Chapter Twenty
MACEY
A letter from Macey to Zane, Friday, September 20, 12:23 a.m.
Dear Mr. Darcy,
It BEHOOVES me to address a most grievous offense: your complete and utter decimation of the banoffee ice cream tonight. Truly, sir, such an act constitutes nothing short of treason.
The only proper remedy for this heinous crime is to procure more at once. Send your valet, rouse the village grocer, or, if you must, churn it yourself. If my demands are not met, I shall be forced to take drastic measures—such as pilfering your dessert at the next opportunity.
Yours in addiction,
Miss Bennet
“MR. DARCY, THIS IS MOST unexpected,” I say when Zane barges into the sitting room at the parsonage where I’ve been sitting at a small desk, writing a letter, which is really me just doodling my name and drawing tiny connecting flowers. I hope Lady Catherine doesn’t want to read it after the reenactment.
She appears to have recovered from the broken crystal glass and my ruining of her scene, because it was business as usual this morning when she gave us her direction.
“This scene is the turning point,” she said, right before we started. “Mr. Darcy confesses his love but does so in a way that insults Miss Bennet—quite the paradox, isn’t it? Miss Bennet, you must wield your words like a blade, striking where it hurts most. And Darcy—you must falter. We must see your pride crumble under the weight of rejection. This is not just any moment; it is the moment. You must do it justice.”
Well, of course I’m going to do the part justice. We’re nearing the end here. All the good stuff is about to happen. After this I will receive his letter, then visit Pemberley, where I will find out about Lydia’s elopement. Tomorrow Jane and Bingley get engaged, and then I get to confront Lady Catherine, and after that, Darcy proposes again.
“I shall not detain you long,” Zane says. “There is something of great importance I must say, and I cannot bear the thought of leaving it unsaid.”
“Then please, speak plainly, Mr. Darcy.”
“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you,” he says.
Ah, some of the most famous Darcy words. I knew in Lady Catherine’s script she wouldn’t leave us without that line. I can see her in my peripheral vision, mouthing the dialogue along with us. It feels very small in here with the three of us—so small that the other guests are watching from outside the windows, which have been opened for them to listen in.
I blink my eyes at Zane, like I’m supposed to. He looks handsome as always today, in the navy jacket he wore earlier this week, his cravat tied perfectly at his neck. In only two days more, we’ll take off these costumes and it will be just us again. Macey and Zane. Where will that leave us when we get back? Zane has some big decisions to make, and I ... have to staple papers.
“Against my better judgment, against the expectations of my family, my rank, and my own pride—I find myself unable to resist you,” he says, and I twist my mouth to keep from smiling, which has him looking away from me. I’ve distracted him.
He clears his throat before going on. “From the moment I first saw you, your wit, your intelligence, your spirit have captivated me.”
“And yet,” I say, pulling it together. “It appears I must ask forgiveness for inspiring such an unwanted attachment.”
He frowns, as the script instructed. “Unwanted? Miss Bennet, you cannot be unaware of the depth of my feelings. Despite your family’s ... improprieties, your lack of connections ...”
“Stop, Mr. Darcy,” I hold out a hand, though honestly, with the earnest look in his eyes and how freaking handsome he is in the blue coat he’s wearing, I kind of just want to ruin the scene, say yes, jump into his arms, and have him carry me off into the sunset.
But I don’t, because I actually ruined a scene last night and I think Lady Catherine would probably lose it if I ruined this one too.
“If this is the language of love, then I confess I have never heard it spoken so poorly,” I say.
“I do not mean to insult you,” he says.
“And yet you do, with every word. Do you think I would accept an offer made out of condescension? One that belittles my family, my position, and myself? That disregards my sister’s happiness—her chance at love—for the sake of your own pride? That allows a man such as Mr. Wickham to suffer at your hands?” I spit out the words, doing a very fine job, if I say so myself.
