Chapter Eighteen
ZANE
A letter from Macey to Zane, Wednesday, September 18, 7:02 p.m.
My dear Mr. Darcy,
Fear not, for I am ready to save you from the perils of the mysterious rear pincher. I shall enlist the assistance of Kitty and Lydia, though I confess they are just as likely to join in the mischief as to thwart it.
I must admit, however, that I eagerly anticipate seeing you at the Netherfield ball. Do advise me—ought I to wear boots with reinforced toes to safeguard them from your enthusiastic footwork?
Yours in nervousness and anticipation,
Miss Bennet
“LOOK AT THIS SPLENDID SIGHT, Mr. Bennet! Such a fine gathering of company. Oh, Jane, my dearest, Mr. Bingley will surely be captivated all over again,” Mrs. Bennet says as her family enters the ballroom at Netherfield, her hand wrapped around Mr. Bennet’s arm.
No sooner had Macey and Jane left Netherfield than the staff began preparing for the ball, rearranging furniture, hanging garlands on the walls, and setting up large refreshment tables in the adjoining rooms.
Later, after the reenactment of Wickham’s arrival—where it was surprisingly easy for me to act like I disliked the guy because the man playing him just seems like a sleazeball—I returned to the house to get ready. Before long, the rooms were bustling with staff and locals from the surrounding towns, dressed more formally tonight for the ball.
Tonight, we’ll alternate reenacted scenes with dancing and character interactions. Lady Catherine meticulously briefed me, Bingley, and Caroline before the evening began, and I assume she did the same for everyone else.
After spending the past half hour keeping an eye out for Macey—and dodging Edith the butt pincher, who was among the first to arrive—she’s finally here. She looks stunning in a light-blue shimmering gown, her hands elegantly covered in white gloves that reach her elbows, and chains of pearls adorning her neck and wrists. Her red hair is loosely styled and pulled up, with soft curls framing her face.
“Yes, my dear, though let us hope you do not frighten Mr. Bingley away with your enthusiasm before the first dance,” says Mr. Bennet.
“Nonsense, Mr. Bennet! Jane, do stand tall,” Mrs. Bennet says, lightly pressing a hand on Jane’s back. “He is already looking this way.”
Bingley approaches the Bennets, while I stay back, as the script and Lady Catherine instructed. She nods her approval while sitting on a chair in the corner, watching like a spectator. She’s not the only one—most of the extras attending the ball are standing and watching as well. It’s almost like we’re putting on a play.
Honestly, I thought Star Wars fans were the most dedicated bunch out there. But these Pride and Prejudice enthusiasts might give them a run for their money.
Bingley walks up to Jane and bows. “Miss Bennet, might I have the honor of the first dance?”
“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Bingley,” she says, giving him a genuine-looking smile. They both play their parts well, but I’d expect no less; they are the real actors here, after all.
They leave to line up with some other dancers, which are mostly staff and some of the locals. The same quartet from last night is in the corner, ready to get things started.
“He is watching her again. Mr. Bingley could not make his admiration more obvious if he tried,” Macey says to Charlotte, who’s just joined her.
“And yet Mr. Darcy seems determined to admire from afar. Perhaps he is studying us all to discern who meets his impossible standards,” Charlotte replies, as Macey’s eyes move to me, the beginnings of a smile on her lips, and I have to look down to keep myself from smiling.
Two men, dressed in uniform, ask them to dance. Charlotte accepts and Macey declines, and that’s my cue to approach her.
“Miss Elizabeth, might I inquire why you choose not to dance this evening?” I ask her.
“Because I find observing much more rewarding, Mr. Darcy,” she replies. “And you, sir? Do you find yourself drawn to the dance floor tonight?”
“I find few here who inspire such a desire.”
“Indeed? Then I must pity you, Mr. Darcy, for such particular tastes must make these events exceedingly dull.”
It’s the last part of the dialogue for now, and one of us is supposed to walk away, but right now I can’t remember who. I’m sort of caught in the spell that is Macey. My lips pull up into a smile, which I know isn’t very Darcy-like, but I can’t help it, especially when Macey gives me one in return. The spell is quickly broken, though, when Lady Catherine clears her throat and we both look over to see she’s giving us a disapproving glare. Some of the onlookers are smiling and whispering to each other.
