Author's Note: For those of you skimming through these, there are some subtle but I think important changes in the conversation between Will and Elizabeth below. I'm not sure how many of these I'm allowed to post in one go. A new scene between Will and Lizzie will be coming in in the next post!
**
Elizabeth was here at the pub, right where Emma had told him she'd be. Will lingered in the back at first, watched her work. She flirted with the customers filling pints with warmth and a quick smile. .
In full makeup and a tiara, she truly looked like a fairy queen. As awe inspiring as that woman certainly was, he decided realized preferred her like this. Her black hair was pulled up in a ponytail. Her outfit was a simple green tee-shirt with MacClaren's Pub scrawled across it and a pair of well fitted jeans which he couldn't help but notice. Especially, he realized with a jolt of desire that felt more than a little dangerous, when she bent to pick up a tray. She straightened, sliding her serving tray onto a counter on the bar.
She heard him approach before she saw him.
"Welcome to MacClaren's, where you'll get service with a smile. What do you fancy?”
She turned back toward the bar stools, sliding a pencil behind her ear.
Green eyes—with just a hint of gray---lifted. That requisite smile faded immediately.
Will Darcy, she thought. Her immediate thought of, 'you have got to be kidding me,' was followed directly by the memory of her late-night conversation with Emma.
She'd made a promise. About being nice. And about honoring her friendship with George and Emma, which meant in turn being civil to their mutual friend. She wasn't rude by nature, quite the opposite in fact, but somehow this one man brought out her most argumentative side.
And there had been something else in that conversation, something Emma had mentioned so seriously. Something about George Knightley and Darcy and the importance of their friendship. Something about a similar, difficult experience that made their connection particularly important. What in the world was it? She examined him with wide-eyed curiosity.
Be nice, be nice, be nice. And if you can't be nice...at least be civil."The ballerina waitress, serving till midnight," she explained, "I didn't lie about waiting tables, you see?"
"Theaters are underfunded, even the national ones,” said Will. “Most in the performing arts don't get paid near what they're worth."
There was a good deal of compassion in that statement, as well as an unspoken compliment. Elizabeth faltered from whatever quick line she could have answered him with. Momentary kindness from Will Darcy?
"Lizzie, my lass," an elderly man pipped up, "have I told you how bright your eyes are tonight? How beautiful your hair falls? How sweet your smile shines?"
Elizabeth leaned against the polished bar, trying to ignore the heat she felt coming from Will's gaze. With a tilt of her head she focused her gaze on the old man at the end of the bar and gave him a smile.
"What can I get you tonight, Grandfather?"
Not her real grandfather. Old Miles was every inch of eighty, half his heart valves were replacements, and she loved him to pieces as if he were her very own blood.
"Two shots of whiskey with supper, love, if you please. That bright smile can warm me up, but not quite as well as a nice, warm shot."
"Oh, you'd sweet-talk anyone for whiskey, Miles." Lizzie answered with a grin, rubbing the bar down with a wash cloth. "How about some coffee? The best in London. I guarantee it."
"Huh," he snorted, "where's it come from? Two-pound and ten at the corner Tesco's?"
"No, Indeed. It's pure Italian. Old Niall practically walks it here all the way from Venice."
"Does he, now?"
"Of course." She nodded, smiling at the story. "And it tastes like sunshine and Italian love. Can I get you a cup?"
"Is this on the house?"
"Only 'cause I fancy you," she told him with a wink.
“You should tend to the young lad, too,” Miles advised her. “Surely, he came here wanting something.”
Elizabeth's mouth pursed. "Will, did you really come here because you're wanting a pint?"
“Pardon?”
“Your reason,” Elizabeth leaned forward, green eyes meeting his, “for being here?”
Will wondered fleetingly if she knew how appealing her figure looked when she pushed forward toward him, leaning against the counter top.
"That coffee...” Will tried to mask the strain in his voice, “it tastes like--"
"Sunshine and Italian love," she repeated with something close to a smile. The smile made his heart skip. When she looked back at him, her eyes were once again filled with curiosity. "Would you want some?"
He found himself leaning against the bar, tilting toward her. “Can I ask you something?”
“Oh, heaven,” Elizabeth laughed, “that depends on the question, doesn't it?”
“That story...it was charming.” Will's eyes locked on hers. “You have a way with words. Is it trait from your father? Your mother?"
She knelt below the bar, partly to grab one of the serviceable white coffee cups, partly because his dark, focused gaze made a new, unexpected feeling stir inside her.
Her mother, she thought, a tale-teller? That was a good one. The only tale she ever told was making up some story about how her darling Elizabeth was surely on the cusp of engagement to a handsome London boy.
"My tongue is all my own," she said, standing to pour McKennet's coffee. "My mother would be happy to tell you that."
"Liz, the boys at the corner are hungering for their bangers and mash, lass!"
"Order for table nine!" another waitress shouted.
"Rory McCloughlin says his kidney pie is cold--"
"I've got it," she called out to her work colleagues, twisting her apron around her waist. “Sorry, Will, but I work for a living, remember?”
She ducked beneath the bar flap and walked amongst the tables, taking orders and divvying them out with speed and alacrity.
Will Darcy, she pondered between tables. She just didn't understand him. The man she'd met at Knightley's party had been cold and abrupt and too rude to deal with. This man who'd shown up at her work was still on the chilly side, but it seemed like was almost trying to be...friendly? He already haunted her thoughts half the day. Did he have to haunt her steps here as well?
After she made her rounds, Poppy Andrews, another waitress at the pub, sidled up beside her. "Lizzie, who's the man at the bar? He's fit. Is he flirting with you?"
She put pencil to her order pad, piquing her voice to disinterest. "You think he's handsome?"
"Think so--" Poppy countered, "Honey, you have two eyes and a heartbeat, right? Oh, here he comes. Here, let me fix your hair a little."
“My hair is fine,” Elizabeth huffed.
