lunch or dinner once or twice a week,” Darcy said. He frowned menacingly. “I’ve told him time and time again he doesn’t need to. But he insists.” He shrugged, then looked up. “Anyway, thought you should know he’s not in the habit of dating pretty female interns.”
Oh, no, Lizzy thought. Another like Mister Gentry, dad’s editor. No wonder he came to visit Darcy. Perhaps they’d been more than friends in school? And Bingley had seemed so nice.
“Actually,” Darcy said. “He’s not in the habit of dating anyone at all. Bingley has been all about his studies and then his career ever since I’ve met him.” He looked up and smiled slightly, as if guessing Elizabeth’s thoughts, which she very much hoped he couldn’t. “Caroline would kill me for telling you this, but both she and Charles went to school on scholarships. Their parents are both academics. Their father is a literature professor and their mother teaches history at the community college. Very learned people but I understand it doesn’t pay very well. And Charles would not let my father help with college. He made it a point of getting a full-ride scholarship. So did Caro, for all her vanity. So, Charles had to be very focused on academics, you see.”
Darcy’s father had tried to help Charles Bingley with tuition? “You’ve known the Bingleys a long time, then.”
“Oh, yes, we went to high school together. Just down the hill and around the corner.”
“A public school?” Elizabeth said, before she could help herself. She had imagined the Darcys ferried to and from private academies on glistening limos.
Darcy grinned, not wholly inoffensively. “Yes, Ms. Bennet. You see, our ancestors didn’t become wealthy by spending unnecessarily. The local school is excellent, and my father thought as long as I was in the honors program there, he would save the private school fee.” His eyes sparkled as if at a private joke. “If you must know the truth, I met Charles Bingley in kindergarten and we hit it off so well, I asked my father to put me in the public school so we could remain together throughout. To be honest, I felt Charles needed a minder, even in kindergarten. At sharing time, he was likely to give away his most prized possessions. He’s far too disposed to think well of people and think everyone means well. He can twist himself into pretzels trying to think of excuses for unworthy people.”
“Oh,” Lizzy said, so surprised that the words just came off. “But that’s just how Jane is.”
“Good,” Darcy said, and chuckled. “Good. While their household management might be a disaster, at least Jane isn’t out to take advantage of Charles.”
All the relaxed camaraderie that had somehow set in between them fell apart on this. Darcy had thought that Jane was going out with Bingley for personal advantage? How could he? All anyone had to do was look at Jane to see how sweet she was. And how much she liked her Bingley.
“Mr. Darcy?” she asked with narrowed eyes. “Do you mean to tell me you were checking my sister for her suitability to date Doctor Bingley?”
“Well, someone has to,” he said, looking at her, the frown back. “Bingles can’t really take care of himself that way.”
“How convenient for him, then,” Lizzy said, cuttingly. “To have such a caring friend.”
She stalked out of the pool area, and out of the Darcy mansion in a fury. The nerve of the man. But she was glad. If he hadn’t said that, she might have had to revise her opinion of him. But no, he was just as arrogant and impossible as ever.
#
“I think it’s sweet,” Jane said, as she rubbed the worn dishcloth over the dish Lizzy had just washed. “That he cares so much for Charles.”
“Jane, your Dr. Bingley is a grown man. Caring of that kind is not caring, it’s interference. They have psychological treatments for that type of controlling behavior. I can just see what Mr. Darcy will be like once his father is gone. I believe the Darcys own several companies in town. I can just imagine Fitz Darcy trying to control everything and count every button.”
“Lizzy,” Jane said. She grinned. “You’re being absurd. I think you just hate to revise your opinion of Fitz Darcy and that his self-sufficiency has shaken you.”
“A little,” She said, dunking the last dish in the soapy water. “I always imagined him as the type of brat who calls a servant to turn the page on his book. But–”
“Ms. Elizabeth Bennet,” a male voice said from the door.
Elizabeth turned around. Whickam stood in the doorway of the kitchen, grinning. In his impeccably tailored suit, he looked as out of place as a fish in a ballroom, but he looked very happy to be there. “I just dropped your sister Lydia off. I had to come by this side of town, so I thought it was safer if I brought her than if she took the bus. And I was wondering if you’d come for a cup of coffee with me?”
Lizzy pulled her hands out of the dishpan. “Coffee?”
“Or tea. Or ice-cream.” Whickam, disarmingly ran his hand through his hair. “It’s been a horrible day and I’d appreciate some company. Your sister Lydia is a nice girl, but I’d like someone closer to my own age, whom I can actually talk to.” He grinned, looking very handsome and engaging.
Lizzy felt Jane’s hands working at the tie that held Lizzy’s faded apron on. “I think you should go,” Jane said. “And have fun. You work too hard too.”
Faced with such encouragement, what could Lizzy do? She rinsed her hands, wiped them on the apron.
“I’ll finish the dishes,” Jane said. “Go.”
“Give me a minute to get my purse, Mr. Whickam,” she said. “And I’ll meet you at the door.”
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