Oops.
Macey stands up straighter. “Mr. Darcy,” she says before walking away.
“Miss Bennet,” I say, watching her as she leaves and realizing that it was me who was supposed to leave.
It’s not part of the script, but for improvisation, I think we nailed it. But one look at Lady Catherine, who’s shaking her head at me, and I guess maybe we didn’t pull it off as well as I thought.
I watch as Mr. Collins approaches Macey, bowing deeply, which was supposed to happen after my lines with Macey ended and I left her standing there, but he’s part of the staff, so I’m sure he’s learned to just roll with it.
“Miss Elizabeth, what a magnificent occasion! Might I secure the honor of your hand for the next dance?” he asks.
“Mr. Collins,” Macey says. “I am honored by your request, but I fear I must decline. My feet are quite fatigued.”
“Fatigue is easily remedied by activity! Lady Catherine herself recommends vigorous dancing to improve one’s constitution,” Mr. Collins says, doing a little over-the-top dance in his spot. The guy is a great actor. I wonder why he’s working at Pride and Prejudice Park and not in movies or onstage.
Charlotte, who came over after finishing her dance, steps in. “Mr. Collins, perhaps you would do me the honor instead? I have been longing for a partner of your ... enthusiasm.”
“Miss Lucas, your request flatters me greatly. I would be delighted.”
Macey gives her a look of appreciation before the couple walks toward the ballroom to join the next set. Now we wait for the next scene.
It’s kind of irritating I can’t just go talk to her now that we’ve said our lines, and I feel fidgety standing by myself, wanting to be near her. Even though maybe this is for the best.
I’ve been smiling to myself all day after spending last night with her and holding her hand as we ran back to Longbourn. Now with the letter thing out in the open, something that’s been bothering me, I can think about other things. Except, I keep thinking about her ... about Macey.
I don’t know exactly what I’m feeling right now, but it’s something different. And it feels like, whatever it is, it has come on fast. But it’s so easy with Macey. Everything is better when she’s around—the way she makes me laugh, the way her cheeks warm, the way she lights up when she talks about the things she loves. She has this knack for making the most awkward situations bearable, like just a few minutes ago when we got sidetracked from our characters.
She seems like the old Macey—the one I remember before everything started to go wrong for her. This trip feels like it’s brought her back. She may not have won it, but it’s exactly what she needed. I don’t know why that part matters to her so much. I’ve heard her explanation, and I still don’t get it. It’s not winning the trip that changed her luck—it’s her.
“There he is,” someone says, and I look down to see a half dozen older women standing before me. Oh no, it’s Edith, the butt pincher. I turn to Macey, who’s looking this way, and give her wide help me eyes.
She sucks her teeth between her lips, holding in a laugh. She’s not going to help me at all.
“Good evening, ladies,” I say.
“This is Fitzwilliam,” Edith says, extending a hand toward me. “He’s being coy with me, won’t tell me his real name.”
“Why don’t you tell her your real name, young man?” says a woman in a pale-pink dress that’s seen better days.
“But I did tell her,” I reply. “I’m Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Oh no you’re not,” Edith says, giving me what I think is a coy smile, though it mostly looks like she’s got constipation issues.
I glance over to where Lady Catherine was sitting, hoping she might step in—because honestly, what kind of establishment is this where the extras can’t even stay in character? I can’t imagine she’d appreciate this level of chaos. Or the formal complaint I’ll consider filing if my butt gets violated again. But when I look at the chair she was occupying earlier, it’s empty. She’s gone.
My eyes drift back to Macey, now doubled over, laughing into her hands. A hint of pink colors her cheeks, peeking out between her fingers. She’s not going to help me either—she’s just going to stand there and enjoy the show. I guess I’m on my own.
“If you will excuse—”
“Fine then,” Edith says, cutting me off. “I think we should dance.”
And because I don’t know what to say, I let the woman grab me by the hand and drag me into the ballroom, where everyone is lining up for a country dance. I guess the joke’s on Edith—she’s about to get her toes stepped on.
Edith is spry for her age, which I’m guessing is mid-seventies, or somewhere around there. She keeps up with me and even corrects my steps when I fumble. By the time the dance ends, I’ve managed to only graze the heel of her slippers once. I bow to her and then walk away quickly, relieved to escape, but not before I feel a tiny swat on my backside. And there it is.