“Yes, but if you'd just let it down, Lizzie. He'll have to see how lovely it looks when it's down.”
“Poppy, you're a sweetheart for caring, but my hair's fine. I'm certainly not fussing with it for the sake of that fellow.”
She turned, pencil and notepad in hand. Once again, Elizabeth nearly stepped directly into Will's path.
"I know you're working," he began, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“Is this about your coffee?” she huffed. “I'll get to it, I promise."
“Oh, do you want a few minutes with her?” Poppy interrupted. “Lizzie, why don't you take a break. I'll cover your tables. A nice lad comes to visit you, you might as well enjoy his company.”
He arched a speculative brow at her.
“Poppy,” Elizabeth said, exhaling, “Will and I just met last week. Actually, he called me talentless waitress who would never make her way out of the kitchen. And as for me--"
"She was a saint," he supplied to Poppy, who was examining the pair with a good bit of amusement and more than a little confusion. “She has a charming way of ending an argument.”
"You noticed?" Elizabeth's tone shifted to a deliberate tease.
"Evening, Lizzie," one of the regular patrons strolled past. "Brought a lad in for the night, have you?"
Elizabeth groaned at the inquiry, and motioned for Will to follow her into a nearby booth.
“I'm trying to work here, you know, though it seems I won't get much of that done until you explain what you're doing here.”
“Besides making your case for sainthood?”
"Well, Darcy, I'm happy to hear you have a list of my better traits."
"The first time we met, you threw a drink in my face."
“I'm still convinced you deserved that one."
"The second time we met you told me to go chase a bus."
"Ambulance," she corrected. "We Irish can get a bit carried away with our insults. And as for you, Mr. Darcy, you thought I was plain and charmless--"
"Believe me, Elizabeth, I'm acutely aware that you're neither."
“That sounds like a compliment,” she said.
"It is.”
Was it the way he said it in that rich, Shakespearean voice of his, or was it the particular look in his dark eyes that was causing her to blush?
Oh, thought Elizabeth, she was being ridiculous and imaginative. She wasn't blushing, she told herself, it was just crowded in here. And Will Darcy, of all people, would not have looked at her in any way that was the least bit suggestive. He'd made that quite clear on their first meeting. She wasn't his "type," which in her imagination she assumed was something to the tune of a glorious and blonde Victoria's Secret model. No wonder he was friends with Emma Woodhouse, she should really get busy to setting him up with one.
Maybe it would make him a little cheerier at parties.
She wasn't used to the company of a man who was as handsome as Will, especially when he made such a frank, complimentary remark.
Nervous, she reached for the hair tie that bound her hair. She tugged this out, running her fingers through her heavy, dark locks. Maybe it did look better down, but she wasn't doing it for him. He made her nervous. She just wanted something for her fingers to fuss with while they sat here together.
“I came here to make amends.” Will placed both hands on the table. “What I said to you the night we met...it was unspeakably rude.”
“Yes.” Lingering hurt glimmered in her eyes. “It was.”
“I apologize for that. Your comments back to me were...” his voice grew cool, “uniquely barbed.”
Elizabeth watched him. As hard as his voice was, as unreadable as his eyes remained, she saw deeper feeling flit across his face. It tugged at something deep in her, slipping beneath her walls, pushing at her defenses.
“I guess we both have a talent for doing damage with words,” she said quietly. “I apologize, too. We have mutual friends. It'd be unfortunate if we can't stay in the same room.”
“I agree.”
Tension hung between them. The mutual apology wasn't quite an olive branch. It was more of an armistice.
“Is that all you come here to say?"
He let out a breath, trying to slow his heartbeat. "No. I, uh, actually came here to talk to you about Anne."
"About...Anne?"
"Yeah," he rubbed his neck. "About Anne and Fred Wentworth."
Her brow furrowed. "Frederick?"
"Right. Look, Elizabeth, I was thinking---I realize I've only met you twice. Emma, on the other hand, I've known for years..."
"Wait.” Elizabeth held up her hand. “What does any of this have to do with Emma?”
"I know what she's like. She can get ---" Will gestured, "imaginative when it comes to other peoples' relationships."
Elizabeth wanted to argue the point, but...well, she knew he was right. Silently, she let him continue.
"I don't know you very well, but I thought you might be a more even-handed influence on Anne. Frederick, last night after the ballet—seeing Anne....he was more shaken up than I've seen him in a long time. They had something special, a long time ago--”
“Anne and Frederick,” she repeated.
“Right. It's taken Frederick years to get over it. Years. I know you and Emma are friends with Anne, and that's why I came. I was hoping you could convince Anne to keep her distance.”
“From Frederick," she said again. There was a long pause.
"She should keep her distance?" Elizabeth repeated, incredulity creeping into her voice. "Anne Elliot? Anne should keep her distance from Frederick?"
"Look at it plainly, Elizabeth. Fred had a very difficult life up to this point. His job is dangerous and much of his success depends on a sharp mind and steady emotions. He won't be on leave forever, but while he is back in England, I don't want to see him get hurt again."
"You think Wentworth is the only one who ended up broken-hearted?"
"I know Anne," Will continued calmly.
“You know Anne, you know Emma....who don't you know, or is that underestimating your vast influence?”
“Anne's a kind girl. I like her, Elizabeth, I do. But she said no to his proposal, didn't she, all those years ago? So yeah, I'm telling the truth when I say that she left him brokenhearted, that it took him years--perhaps even up to now, to recover. I think it's best for both of them if they keep their distance from one another."
“I can't believe how hypocritical you're being.” She ran both frustrated fingers through her hair. “Emma is troublesome, you say.
Emma meddles in other peoples relationships. But you have leave to order people around like they're players on a chess match?”
“My opinion isn't unreasonable, and if you look at it objectively--”
"Elizabeth," Niall shouted across the room, "these drinks won't serve themselves!"