“I ...,” he starts, but then he’s staring at me. I think he’s forgotten his line. I’m about to help him like I did at the dance, but he shakes his head, standing a little taller. “I have spoken poorly; I see that now. But my intentions are sincere. I offer you my heart, my fortune, and my life.”
“And I refuse them all,” I say resolutely.
That’s twice in two days that I’ve turned down a proposal, playing Elizabeth. It strikes me how empowering it is to say exactly how you feel, without apology or hesitation. It’s kind of liberating. Because if this were me, I’d probably think I should turn him down, but when I went to open my mouth, I’d say “Sounds good.” Maybe I need to channel a bit more Lizzy Bennet in my life. Oh, that would make a good T-shirt.
“Very well, Miss Bennet. I shall take my leave,” Zane says before giving me a quick bow of his head.
“Goodbye, Mr. Darcy,” I say and watch as he walks out the door, our little audience clapping for him as he steps outside. He gives them a small bow that makes me smile.
“Bravo,” Lady Catherine says, with a couple of claps. She gets up from her chair in the corner and walks toward me. “Now we will separate for lunch, and then we will be back to do the letter, and then it’s off to Pemberley.”
I follow her out of the parsonage and find Zane standing there waiting with a smile, our little audience clapping as we exit.
“No time to dally,” Lady Catherine says, her gaze on Zane. “Mr. Darcy, you have a letter to write.”
He nods and then gives me a slightly mischievous little grin before turning and walking toward Pemberley.
LUNCH WITH MR. COLLINS AND Charlotte is actually very fun. Mr. Collins regales us both with his tales of the grandeur of Rosings Park, giving us details of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s unparalleled wisdom in the arranging of furniture, as well as the placement of hedgerows and the proper way to fold napkins for maximum propriety. Which he demonstrates. He does it all without once breaking character, which is impressive. Especially when I keep laughing and breaking out of mine.
The staff member playing Charlotte plays her part well, chiming in with a quiet “Indeed” or “How very true” as her pretend husband goes on. They must be cast together often, because they play these complementary roles as though they have many times before.
When it’s time to reenact the scene where Darcy gives me the letter explaining everything, I go out to stroll along the garden, Lady Catherine sitting on one of the benches as she oversees the scene, and a group of onlookers not far off.
“Miss Bennet,” Zane says as he approaches. He looks a little off right now, fidgety.
“Mr. Darcy,” I say, giving him a quick curtsy, trying to hold back the concern threatening to show on my face.
Zane takes a step closer, and he’s giving me what looks like apologetic eyes now. “Forgive me for intruding on your morning walk, but I felt it imperative to speak with you—or rather, to leave you with something of importance.”
“Of importance, Mr. Darcy?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope and then gives me an imperceptible head shake, but I’m not following.
“I have taken the liberty of writing you a letter. I hope you will allow me the courtesy of reading it in your own time. It will explain much that words in the moment might fail to convey.” He reluctantly hands it to me.
I take it from him and look at the letter, my name on the front in Zane’s sloppy writing, a large inkblot next to it, and twist my lips, trying not to smile. Is this what he’s worried about?
“Very well,” I say. “Thank you.”
“I shall not keep you further. Good afternoon, Miss Bennet.” He walks away quickly, which I’m pretty sure was not part of the script.
“Good day, Mr. Darcy,” I say to his retreating backside.
I sit on a bench, opening the letter, as per Lady Catherine’s instructions. According to the script, I was to take the letter, and that was the end of the scene. But Lady Catherine, in her direction beforehand, instructed me to read it aloud in front of everyone, saying, “The audience must be privy to this most vital information, for the sake of the narrative.” Which is kind of ridiculous because everyone, save some of the men who were dragged along on this trip, knows this story backward and forward.
Zane flinched at her instructions then, and I didn’t understand. But I do now.
