Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Three days after making a short but admirable toast to his best friend and his fiancée, the most lasting memory Darcy had of the celebratory event was the shattered look of horror on Elizabeth’s face as her mother flirted with him and teased her younger daughter.
He’d hardly seen her afterward. Sylvia’s appearance seemed to have sucked the air out of the festivities.
Many of the guests, including the Kowalski-Bennets, had left soon after her arrival.
Jane and Elizabeth had corralled their mother far away from the stage, and Charles, ever the white knight, positioned himself at a table with Sylvia, listening to tales of Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede while squeezing in questions about Jane’s childhood.
As for himself, he’d pulled away from Caroline, headed to the bar, ordered a Scotch and soda, and fallen into conversation with the Gardiners, who were keeping a worried eye on their nieces.
Maddie had apologized to Darcy for telling tales but said it saddened her that he and Charles kept seeing the worst of the Bennet family.
“Joe was barely a teenager when Sylvia married Ted, and he was away at college when she took off and left Ted and the girls. They were so young. Despite their parents’ eccentricities and self-absorption, Jane and Lizzy are wonderful people.
I’m so happy for Jane. Charles is a fine man. ”
Darcy had smiled. “He’s even finer with Jane’s influence.”
“And love,” Joe had added, reaching for his wife’s hand and threading his fingers through hers. “Being loved by the right woman makes every man better.”
Now, staring out his office window on a hazy, overcast Tuesday afternoon, Darcy wondered whether the right man could make every woman better too. Then the door burst open, and all of his restless speculation blew to hell.
“Aunt Catherine? I wasn’t expecting you.” He stumbled to his feet. Where the hell is Sara?
“Fitzwilliam, we must talk. Now.”
The Chanel-clad woman closed the door and strode right up to the edge of his desk.
“An attorney came to my home this morning,” she said in a low, angry voice.
“He came to my home and insulted the memory of my dear sister. Of your mother. He asked if I knew anything about Anne’s relationship with a landscaper named Jerome Wickham.
This…this gardener’s son is in serious trouble, and they need additional evidence to indict him.
” Catherine leaned closer, shaking and distraught.
“You told this lawyer that your mother had an affair with Wickham’s father? That she committed adultery?”
She put a hand to her forehead. “Fitzwilliam, what were you thinking?”
Darcy led his aunt to a chair, taking the one beside her and grasping her hand. “She did,” he said quietly. “Briefly and regrettably. My father never knew. I never knew until after…after everything else.” He felt her grip tighten on his hands.
“Wickham’s son knew,” he continued in a low, rough voice. “He had some letters and pictures.”
Catherine gasped.
“He threatened to go to the papers when Dad was sick, and I paid him not to. But he came back again, and he will keep doing so unless I take legal action.”
“What a horrid man.”
Darcy stared at a painting across the room, a muted seascape that he usually found calming, and took a deep breath.
“Wickham’s crimes have escalated. He was arrested for funneling performance-enhancing drugs—HGH, steroids, and the like—to athletes.
Cocaine, too. The authorities suspect he’s a partner in a lab operation.
Proof that he’s an extortionist as well will help strengthen their case against him. ”
“But Fitzwilliam, why does this…this story about your mother have to come out?” Catherine asked wearily. “Why now?”
He leaned closer to his usually imposing aunt. She seemed smaller, more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her. “It’s all so long ago that no one will care, not here in America. And the British press won’t get wind of it.”
“But why?” She pulled her hand from his and crossed her arms. “Why would you come forward now?”
“Because he hurt a friend. He’s lying, claiming she was an accomplice, just to get back at me, I think. And I need to help her.”
“Her? Who is this woman? Are you involved with her?” His aunt peered closely at him.
Now that he’d assuaged her worries about the press, he’d managed to throw her some fresh meat—his love life—to pick over. Brilliant. Darcy paled but his expression remained blank.
“No, she’s a friend, the sister of Charles Bingley’s fiancée,” he replied evenly. “She didn’t know Wickham was such a lowlife, and she worked with him, and he put her career in peril. She’s a nice girl. I owe her this.”
“A nice girl.” Catherine stared at him. Her pale blue eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Darcy nodded and averted his eyes.
“Oh, your mother…always another surprise,” she said, her voice quavering.
Darcy wrapped an arm around the petite woman. “She was like that.”