"Two seconds, Niall, I'm almost done here!" Elizabeth stood up, retying the apron around her waist to indicate she was back on the clock. "I can't even believe we had this conversation. Let Wentworth and Anne make their own mistakes okay? And as for me, apology accepted, and you can have mine in return. I'll be polite to you Will, because you're friends with my friends, but apart from that, I'd rather you left me alone."
**
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a pressing appointment must be due for a power outage.
Unfortunately, that power outage disabled the morning alarm clock in the Bennet-Woodhouse-Elliot flat. It also meant that Elizabeth Bennet opened her eyes to a quiet room and a face full of pillow with barely twenty minutes to get to morning class. Great. Just time enough to show up to class five minutes late.
This was not a morning to be tardy. Franklin Churchill, the American Ballet Corp's resident superstar and all-around golden boy, was due to arrive at the opera house today.
Supposedly he would be lighting up the floorboards with the same energy and press that he'd garnered in the States; full company attendance was required to greet a guest artist of such prominence, and her absence would be noticed by the higher ups, Alistair Allen included.
Bad, Elizabeth thought as she hobbled around her room. Very bad.
She changed into tights and whatever leotard she could grab, twisted her hair into as tight a bun as she could manage, then shoved a sweatshirt and legwarmers into her warm-up bag, not caring that none of her ensemble matched. She couldn't be late. Not today.
Worst of all---terrible, in fact---was the fact that world renowned director Igor Tilney would be stalking the halls this morning.
It was a last minute announcement from the British Opera Ballet's press department. The leading director and choreographer for a famous Russian ballet company, Igor Tilney was on loan for the winter/spring season. Half Russian, half English, Igor Tilney was called the General of classical ballet, and for good reason. Part MacMillan, part Petipa, he had a reputation for leaving a reign of terror in his wake. He was called brilliant and innovative, intuitive and dramatic, and short-tempered.
And she was in danger of being late.
Normally she took the underground to work. Today she took a taxi, scraping the bottom of her purse for tip money in order to pay the cab driver. Throwing money in his hands, she darted from the cab to the opera house. The lifts at the British Opera were slow. Much too slow. Save for a few that went back and forth between offices, most of them were large and industrial and built big enough to carry scenery and lighting equipment, racks of costumes and half an orchestra. Rather than waiting around for one to show up, Elizabeth took the stairs. It was a two-for-one deal. She would get to the practice room faster if she took the stairs. And the hustle, she told herself, would help warm up her muscles.
She couldn't be late. As Elizabeth rounded the last flight of steps with a breathless huff, a tall, blond figure crashed directly into her. Or perhaps she crashed into him. It was becoming a habit these days.
"Sorry--so sorry," Elizabeth managed breathlessly, scrambling to her feet with more than a little help from the man. "I've got to dash to an appointment. I didn't hurt you though, did I?"
This was the second time in a month that she'd run straight into someone. Rather than being angry with her, or impatient or downright rude, this man didn't look flustered in the least. In fact, she realized as he gave her a firm lift upwards to her feet, the eyes that examined her showed cheerful warmth.
"Seeing as I'm twice your size, I should probably be the one asking that question.”
“I'm tougher than I look, I promise."
The comment produced an unthinking laugh on his end, which was perhaps why the man held onto her for a solid beat longer than necessary, his merry blue eyes focusing keenly.
"That's a face I won't forget," he declared at last. The accent was a vague amalgam. American mostly, with just a hint of something more interesting. Russian?
There was something vaguely familiar about him. He had blond hair, tan skin, mischievous eyes and a tall, solidly muscular build. He also had the glossy smile of a matinee actor. Perhaps he was a musician in the opera house's orchestra, or even one of the opera singers?
"I have to go," Lizzie said, shouldering her ballet bag and taking a step further up the stairwell.
"The next time I see you,” he called after her, “I'd like your name!"
"Next time, you'll get it," she called, offering him only a distracted smile before she bounded further up the steps.
The stairwell door clanged behind her.
She didn't even have further time to worry about whoever he was. She also couldn't worry that her bun was falling out again, or that she'd forgotten her water bottle on the kitchen counter. All she could worry about was Igor Tilney and the looks of reproach she would get if she showed up late...
"Lizzie!" Charlotte Lucas was jogging own the other end of the hall. A coffee cup was in her hands.
"I know, I know, I'm late by ten minutes. My alarm didn't sound this morning. I was asleep till half past eight." Elizabeth preempted as Charlotte caught up with her. "How furious is Alistair?"
"Are you joking? Alistair hasn't even noticed. He's upstairs sulking in the coffee lounge." Charlotte sighed. "And as for the rest of the company, we've all been waiting hand and foot on the General's every whim."
"Igor's running class today?" Elizabeth repeated. The mere thought produced a grimace. "Is he as mental as everyone says he is?"
"Well, he called the piano player tone deaf, he yelled at half the company, and I already had to leave once to fetch him a stick." Clearly, she wasn't keen on being cast aside as someone's Girl Friday, even for a morning. "This time I'm bringing him his morning drink. Two thirds coffee, black, and one third vodka."
"And the stick he asked for, that was in order to..." Elizabeth searched blindly for a cause, "thrash us with it?"
Given what she'd heard of Igor Tilney, the answer didn't seem so impossible.
"He says the British Opera’s ballet dancers are lazy with their musicality, and that they ignore the natural counts in the score. Not only that, Igor's scrapped part of Alistair's casting. Lucy Steele is no longer dancing Kitri. And before you go saying our executive director Lord Mansfield would never agree, rumor has it that Igor sold him on the notion that someone young and fresh would be better for the company's bottom line with Don Quixote."
"Are Frank Churchill and Edmund Bertram still the male leads?"
