Page 49 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

“Sure,” I say, and then wink at her, something I don’t think I’ve ever done to Macey. Her cheeks turn a shade darker, and she quickly looks down at the letter, fiddling with the edges like she’s not sure what to do with it. But there’s a small smile tugging at her lips, a little of the Macey I know—and am finding I’ve really missed—coming back to me.

MACEY

A letter from Zane to Macey, Tuesday, September 17, 2:35 p.m.

My dear Miss Bennet,

As I sit here at this tiny desk that was clearly not designed for a man of my stature, I find myself writing to you instead of pondering the deep feelings of Mr. Darcy. Mostly because I have no idea what those are.

I’m sure you are grateful that tonight at the assembly, I no longer get to dance with you, since we are now playing Darcy and Elizabeth, and you are therefore no longer handsome enough to tempt me to dance, and because of that your toes will be spared.

Yours in breeches,

Mr. Darcy

“NETHERFIELD IS LET AT LAST!” MRS. Bennet announces in a bright voice, with barely an accent. Her beautiful ebony skin glows under the midday sun streaming through the tall windows, which are framed by faded floral curtains that match the worn but inviting furniture. We’re currently in the sitting room at Longbourn, reenacting the first scene.

It’s finally happening, and even with the dark cloud of no update on Monroe’s condition hovering over us, I can’t help the tiny butterflies that spark to life as we actually get going. The soft hum of a grandfather clock in the corner and the faint crackle of the fireplace behind the group add to the room’s cozy but slightly stuffy atmosphere.

You are here. It’s finally happening. Don’t mess this up.

We’re all crowded into this not-so-large space—the players and the onlookers, who are mostly guests not part of this scene, a few staff members, and Lady Catherine. She’s perched on a small chair near the window with the script on her lap, her ample cleavage on full display, ready to ensure we stick to it. Naturally, she would know it best—she wrote it herself, using as much of the book as possible while finding ways to include as many guests as she could. It’s not a canon reenactment, something Lady Catherine constantly reminds us of, though honestly, only she cares.

Before each scene, she’s supposed to give us instructions, much like a director, and she did right before we started. Then she dramatically proclaimed we were free to act out our parts. I highly doubt that. I have a feeling there will be “helpful notes” for us afterward.

Zane is here too, leaning against the doorway, watching with a small smirk on his face. His gaze flickers between me and the others, and I feel my cheeks heat under his attention. Guests who are not in scenes can watch the reenactments if they so choose, or they can engage in Regency-appropriate activities that take place on the grounds—things like shooting, archery, embroidery, or even leisurely strolls through the gardens. All while staying in character, of course. Since Zane and I are main characters, we won’t have as much downtime as everyone else.

“My dear Mr. Bennet!” Mrs. Bennet goes on, her voice bright and her face animated. “And you’ve gone and met Mr.Bingley already, have you not? Tell me, what was he like? Is he agreeable? Handsome? As rich as they say?” she continues, saying the lines perfectly, and I get a tingling feeling like I used to when everything comes together during a performance—or how it felt when I wrote the program for work.

I glance at Lady Catherine, who’s mouthing the words along with Mrs. Bennet, her face lit up with enthusiasm. Then my eyes shift to Zane, who looks like he’s trying not to laugh. So help me, if he ruins this for me, I’ll ... well, I’ll pay his valet to tie his cravat even tighter tomorrow.

It’s funny how worried I was that this would be mortifying in front of him, but even with that smirk on his face, I don’t mind. Maybe it’s because, over these past couple of days, it feels like we’ve somehow gotten back to the old us—before the crush and the letter. Even if the crush still lingers. Especially after how much time I spent in his arms today. It was like he needed to touch me somehow after the runaway horse incident.

And honestly, I needed it too. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through that without him. I’d probably be on a plane flying home right now. It’s possible I still might leave tomorrow, especially if news about Monroe isn’t good. I don’t think I could continue if that were the case.

Mr. Bennet, looking very much like Idris Elba with a cravat, flips the pages of a book and doesn’t look up, just as the script instructed. “Yes, yes, I went to meet the young man earlier today,” he says, in that deep rich tone of his and a barely audible accent. “Seems a pleasant enough fellow—though I confess, I did not take out my magnifying glass to count his fortune.”

Everyone laughs lightly, and Lady Catherine shushes us. Honestly, can’t we just enjoy this now? It’s supposed to be fun.

Mrs. Bennet huffs, sounding exasperated. She turns to me, squished on the worn sofa with Mary, Kitty, Lydia, and Jane—who is now being played by a staff member. She’s a tiny thing with light-brown curly hair.

“Girls!” she says. “Mr. Bingley is a young man of large fortune! Four or five thousand a year, and he’s taken Netherfield! Mrs. Long says he was so delighted with the place he agreed with Mr. Morris on the spot. He is to take possession by Michaelmas, and his servants will be here by next week!”

I lean forward slightly on the couch, as instructed in the script, but find I’m sort of stuck, squished in my seat, and after I take too long to say my line, Lady Catherine makes a little throat-clearing sound.

Aaaand, I’m messing this up. Crap.

I give up trying to lean forward and just say my line. “And I suppose the next logical step is for him to marry one of us?”

“Is he agreeable, Father? Did you find him pleasant?” asks Jane.

“More importantly,” Lydia pipes in, “I hope he’s a good dancer! It wouldn’t do to have a rich man who can’t keep time on the dance floor!” She says the line perfectly, with not an ounce of her cockney accent. Impressive.

“I daresay, Lydia,” Mr. Bennet says, “that a good fortune will make up for poor dancing, should that be the case. But from what I could gather, the man appears quite capable of a reel.”

“Indeed, he must be! A young man of such fortune cannot fail to be charming and refined in every respect. Oh, what a fine thing this will be for you all!” Mrs. Bennet says.

I raise an eyebrow and give her a knowing smile, getting into my character. “I wonder if Mr. Bingley knows he is expected to fall in love with one of us, or is that simply a foregone conclusion?” I ask.

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