“Fitzwilliam.” Catherine sniffed and pulled away. “I knew.”
“Sorry?”
“I knew. Your mother told me she’d made a terrible mistake and didn’t know how to fix it.”
Darcy’s eyes welled up, and he blinked furiously, whether in anger or sadness, he wasn’t sure. He’d held this in all these years, telling no one in the family, and she had known all along? He exhaled and shook his head.
“I had no idea you knew.” Catherine sniffed into a handkerchief. “I’m sorry for that. But it was short-lived. The aftermath was longer than the actual affair.” She patted his hand.
He bit back the question that had lingered in his mind for years. Why?
For a woman of small stature, Catherine Fitzwilliam De Bourgh made quite an imposing figure in Elizabeth’s ten-foot-square office cubicle.
Stunned by the woman’s presence at Philips/Hill on what had been an ordinary Thursday, Elizabeth immediately stood up.
Even though she had a three-inch height advantage, she still felt a bit intimidated.
Ms. De Bourgh’s eyes swept the small cubicle and focused on the mockup of a book cover: Childhood Inspirations: The Heroes Who Shaped Sport’s Superstars. Photographs of various athletes were pinned up around it.
“You are Elizabeth Bennet,” she stated. “The young woman who came to Annabella’s gallery debut.”
Elizabeth felt as if she were standing in the last group of kids picked for a team in gym class, being scrutinized for any ounce of athletic skill.
“Yes, I am. Ms. Catherine De Bourgh, is it?” Elizabeth waited for some acknowledgement from the ill-mannered woman and received only a small nod.
She sighed and plowed on. “I was there with my sister Jane and Charles Bingley. Did you need to speak to me about that event? From last March?” Why was this woman seeking her out nearly five months later?
“We need to speak somewhere else, preferably someplace private,” Catherine replied, arching an eyebrow at the small goldfish bowl atop a bookcase. “With actual doors and walls.”
Elizabeth led her to the corner conference room. Photographs—outtakes from the book—littered the table. Her uninvited guest walked to the window and peered out. “This room suffers from a severity of afternoon sun.” She gestured at a faded corner of carpeting.
Well, brutal honesty is a family trait. Elizabeth bit back a retort.
“I’ve spoken with my nephew Fitzwilliam. He informs me that you’ve had some misguided business dealings with a man named George Wickham.”
Elizabeth stilled. All of her nervous energy channeled itself to make her blood run cold. Why were they discussing me—discussing that? “I’m sorry. I don’t understand why he would tell you this.”
“Because he went to the authorities to give them evidence of this Wickham person’s previous crimes.”
Elizabeth stared, dumbfounded. “Excuse me?”
The older woman sat down at the head of the long conference table and peered at Elizabeth.
“Apparently, Wickham told the police you were involved with this doping business. Fitzwilliam knew that to be a lie, so he handed them further evidence of the man’s malice.
” She noticed Elizabeth’s pale face and shaking hands and gestured across the table. “Sit down, dear.”
Elizabeth sank into a chair. “Wickham tried to incriminate me?” Oh my God…
“All is well now, for you. Fitzwilliam knows people who know the law. And he knew you were innocent.”
He does know me. Better than I know myself.
Elizabeth gripped the chair arms. Suddenly, she felt the full significance of what Darcy had done for her.
He told his aunt about Wickham’s extortion attempt—about everything.
“He told you and the authorities about the blackmail? He did that?” She was afraid she was going to hyperventilate.
“Oh my…he told you about his mother?” Ms, De Bourgh gasped. “Well, well, well.” She sat back in her chair, rubbing her temple and looking even more closely at Elizabeth. “I believe his trust in your character goes even deeper than I’d imagined.”
“He’s a good man, but he shouldn’t have done that for me,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“Fitzwilliam obviously thinks otherwise. How long have you two known each other?”
“We met last fall at a football game.”
Elizabeth’s response drew a smile from the other woman. “I see. The Yankees must have already been out of the playoffs.” She cleared her throat and gestured at the photographs on the table. “You’re writing the sports heroes book, correct?”
At Elizabeth’s nod, she continued. “I suspect he likely placed a call or two to an old family friend.” She gestured to a photo of a smiling Reggie Jackson. “He mentioned Reggie and Derek are in your book.”