"Please. Is the sky blue?" Charlotte snorted. "Lizzie, Edmund is still Tiberius Bertram's son. No one was going to question that casting decision. As for Frank, he's so popular that Igor said he doesn't need to see him dance today. Frank's left to have a quick chat with Tiberius instead. The male roles were never in jeopardy. Whoever dances Kitri has to have the talent to dance the part, and much of it will be up to Igor Tilney's discretion, but Tiberius needs a fresh face on the Don Quixote posters. Bad luck for Lucy, but I never thought much of her anyway. Honestly, Lizzie, this could be your making here at the British Opera. So get in there, warm up. The General is waiting!"
Lucy Steele, cut from the Don Quixote lead? Charlotte sounded remarkably unsympathetic. Charlotte Lucas could be remarkably loyal to her friends, Elizabeth mused as she opened the rehearsal room door, but then she would say or do something so calculating, so intensely practical, that it verged on cut-throat. These were the moments that Lizzie simply couldn't understand her.
Especially, she pondered as she caught a glimpse of Lucy Steele and Elin Dashwood, when it came to any matter that was even remotely emotional. As for Lizzie, she'd resigned herself to Lucy dancing the part of Kitri. Much like everything else in the world of ballet, though, those choices weren't hers to make.
Everything in the studio was misaligned. There were no ballet barres at the center of the room, with dancers lined against executing patterns on the floor. Instead, they were sitting around the edges of the room. Lucy was huddled in a far corner, sulking. Elizabeth felt a stab of sympathy for her. Elin was stretching her muscles and looking positively stoic.
In the center of the room stood Igor Tilney himself, tall, heavy set, with a head of grey wire curls, thick black eyebrows and a pair of owlish eyes set deep within a craggy face. In his hand he held the aforementioned stick. As Lizzy settled next to Edmund Bertram, she watched him work.
One thick hand was clenched around the yard stick, pounding a drum like beat on the floor. The other hand was a fist. And it was shaking at Fay Price. From the looks of it, Fay had only managed to get half way through the combination he'd devised before he stopped her, pounding his staff on the ground.
"Terrible! Try the turns again! You're lazy with your diagonal movements and the spotting must be sharper! Again!"
Edmund Bertram stirred beside her, shoulders hunching with visible anger. Sincere, level-headed, kind, intelligent, Edmund was everything Lord Mansfield wasn't. He was a man of peace, intellect, and an even temper. Except, it seemed, when Fay was getting badgered.
"Testing a dancer repeatedly because they are executing a fault in a step is reasonable. Testing her because he gets some perverse enjoyment from it is inexcusable." Edmund scowled. "Her spotting on those turns was plenty sharp, and this is the fourth time he's made her do it in front of all of us. He's just laying into her because he can."
"I reckon he wants to see how far he can push her before she breaks," Elizabeth agreed, letting her gaze flit back to Fay Price and General Tilney. "But you're right, her turns are cleaner than Lucy's ever were. He has to realize what an excellent dancer she is."
In the meantime, Fay was trying again.
“No! No, no, no, no!" Despite the British surname, Igor Tilney had the voice of a true Russian taskmaster, booming to the rafters, heavily accented. His voice was thick with criticism, vodka and residual cigar smoke. "Horrible! I am asking for the movements of a dancer, and you are giving me a lead-footed elephant! Your extension was lazy, you're off your box when you releve, and the series of bourrees was weak when it should have been sharp! Are you too stupid and small-brained to remember the steps, or are you just lazy? Forget the combination. Do you know the prayer solo in Coppelia? Or better still, execute something from Swan Lake. There's a test that will prove to me that you're worth something, anything, on a stage."
"Just a minute, Tilney--" Edmund stood up with a clenched jaw.
"Ed," Elizabeth warned, grabbing onto Edmund's sleeve to prevent further outburst.
Fay was gentle and quiet, certainly, but she wasn't made of glass. She looked strained, intimidated, and more than a little insecure, but she wasn't broken yet. There was stubborn resolve in her eyes. Elizabeth could see it, even if Edmund couldn't. Whatever Tilney was doing with this impromptu audition, Elizabeth suspected it was because he had further designs on her dancing a lead role. Edmund hammering back at General Tilney could--no, she corrected internally, it absolutely would---get him in trouble with his dictatorial father Tiberius Bertram, and it could ruin whatever chance Fay had of a starring part in whatever Tilney directed.
"She danced the act one, scene one pas de trois in Swan Lake's last year," Elizabeth supplied suddenly. "It's the dance of Benno and the two courtesans." When Edmund, Igor and the rest of the company focused solely on her, she took breath and met 'General' Tilney bravely in the eye. "She was one of the two courtesans, and she performed it beautifully. Fay never missed a step the whole run. I know that better than anyone. I was the other courtesan."
Tilney withered her with a dark glare. "Prove it. Go on, whoever you are, get up and dance it with her."
"I am Elizabeth Bennet," she answered evenly, tugging off her sweatshirt and dropping it to the floor, "and I'd be happy to."
"I'll dance the male part," Edmund offered.
Tilney rested both hands on his measuring stick and glowered.
"Edmund, you have no need of such theatrics. As for the pair of you," he dared Elizabeth and Fay, "you had better make this good."
"I'll dance the male part," Edmund repeated with a chill.
And with that, Edmund showed exactly where his loyalties rested.
"Clever Lizzie," Fay said with a quiet smile as Elizabeth positioned herself in the middle of the room beside her. The pas de trois was a small part in Swan Lake, but Fay had shined in it. She knew that piece backwards and forwards. "Thank you."
"No need for it," Elizabeth answered with a light grin. "A routine that has lots turns, a ton of leaps and arabesques, and nearly all of it en pointe? Sounds like a good time to me and Edmund. Right, Ed?"
"Sure thing. Wow 'em like always, Fay," Edmund whispered in Fay Price's ear. Elizabeth had to smother her grin when she saw Fay's pleased smile.
As the piano player struck up a tune, the three dancers began. The routine was fun, flirtatious, and quite a contrast from the overall mood of doom in the stark practice hall. Benno, here played by Edmund, was Prince Siegfried's best friend, and it was his responsibility to cheer him on his 21st birthday, and to entice him with the women at the party.