As I turn to find Macey, planning to be fully out of character when I chastise her for leaving me on my own, I hear Lady Catherine’s unmistakable voice behind me.
“Mr. Darcy,” she says sharply, and I swear my spine straightens. I turn around, and she takes a step toward me. “I believe you are well aware that you were not supposed to dance until you had the honor of dancing with Elizabeth Bennet.”
“But ... she,” I stammer, pointing in the direction of Edith and her gang, now headed toward Mr. Collins. I wonder if he, too, has been the recipient of her harassment.
She holds up a hand, obviously not giving a crap about whatever excuse I might have. “We have rules for a reason, young man. They exist to maintain the integrity of Miss Austen’s work, which I trust you appreciate, given the role you are playing.”
“Of course,” I say, giving her a small bow.
“See that it doesn’t happen again. Mr. Darcy’s reputation depends on it.” Then she turns on her heel and walks back to her chair, leaving me standing there, wondering if she knows this is all fake and Mr. Darcy doesn’t, and never did, exist. She’d probably have me escorted off the premises, and possibly hung, if I told her that.
She clears her throat and looks down at her script. I guess it’s showtime.
I look over at the refreshment table to see Macey standing there, ready to do our lines, her eyes glossy, most likely because she laughed so hard at me, she teared up. I’ll have to find a way to get even with her.
I walk over to her and bow. “Miss Elizabeth, might I request the honor of this dance?”
She curtsies, letting out a strangled, half-choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a cough, as she tries to compose herself. “Certainly ... Mr. Darcy,” she says, her voice pitching higher as she tries to get out the words without laughing.
As we line up across from each other, I give her a bow—trying not to make it look as awkward as it feels—and she curtsies back, now graceful and perfectly in character. The music starts, and we step toward each other, meeting in the middle.
“Do you always approach a dance with such solemnity, Mr. Darcy?” She says her line, her tone light but teasing, as I take her hand, and we turn in a circle. “One might think it a punishment rather than a pleasure.”
I nod, which is about all I can manage, because I’ve completely blanked on my line.
Macey arches a brow, her lips twitching like she’s trying not to laugh again. “Perhaps the—”
“Company determines the degree of pleasure, Miss Elizabeth,” I blurt out, finally remembering what I’m supposed to say. I don’t think it matters; I’m pretty sure Lady Catherine’s not paying attention right now.
We weave around each other in a figure eight pattern. “Ah, so I must consider it a compliment that you chose to approach me tonight,” she says, her lips pulled up into a smug-looking grin.
“You may consider it what you will, though I find your interpretation quite fascinating,” I say, feeling proud of myself for not only performing the dance without stepping on Macey’s toes, but I’m able to say my lines as well. I’ve never been a multitasking kind of guy.
“You are full of surprises tonight, Mr. Darcy,” she says and then lets out a little yelp when I step on her toe. I guess I spoke too soon.
With our lines delivered, we finish the dance, and after a quick bow, I go back to the refreshment table to do my final part, walking by Mary, who’s playing the piano and singing pretty loudly and sounding sort of like a wailing cat, and Kitty and Lydia, who are laughing loudly and look to be flirting with Mr. Collins, which I’m pretty sure is not in the book.
When I get to the table, I look around for the woman playing Caroline Bingley, but she’s nowhere in sight. I give wide eyes to Macey, who returns my unspoken words with a quick shrug of her shoulders.
Then I look over to Lady Catherine for some direction because I’m not sure what to do now that Caroline hasn’t shown up for her part. She gives me a scowl from her perch in the corner, like it’s my fault Caroline’s not here.
I stand there for a minute, wondering if maybe we should do the lines later—or just forget it entirely because it’s a super short scene, like three lines—when Lady Catherine rises from her chair and strides over, the skirts of her dark-purple dress swishing purposefully behind her.
“The show must go on, Mr. Darcy,” she says in a low, deliberate tone, her voice carrying an air of authority. “To falter would be to dishonor the spirit of Miss Austen herself.”
“I don’t know where Caroline is,” I tell her, glancing around helplessly.
“Then I shall play the part,” she declares, lifting her chin. “For the integrity of the story.”