My dear Miss Bennet,
I have to write you this letter because Lady Catherine insisted, so this is me writing you a letter. You have been mean to me and accused me of stuff, and I can’t even remember what they are as I write this. Something to do with Wickham being a tool, and the fact that I intervened and broke up your sister and Bingley. But I think I had good reasoning with that. I don’t know.
Anyway, please forgive me, blah, blah, blah.
Yours in apologies and such,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Well, crap. All Zane had to do was copy the words Lady Catherine gave him—that was it. He had one freaking job.
I look up toward the audience, where a very red-faced Zane is now standing. He’s not heated because he’s embarrassed; he’s clearly trying hard not to laugh. I give him how could you do this to me wide eyes, and he turns away, unable to stop himself anymore. He plays it off as a cough, but I know better.
Lady Catherine clears her throat, and I take in a steadying breath. I’m supposed to read this out loud. But I can’t read this monstrosity. I take a steadying breath and rally. I’ve read the letter in the book, and seen it played out in the movies, hundreds of times. I’m sure I can improvise. It won’t be exactly as Lady Catherine wrote it, but I can do a version of it.
All those years of theater classes, please don’t fail me now.
“My dear Miss Bennet,” I start, feeling heat come to my cheeks. “Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter ...”
I’m sweating by the end of it, but everyone claps, and Zane looks relieved. I’ve somehow made it through, making it up as I go, while pretending to read the letter.
Lady Catherine is mollified, though she does look slightly confused, probably because what I said and what she wrote are two completely different things. Maybe mine was better and she’s impressed with her own writing skills? I can only hope. But I got through it, and that’s all that matters at this point.
I could kill Zane, though. And I just might.
I see him standing on the edge of the gathering, his face red from laughing. I shake my head at him but then pull my lips in between my teeth, trying to keep from laughing, trying not to give him the satisfaction.
He points to the letter and then makes a circle figure in the air, telling me to turn it over.
When I do, I see that he’s written a note in the bottom corner.
Meet me in our garden tonight is all it says. I look up to see him giving me a mischievous little grin, and I can’t help the warmth that spreads from my cheeks down to my stomach. Even if I want to slap him right now.
“ZANE?” I WHISPER AFTER SLIPPING through the gate in the little garden near Netherfield. After the Gardiners—the staff playing Elizabeth’s aunt and uncle—went to bed, I snuck out of Hunsford Parsonage, which is now doubling as the inn in Lambton, and walked across the property to meet Zane, making sure to stay in the shadows as much as possible. I never saw anyone else.
“Hey,” he says from behind, and I jump, even though I know it’s him.
I was antsy to get here, having had to sit through dinner at Pemberley, listening to the Gardiners go on about the vegetation around the estate ... or something. I could hardly listen with the way Zane would bump my leg under the table with his.
He found subtle ways to touch me all evening. Small, lingering gestures in the drawing room after dinner, following our reenactment of the scene where Elizabeth learns of Lydia’s elopement with Wickham. His hand rested lightly on my back, staying there just a moment longer than expected. When we played whist, his fingers brushed against mine in a way that felt deliberate, sending little sparks through me each time. I don’t know what it all means. Zane’s always been comfortable with casual touches, even when we were younger. But this feels different now. Less casual and more purposeful.
“Hi,” I say, giving him a smile when I turn around to see him standing there, cravat untied and hanging around his neck. We’re both still in our dinner wear, but I’m now wearing a wool spencer jacket to keep warm. Though I’m not sure I need it so much right now, as I feel my temperature rising. Maybe it was the walk here, or maybe it’s the man standing in front of me.
He takes a step forward, closing the space between us until we’re facing each other.
“Glad you could make it,” he says.
“I know,” I reply. “The Gardiners, as I’m sure you recall from dinner, are very chatty. And they never break character. Not even once.”
“I hope they gave you the full Mr. Darcy deep dive,” Zane says, his mouth curving into a mischievous half-smile. “I hear he’s everyone’s favorite subject.”