The courtly dance began in tangent, with Edmund in the middle, leaping and spinning in unison with the girls. Just as Benno flirted with one court girl, partnering her with light ease and smile, the other would sneak up beside him in an elegant arabesque, held en pointe just long enough to catch Benno's attention again. Benno's attention focused on a single partner, Elizabeth, chasing her, catching her, and lifting her up. A split second later, though, Fay would come beside him and entice him away. The pair danced together with natural ease, 'Benno' spinning Fay in a light pirouette, until Elizabeth would flirt to his side again, teasing him away from Fay. The pairs switched again and again, Edmund and Fay as a pair, then Edmund and Elizabeth pairing off, until they were a trio once more, dancing in unison, both girls circling around Edmund with high, sprightly leaps, followed by grand jettee, grand jettee, piroutte, and at last, the pose, both women poised around their man.
The routine was what many dancers liked to term a 'heavy breather', high energy, rapid footwork, and lots of leaping jumps. Both Fay and Elizabeth were breathing heavily by the end, and even the pianist who'd played the music for them looked exhausted.
The whole company erupted in enthusiastic applause. Even Lucy was clapping, Elizabeth realized as she stood from her pose, mopping sweat from her brow and trying to catch her breath. There was one other person in the room she hadn't noticed before, someone who had changed into dance clothes since last she'd seen him. He was next to Jenna Fairfax, whispering something intimately to the pretty blond until she frowned and looked away. When he finally turned his attention back to the performers in the center of the room, he sought Elizabeth's gaze and then gave her a bold wink.
"Ed," Elizabeth questioned uncertainly, glancing up back at Fay and Edmund, "who is that man in the back, the one next to Jenna Fairfax?"
Edmund managed to tear his gaze away from Fay long enough to see who Lizzie was gesturing to. "You don't recognize him? It's our Basilio for Don Quixote. That's Frank Churchill."
It was the blond man she'd met in the stairwell, the one with the matinee smile. Had she been so rushed that she hadn't even noticed his American accent? He was watching her with a very pleased look on his face, like watching her perform in front of Igor Tilney had told him a secret that she had yet to be informed of.
"Not bad," Igor Tilney grumbled to himself, taking a swig of his drink. He, too, was now studying Elizabeth with his dark, glowering gaze. There was a spark in this dancer, a certain brave verve and joyful energy that might just work perfectly. Igor had found his Kitri. "Not bad at all."
Elizabeth wasn't the only one who fretted about being late that morning. Rather than a room full of expectant dancers, Anne Elliot's lateness to her post meant a room full of screaming seven-year-olds tearing the room apart, losing fifteen minutes from the morning grammar lesson, and a stern lecture about punctuality from a strict and very disapproving headmistress.
At least she managed to avoid one of the three things on that list, she thought as she sunk into her chair at the end of the day. The grammar lesson had gone just as long as always.
"Go'night, Miss Ell'ot," Molly Elias, one of her sweetest students, waved a cheerful goodbye and skipped past her desk.
Molly was usually the last to leave, as she had to wait until her father came to fetch her. Little pigtails and her Cinderella backpack bobbed in time with the skipping until she had reached her daddy, standing in the doorway. Wilhelm Elias picked up his daughter with one hand, holding onto his briefcase with the other.
"Thanks for watching her until I got here, Anne," said Wilhelm, "my meeting ran late. Her mum's started a new job that keeps her working late too, but she should be able to pick her up tomorrow."
"That's alright, Mr. Elias. I was happy to watch her. Molly, I'll see you tomorrow."
Anne smiled, watching until the pair was out of sight. That was why she rushed to get here, and why she worked herself to the ground even when the administration was cutting costs and her superiors gave her a difficult time. Her parents had been disappointed that she hadn't done more with her university degree than become a teacher, but the truth was that she loved her job teaching children like little Molly Elias.
She was certainly glad that she had a profession to distract herself with given the fact that as of late, her head was so cluttered with thoughts of one particular person. Frederick Wentworth.
Anne pressed her hand to her temple, closed her eyes and tried to stop memories of him from playing over and over in her mind. She had finally seen him for the first time in eight long years, and the look of shock and disbelief in his intensely blue eyes still seemed to surface the instant that she shut her eyes.
"Anne?"
Anne opened her eyes to see Wilhelm Elias standing at the door one more time.
"Sorry, Mr. Elias? What did you need? Did Molly forget her homework?"
"No, Molly's safely in the car with everything she needs. I just--" he smoothed out his tie and tried a winning smile, "I just wanted to let you know that I really do appreciate everything you do for Molly. You're her favorite teacher, did you know that? If I'd had a smile like yours to look at as a kid, I believe that you would have been my favorite teacher, too."
"I like Molly, she's a sweet little girl," Anne answered. Confusion seeped into her voice. "Is there something else I can do for you?"
"There is, actually. I was just wondering--hoping," he corrected in a tone that was more than a little flirtatious, despite the gold band on his wedding finger, "next time you see me, you can call me by my first name. Wilhelm."
"If that's what you'd prefer...Wilhelm," she repeated the name with confusion.
"Okay. Good. Great, actually. That's all I wanted. Goodnight again, Anne. Hopefully I'll be seeing more of you this year."
And with that, Mr. Wilhelm Elias with his briefcase and his pressed suit left her classroom for a second time.
Strange man, Anne thought as she picked up the nearest red pen on her desk and began to mark the first of a stack of papers.
"Anne, if a pile of paperwork and ink on your fingers is your idea of a good time, I swear I'll scream."
A warm Texas accent touched her ears. Anne looked up from her grading. A golden haired angel was staring at her from the other side of the desk. Emma Woodhouse, looking casually serene, had settled in one of the children's little plastic chairs. "Just when were you planning on getting out of here, Miss Elliot?"
"I had to stay late," Anne defended. "Molly Elias's father was late picking her up. He said he had a business meeting that went late."