Right. For the integrity of the story. I’ve changed my mind. Pride and Prejudice fans are definitely more outrageous than Star Wars ones. At least this particular fan standing in front of me, her eyes closed as she gets ready to take on the part of Caroline Bingley.
“The Bennet family is certainly lively, is it not, Mr. Darcy?” she says, saying Caroline’s line, her voice taking on a higher and more lilting quality than her normal terse one.
I school my features, trying very hard not to laugh. This would be a very bad time to do that. “They are indeed spirited,” I say. “It is a refreshing change from some company.”
She forces a smile. “How generous of you to say so,” she says.
With a bow, I walk away, feeling relieved that I’m done with my lines and am now free to enjoy the rest of the evening.
I walk toward Macey, who’s standing by the entrance to the ballroom, but I’m stopped by Lydia on my way.
“Fancy a dance, Mr. Darcy?” she says, her lips pulled up into a mischievous-looking grin.
I’m pretty sure it’s not canon for a woman to ask a man to dance, but I give her a quick bow and then follow her into the ballroom.
“WANT TO GET OUT OF here?” I say into Macey’s ear when I find her after an hour or so, standing in one of the adjoining rooms, finally alone.
She turns around, a soft smile on her face. I’ve been trying to get her alone and out of the ballroom for a while now, but every time I made a move, someone would intercept—asking one of us to dance and keeping us apart.
She looks tired; her face is flushed, her hair not as perfectly pulled up as it was at the beginning of the night, and I think she somehow looks even more beautiful this way.
“Why, Mr. Darcy,” she says, giving me a teasing smile. “That’s a very scandalous thing to ask of me. Think of my reputation.”
“What’s a reputation for, if not to ruin?” I ask, giving her a little smirk that makes her cheeks blush.
“I never took you for a rake,” she says.
I believe we are Regency flirting right now, and I can’t deny it’s kind of fun, even if I’m not exactly sure what a rake is. But I can make an educated guess from the context.
“Only in your company, Miss Bennet,” I say, my smirk turning into a grin. “You seem to bring out the worst—or perhaps the best—in me.”
“Then I shall have to take care, Mr. Darcy,” she says, tilting her head with a mock-serious expression. “For I would hate to be responsible for your complete downfall.”
I lean in closer to her. “I don’t think I’d mind that at all,” I say, dropping the accent, the flirting intentional.
Yes, I am absolutely flirting right now, and I can’t seem to bring myself to care.
My brazen comment makes her cheeks turn a fiery shade of red, and before I can think twice, I grab her hand. “Come on,” I say, tilting my head toward the door that I think leads outside.
“But Lady Catherine—” she says, tugging gently on my hand to pull me back.
“She won’t even know we’re gone,” I say, with a nod toward the ballroom where I see Lady Catherine at the center of the floor, currently leading a dance like she’s in some Regency-era nightclub. I’m expecting the crowd to start chanting her name at any moment.
“All right, then,” Macey says, leading the way.
There’s a chill in the air as we make our way out of Netherfield and into the night. It feels good right now because all the body heat made the ballroom stifling. It’s also a lot quieter out here.
“Where should we go?” she asks.
“The garden?” She gives me a nod, and I grab her by the hand, taking the lead.
We’re quiet as we turn a corner toward the back of the house, the silence broken only by the distant sounds of the ball and the leaves crunching under our feet as we walk. We stay in the shadows, just in case, but I don’t see a watchman anywhere.
As we get closer to the garden, Macey looks at me, and her eyes widen as we hear chatter and can see a group of people standing right outside the wrought-iron gate, some of them smoking cigarettes.
“That’s not canon,” Macey whispers.
I snort. “Did they even have cigarettes back then?” I ask.
“I actually have no idea,” she says, giving me a grin. “Where should we go now?”
I tug on her hand. “There are plenty of places,” I say. It’s true; the large property has plenty of gardens and other hidden areas for us to take a break.
We walk away from Netherfield and toward the main house, which tomorrow will be Rosings Park and then the next day Pemberley. I’m pretty sure. I mostly just go where people tell me.
As we walk past the stables, I nudge her toward them, and she gives me are you kidding eyes. “We are not going to the stables,” she says.
“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t make you go there,” I say, teasing in my voice.
She stops, making me stop too, because our hands are still connected. Then she quickly pulls me behind a large tree we just passed.
