Just Got Kicked Out of Chat

Sarah Hoyt

Jump to new as of July 20, 2003

Posted on Tuesday, 24 June 2003, at 11:51 p.m.

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."

Chapter 3

Posted on Saturday, 19 July 2003

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.

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