"Three hours late?" Emma frowned, hoping that the Mr. Elias she was referring to wasn't the creeper in the suit who'd given her a wolf whistle in the hallway. She wouldn't care to be alone with him in a dark, empty school. "Do you get overtime for waiting around?"
Anne laughed. "It's not like a photo shoot, Emma. Teachers aren't paid by the hour."
“Here's a better question: what were you planning on having for dinner?"
"Dinner? I...um..." Anne faltered. She hadn't thought about it at all. "I have to finish these marks first, and then I have to put up a new display for our unit on nouns."
"Come on, Anne. It's so late. Can't that keep till later? I'm sure the seven year olds can wait one more day to find out if they passed their 'coloring inside the lines' test, or whatever it was."
"The test was about subtracting odd numbers."
"We both need to eat, especially you. Elizabeth will be rehearsing at the theater until midnight, Knightley's working late at the hospital again, and I'm lonely. Let's go to a nice restaurant and order something expensive. My treat!”
Twenty minutes and a cab ride later, they'd settled themselves in a cozy little table at one of the best restaurants in London. It was a good thing Emma was footing the bill, Anne decided as she skimmed down the menu. On her teacher's salary, the best she could afford at a place like this was a side salad. Emma ordered the most decadent food on the menu for both, blithely ignoring how the young man waiting on them was staring at her.
"Aren't you that girl?" the waiter asked, his cheeks going slightly pink. "The one from those adverts? Perfume and clothing and stuff. My cousin has a poster in his room of a blonde wearing a white bikini. It was for some fancy perfume, but the picture was killer. It hangs right on his door. You look just like her, I swear it."
"Very flattering, but you've got the wrong girl," Emma lied comfortably, brushing him off with a tight smile as she handed him the menus. When he had departed, she leaned forward to focus on Anne instead.
"So," Emma pressed on, "have you given any more consideration to giving Frederick a call? He's staying at Will Darcy's, I've gleaned that much. Give me a little more time and I'll be able to find out more."
"I haven't thought about it much," Anne tried to brush off the topic with a mild lie of her own. Instead, she looked at Emma quizzically, genuinely curious, "Does that bother you?”
"Does what bother me?"
"What he said," Anne continued gently. Anne had grown accustomed to slipping in and out of rooms unnoticed. She couldn't imagine getting stared at and chatted up as constantly as Emma was. In fact, it had been so long since anyone had tried to chat her up, she doubted she'd notice if someone was attempting it. "Does that bother you, or are you just used to it?
Emma's full mouth compressed to a tight line. She looked down at her hands, clearly not as naïve about the attention she received as she occasionally feigned. "Yes, of course it bothers me. Sometimes more than others." She picked up her water glass and took a sip, deliberately looking at nothing at all. "Lately more than usual. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, right? I've been modeling for long enough."
"Why did you even start modeling? I couldn't imagine it. I've never been much to look at, but even if I had been, I couldn't imagine being prodded and powdered and turned into an ad campaign."
Now Emma did look up, meeting Anne's gaze with a deliberately direct smile. "Not much to look at? Now that's a boldfaced lie. You're lovely, Anne. You could get plenty of stares if you wanted to."
The Anne of all those years ago and the Anne of today were certainly different in appearance, but the raw material was the same. She still had the same dark, doe-like eyes, the same gorgeous olive skin and beautifully shy smile. Eighteen year old Anne certainly caught the eye more readily, but that was because her clothes had been more fitted and flattering, her dark hair had been allowed to spill down to her waist and she hadn't been quite so thin.
More dinners like this would certainly hasten to solve the last problem, thought Emma, and maybe she could convince Anne to wear a little more color and wear her hair down like she used to, instead of keeping it bound up so tightly. Emma had a whole wardrobe full of clothing, surely Anne would accept some of it.
It suddenly occurred to Emma that Anne's attempt to become as nondescript as possible was probably purposeful. Perhaps her relationship with Frederick Wentworth had left her so fractured that the attempt to disappear had been a defense mechanism. Of course she hadn't wanted attention from anyone else, the risk for getting hurt again was too great. Emma wanted to mention this theory just see how Anne would respond, but she sensed instinctively that this wasn't the time to press the topic.
"My modeling career," Emma continued, "I can't quite say I just fell into it. My father is an incredibly wealthy man. Very protective of me, but also very busy. He has two children, a daughter from his first marriage, and me. My mother was his second wife. There was infidelity involved on my mother's end. They split when I was about seven or eight. My mother is an actress. She was quite popular at one point. Roxanne Presley. Have you heard of her?"
"My father probably has," Anne responded.
"Roxanne thought no harm would come from pushing me into modeling. I had just turned thirteen. They had joint custody, but I was visiting her at the time. I think it was her way of getting back at my father, proving she still had control of him, that she could still hurt him through me. Roxanne knew he wouldn't like the idea of me modeling. I guess she felt threatened. At twelve, I still looked like such child, thin as a rail. At thirteen, all of a sudden, I didn't. I could pass for sixteen, even if I was short. That's just the age when the business likes to scout for new models. Elect Modeling liked the way I photographed. They said I had natural talent and a great face. I was signed within weeks, and doing photo spreads for all the big fashion houses by the end of the year. Daddy was furious."
No, furious didn't even begin to cover the term. Her father had been absolutely livid. His precious daughter, thirteen, a Woodhouse scion, little more than a child, schilling perfume and jewelry and makeup?
"Anyway, Roxanne enjoyed it at first. The more successful I became, though..she started to distance herself from me. She'd never been much of a mother to begin with."
Emma had reached out to contact Roxanne from time to time, but the gesture was always rebuffed. Her mother wanted nothing to do with her. Emma had accepted that years ago, but that didn't keep the loss from stinging.
"And you?" Anne questioned, picking up her fork as their food was set in front of them. "What did you think of it all?"
Emma laughed.