“I think that’s Caroline Bingley and Wickham,” she says, with a head nod toward the stables.
I peek around the tree, and sure enough, there are two people making out in a shadowy alcove at the back of the stables. She’s got her legs wrapped around his waist as they kiss and laugh softly, pressed against the weathered wooden wall.
“So that’s why she missed her lines,” I say, and Macey snorts out a quiet laugh.
“Come on.” I grab her hand and go a different direction, away from the stables.
We come to a tiny garden just off one of the smaller buildings, which I think is the place Mr. Collins lives in, and, finding a bench, we take a seat. The cold of the cement seeps through my breeches, but I don’t mind.
“I’m exhausted,” Macey says, letting go of my hand and pressing hers to her cheeks. “And my corset is digging into my ribs.”
Don’t picture it, Zane.
“Yeah, my feet are killing me in these boots,” I say, giving myself a little shake because I did, in fact, picture it.
“So,” Macey says after a few moments of silence. She shivers in the cold, and without thinking too much about it, I take off my jacket and drape it around her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she says, gathering it around her, holding it closed by the lapels. She leans her nose toward the collar and sniffs, which I find oddly satisfying—like whatever mark I’ve left behind, she’s enjoying it.
“So, Caroline Bingley and Mr. Wickham,” I say.
“It’s kind of perfect, actually,” she says. “They should have ended up together in the book.”
“Lady Catherine would have you kicked off the property for saying that.”
She chuckles. “Indeed.”
“And how have you been enjoying the ball, Miss Bennet?” I say with an accent.
“It’s been most delightful,” she says. “And you, Mr. Darcy?”
“Tolerable,” I say, and she giggles. “Has the trip been to your liking?”
“It has,” she says. “Above expectations, really.”
“I guess you’re feeling better now that you know Monroe is okay,” I say, realizing we haven’t had a moment to talk about it. I knew when I heard the news at breakfast that she’d be relieved.
“So much better,” she says. “I still feel terrible that she can’t be here, but at least she’s going to be okay.”
That’s Macey, in a nutshell. Even when things are looking up, she still finds a way to worry about others, as if she’s not allowed to feel relief without a tinge of guilt. It’s like she can never let herself just be happy.
I shake my head at her. “Macey, don’t do that,” I say.
“Do what?” she asks, frowning.
“Feel bad about something you can’t control,” I say. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for. I don’t know Monroe, but I don’t think she’d want you feeling guilty about enjoying yourself.”
She shrugs, her fingers fidgeting with her sleeve. “I guess, but it still feels wrong. Like, I don’t know, selfish, I guess.”
“It’s not selfish,” I say firmly. “It’s human. You’re allowed to be happy. You don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
She looks down, her voice quieter now. “I don’t do that; I just don’t want anyone to think I don’t care.”
“Nobody in the world would think that about you, Macey,” I say, maybe a little too passionately, but I don’t really care. I want her to understand what I’m saying. She’s been more herself here than I’ve seen in so long, and yet this part of her—the part that always doubts, that questions whether she’s done enough or been enough—keeps showing up, like it’s woven into her somehow, refusing to let her just be happy.
“You care more than most people I know—probably too much,” I tell her. “But you don’t have to keep apologizing over things that aren’t your fault. I’ve heard you say sorry at least three times today, and none of them were even necessary.”
She glances up at me, a little surprised. “Have I really?”
“Yeah,” I say with a small smile.
“Sor—”
“Don’t you dare,” I say, cutting her off.
She covers her lips with her hand, like she can’t believe she just did it again.
“No more,” I say.
“But what if I’m truly sorry,” she says. “Am I never allowed to apologize? And how am I supposed to stop something I didn’t even know I was doing?”
“I’ll help,” I say. “Maybe a little pinch under the arm any time you say it?” I reach over and try to grab her arm, but she pulls away from me, laughing.
“Are you going to follow me around until I kick the habit?”
“Maybe,” I say, giving her a shrug. “Whatever it takes for you to realize you’re enough, just as you are.”
She leans her shoulder into me. “Thanks,” she says.
“Aren’t you glad I’m here?” I ask, teasing in my tone.
“Very,” she says, no humor in hers. She leans her head on my shoulder.
So am I.