“Oh, please.” I wave a hand dismissively. “They wouldn’t waste their breath on that drivel.”
His jaw drops. “You wound me.”
I laugh. “So,” I say, looking around the garden before my eyes come back to Zane. “What’s the plan tonight?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Same as always. I just want to be with you.”
He looks at me then, his heated gaze roaming my face is enough to make me melt into a puddle right on the spot.
“Well, I’m here,” I say, the words coming out breathy.
“You are,” he says, taking another step toward me, nearly erasing the distance between us.
“And ... you ... are also here,” I say, nervousness taking over. I sound like an idiot, but Zane doesn’t seem to mind.
“I am,” he says, reaching up and tucking some of my curls, left out by my lady’s maid to frame my face, behind my ear.
“Zane,” I say, a mix of anxious and happy butterflies fighting for space in my stomach at his proximity.
“Yes,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around me, pulling me closer until our faces are just inches apart. His gaze flicks to mine, holding it for a moment longer than I expect.
“Um,” I start to say, but my words catch in my throat as he leans down slightly, his breath warm against my skin. Gently, his lips brush the curve of my neck, soft and deliberate. My heart pounds in my chest, and for a moment, it feels like the world tilts, leaving me weightless.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he says, between soft kisses up and down my neck.
“You have?” I ask, not really believing this is real.
“Yes. You have a very lovely neck.”
“Oh,” I say, on a shaky breath.
His lips move from my neck to my jaw, and he peppers kisses there until finally, his lips are hovering above mine.
“Zane,” I whisper his name. “I—“ I stop to swallow. “I don’t know if I’m very good at this.”
This makes him stop, pulling his face farther away from mine. “Good at what?”
“At kissing,” I say.
He furrows his brow, looking at me. “What do you mean?”
I don’t want to ruin the moment, but I’m so nervous right now, and I feel like he should know what I’m thinking.
“Macey?” he asks, looking me in the eyes.
“My, um, ex-boyfriend, Caleb,” I say. “He said I wasn’t good at it ... at kissing. He told me when we broke up.”
“He sounds like a jackass,” Zane says, his lips pulling up slightly.
“He absolutely is,” I tell him, trying to return the smile, but my lips feel sort of wobbly at the admission. I still can’t believe the audacity Caleb had to break up with me, kick me out of my apartment, and then once I was all packed, sit me down and inform me that he found me lacking in the kissing department. How did I stay so long with that idiot?
“Well,” Zane says, his hand coming to rest on my neck. “I don’t think I believe him.”
Then, softly, his lips touch mine. It’s a little more than a peck. Just his lips putting pressure against mine. He pulls away and looks at me, asking permission with his eyes to do it again. I nod, minuscule up-and-down movements of my head.
He leans in again, and this time, our lips lock together. Placing the hand that’s not at my neck on my back, he pulls me into him, and his lips begin to move over mine. Slowly, and gently, like I’m being cherished.
I wrap my arms around him then, pulling myself even closer, eliminating any space between us, and the hand resting on my neck slides to the back, his fingers threading into the hair at the nape.
Then kisses start to morph into something less gentle, less careful, and something fiery and heated. I angle my head to the side and feel his tongue run over my bottom lip. I open my mouth then, giving him access, and he takes it, dipping inside my mouth, making heat swirl around in my belly.
My mind keeps wanting to question if I’m doing it right, if Caleb was right about me, but the way Zane holds me, the way his lips move over mine, I can barely string together a coherent thought, except for one: I don’t want this to end.
His kisses slow to a stop, and he pulls away, leaning his forehead against mine, our heavy breaths mingling together.
“Macey,” he says, leaning in to kiss me softly once more. “Caleb is an idiot.”
This makes me laugh. “Good to know,” I say.
He dips down to kiss my neck again, and I bite my bottom lip, feeling happier than I have in a long time. Here, in this little garden, with Zane.