"What do most thirteen year old girls think when they get to wear fancy clothes and makeup? I liked it fine, at first. I didn't understand the politics between my parents. It was dress up for me, nothing more. I liked it enough that I told my father I wanted to continue doing it, despite his protests to the contrary. By the time I reached sixteen or so, though, the nature of the photo shoots were starting to change. The picture that the waiter was talking about, the one of me in the bikini? It was a shoot for Calvin Klas. I still remember it. I hadn't been kissed, and yet I had to stand under a waterfall and pose for the camera like I was some kind of goddess. I was a child. I didn't know how to be that creature in the photo."
She raked her beautiful hair back, this time it was a more than nervous gesture. "I still don't." She fiddled with the food on her plate and made a rare, vulnerable admission. "So many people see me and expect me to be whatever they've created. It scares me."
"George wouldn't want you to be some perfect goddess for him," Anne put forth gently, filling in the gap between Emma's words and her gestures. "I've watched him with you, Emma. The way George looks at you, it's a world away from the way the waiter looked at you. He doesn't only desire you, Emma, he loves you. And the feelings of desire that he does have, they're so different from what you'd see in a strangers eyes."
Anne still remembered that look, the kind that could make it's object feel warm and protected, or flushed and desired. There was nothing quite like it. Frederick had looked at her like that once, a long time ago.
"I know," Emma said, giving her first hint of an easy smile since they'd started down this topic. "I feel so many things for George, sometimes it's overwhelming. Other times I get so nervous with him I can barely move, or think, or breathe."
This fear, rather than being career-related, was entirely personal. Emma knew she didn't have to be a perfect fantasy girl for George Knightley, but there was still a lot of underlying fear that she could never live up to the person in the photos. She was terrified of falling short of whatever expectations he had for her as a lover.
The way her fork shook indicated it wasn't going to be any time soon.
"Anyway," Emma set her fork down. “We came to discuss you and Fred, remember?"
"There is no me and Fred," Anne answered with quiet acceptance. "And despite what I might wish, I don't think there ever will be. London's a big city. I doubt I'll be seeing him again."
Emma took a bite of her meal, silently disagreeing. She was already working on that. As for the group of them, Emma and George, Anne and Fred, Will and Elizabeth, she'd already arranged their next run-in.
Chapter 6
A bad winter storm was usually enough to bring it on. The icy chill in the air, the patter of hail against a glass window and being alone in a dark room: it was a perfect recipe to make Will Darcy dream.
He was fifteen. Tall for his age, and lanky. The door handles were stuck. It was the first means of escape he tried. Ice and the pressure of the water caused a jam. The locks were frozen, no matter how hard he fought or cursed or yanked.
He had the voice of a man, but none of the power yet in the arms, and when the locks proved useless, he tried to slam his elbow against the passenger window. The window, already fractured, cracked further, splintered into the pattern of a star, and didn't break.
Even in his panic, he yanked, scrambled, clawed, and wrenched at the car seat bindings to free Georgie. He trembled, holding her close to keep her above the rising water. The two year old was clinging to him, crying, weeping--wailing. In the front seat, his parents weren't moving, weren't fighting, weren't panicked, weren't helping their children live. Why weren't they moving? He tried shaking them awake, tried weeping their names. Fear, panic, tears, blood everywhere, and the answer was clear when they said nothing at all.
He pounded again, coming away with nothing but a bloody elbow. Ice water was already up to his knees, numbing him and weighing him down.
Georgie was crying. God help him. God help him. The window. If he couldn't break the passenger window, they would die. He had perhaps a minute more, maybe less, before the car became a flooded tomb. If he couldn't break the window, this would be the last sight either of them had of this world.
Rather than using his elbow again, Will slammed his whole shoulder into it the glass, using the force of his entire body. Once. Twice. A third time, with ice in his lungs and a sob in his throat, the window shattered, showering him with glass and blood and a watery deluge. Promising that he would return for his parents, he pulled two year old Georgie into his arms and held his breath, bracing himself against the river as he made his escape.
Will Darcy screamed, reaching for the surface, for air, for life.
For nothing but a cold, empty pre-dawn bed.
Trembling, he pressed both palms to his eyes and took a deep breath, and then another. His heart was racing. His muscles must have clenched during the nightmare because his whole body, particularly his back and his bad shoulder, felt tight.
His sleeping patterns were always worse in the wintertime. Certain weather made nightmare and memory blend. He'd had a late night reviewing depositions and had stumbled into bed around midnight hoping fatigue would be enough to blot out his dreams. No such luck.
The clock glared 5:00 AM. Will pushed himself out of bed, turned on the light. Drenched in sweat, he tugged off his wet shirt and dropped it to the ground. There was no one else here to notice the large, angry scar that lashed from the base of his collar bone to the top of his bicep, wrapping around his right shoulder like a swipe from a huge, angry claw.
Restless, he crossed to the window. His luxury flat came with a sweeping view of the city, but on this early January morning there wasn't much to see beyond the ice storm. Hail continued to hammer at the windows.
When the adrenaline in his blood finally calmed--when he could finally feel that the air around him was simply the chill of his flat, not the impossible cold depths of a lake---he went to his dresser and grabbed another tee shirt, tugging it on. His gaze wandered to a framed picture on the dresser. The nightmare was nearly as vivid as the day it had happened and any topic to mull over but that one would be a welcome contemplation.
The photo on the dresser was possibly his favorite when it came to vanishing sorrow and memories. It was a picture of Georgie, thirteen now, sitting on the steps of Pemberley. She wasn't little anymore, he realized. With that head of dark curls and that smile, she was looking more and more like their mother by the day. She would be a beautiful woman some day soon.
But not too soon, he thought, feeling a tug of near parental worry. He would go visit her. Soon. Even better than a day trip, he would order her a train ticket to London. Maybe he would make good on his own promise to return to the British Opera House, and take her to a ballet.
Will rubbed his cheek, thumb grazing early morning stubble. Never before had he had such an interest in the British Opera House, or in ballet particularly. It was an art form he admitted that he was largely ignorant about. How big was the company, and how often did they perform each week? How many hours did they have to be there? Was it nine to five, or were their professional dancers only required to show up for rehearsals? The performance he'd seen earlier in the month showed a lifetime of discipline, but clearly their schedule must have some flexibility. Her schedule wouldn't allow her to work another job, otherwise.
Her. The one person in that scenario that interested him. Elizabeth Bennet. The fact that she also hated him was pretty clear, but the strange thing was that when he was in a dark room with nothing to do but think, his mind tended to drift back to her, no matter the starting place. He pictured her eyes, shifting from mild to willful with a single glance. She could have the bearing of a duchess when she wanted, and yet she served beer at a local pub, flirted with the old regulars and smiled at every man who wasn't him. She was a mystery to him.
It was nothing, Will told himself, crouching down to pack his gym bag. Nothing worth worrying about.
If he couldn't sleep, he would go to the gym two flights up and work some of his frustration and adrenaline off.
When he opened the door to the room, however, he found he wasn't alone. Frederick Wentworth was already there, his hands encased in boxing gloves. His gloved hands were pounding away at the punching bag with relish. When he noticed Will's entrance he stopped, breathing heavily.
"Morning, Darcy." He huffed, catching his breath. "You're up early. Couldn't sleep?"
"No." Darcy rarely spoke of such things, but the remnants of what bothered him in his dream was in his eyes, as was the decisive declaration that he didn't want to talk about it.
No offense, mate. That was in Darcy's eyes, too. And yet, it wasn't in Frederick's nature to be offended. He knew that the topic of Will's parents' death was largely untouchable and Frederick was too good of a friend to do anything but leave it unspoken. Besides, living a military life for the past eight years had given him plenty of his own nightmares. It wasn't the same as Will's childhood trauma, but it was enough to understand now more than ever.
The image of a hearty sailor with a girl in every port was a far cry from the reality of Fred's life. Work was life, life was work, and both meant getting the job done, staying alive, and keeping his squad breathing in the process. It was a life spent slipping in and out of ports unseen, sleeping on barges and air craft carriers, staying locked and loaded all hours of the night unless he found a gun to his neck. No one but his squad and his superiors aware of his movements, or the fact that he lived or died. The Navy had been good to him, and he'd been good to the Navy. He was Captain Wentworth now, a Navy man through and through. But he was so tired of being alone. That was the worst part of his military life, risking his life every day only to come home to a lonely bed.
His second date with Louisa was today. He should be happy about that. Excited, even. She was a sweet girl, pretty. A bit young, but she'd liked the Navy well enough and that was as good a starting place as any.
He hadn't felt any spark when he'd seen her for the first time. Not like...not like before. But that had only happened once in his life, and he doubted it would ever happen again. It was a youthful, foolish standard to judge by. Sure, when Emma and Knightley were together it was fireworks central, but that wasn't a good standard to judge against, either. It seemed like most peoples' romantic lives didn't have anything of the sort, and they all seemed happy enough.
Louisa would be good for him.
So why was a Castilian beauty the first image in his mind when he rolled over that morning? He'd barely recognized her when he saw her last weekend, perhaps because his last image of her had been a teary-eyed teenager delivering the worst 'no' he'd ever heard in his life. She wasn't that teenager anymore; she was a grown woman with a life of her own. And so what Frederick felt for Anne, what had once been complete, blindingly devoted love---that couldn't be the same anymore either.
That was what he kept telling himself.
"It's too cold for a run. This works nearly as well," Frederick answered mildly. He punched the bag harder. "Want to try?"
"I think you're having a good enough time for both of us," Will said. He braced the punching bag with both hands, nodding at Frederick to go ahead and punch. "Busy day ahead?"
"I have a few things lined up." Frederick punched again, "I don't want to spend my whole leave doing nothing."
"Yeah, you've been extremely lazy so far." Darcy made a sound between a chuckle and a grunt as Frederick punched the bag that much harder. Will's shoulder stung this morning. Still he didn't loosen his grip. "Knightley and I are helping out with a kid's club today. Twenty children and an ice rink. It's a good time. You should come."
Frederick stilled his gloves, pondering the offer. "Louisa and I are supposed to meet up. You think she'd mind if I stopped there first? I wonder if she likes kids..."
"You like her?"
"Enough for a second date, sure."
"Seems a step in the right direction."
"Ever thought of taking your own advice? A woman to come home to? Someone to put your arms around? Come on, man.” Frederick laughed. "Even you aren't that disciplined. A man has needs.”
“I've been busy with work.”
“Aren't we all?” Fred's shrewd gaze remained fixed on him. “Seems like Elizabeth Bennet could make you a little less busy?"
A blush darkened Will's cheeks. If Fred had noticed his reaction to Elizabeth after one brief interaction, than it must be obvious to everyone. “Are you going to work out, or are you going to talk me to death?”
“I think you should widen your circle of women to choose from. The women you dated in the past were nice, but on some level they bored you, and you knew it.” He punched twice more at the punching bag. “One day you'll find a woman who can keep you on your toes, Will. And you won't want to give her up.”
“Like Anne?”
“This isn't about Anne. Not anymore.” Frederick punched again, this time even harder. As the force reverberated through Will he could feel his shoulder react again, stinging in active resistance. “I'm tired of being alone. That's all there is to it."
"Okay," Will winced, rotating his sore shoulder and stepping away from the bag. "Forget the punching bag. And the conversation. There's a gaming console in the living room. It's 5:00am on a Saturday. We should be having some fun. What do you say?"
"Deal." Frederick grinned, ripping off his boxing gloves. "You know I'm going to beat you, Will, but I'll let you hold out as long as I can."
"Keep talking, old man."
Many things had changed since they were kids. Other things hadn't changed at all.