Page 115 of A Searing Acquaintance
“And you do?” Sylvia’s voice rose. “How long have you even been dating her?”
“I’ve known Elizabeth for nearly a year.”
“Ha. Then I trump you by twenty-three years. No, wait. Her birthday is this month.”
“Her birthday is October 27. She’ll be twenty-five.”
“I know that,” she snapped. “I know all the important things about my daughters.”
“Mrs. LaRue?—”
“Call me Sylvia.”
“All right,” he said tersely. “You haven’t lived within five hundred miles of your daughters since they were little girls. They grew up without you, with a stepmother who bought their school clothes and made their lunches. You weren’t there.”
“I needed to pursue my career,” she countered angrily. “They could’ve come down for the summers or toured with me. Their father could have sent them.”
Darcy looked away from her. Elizabeth had never doubted her ability to judge people until she’d met and misjudged him, but she had indeed been clear-eyed and perceptive about her mother. He’d rarely met a more self-centered human being.
“Or you could have visited them more often. You could havecalled. You left them. You chose your career over them. Choices are difficult, and they have consequences.”
“Oh, and I suppose your mother is perfect. Let me guess,” she said in a sarcastic twang, “she’s a brain surgeon slash socialite who bakes and paints and sings and goes to society balls and runs charities?”
Darcy’s eyes drifted over to Elizabeth talking with the Gardiners. She was laughing at something Ava was showing off in her flower girl basket.
“My mother burnt everything she baked and couldn’t sew, but she loved art and sang beautifully. And she loved her children and made us feel valued simply by spending time with us.”
“Oh,” Sylvia said dismissively. “A saint.”
“No, an angel, I think.”
Sylvia looked at him, confused.
“Here’s the gist of it, Sylvia. I love your daughter. And I hate to see her hurt and frustrated.”
“She has too much of her father in her,” Sylvia scoffed. “She’s angry, I told you.”
“With good reason, I think. She gave you her apartment to stay in for better than a week, and you complain about the location and the dull decor. You haven’t asked about her work, about her impressive professional accomplishments, but you ask about her sexuality and impugn her morality at the rehearsal dinner?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“Elizabeth’s happiness is my business. As Jane’s is Charles’s business. We’ve both seen how affected they are by you, by your past absences, and by how you appear at your own convenience. They’re grown women who grew up without you.”
Sylvia stopped moving. “You seem rather hostile yourself, Mr. Darcy.”
“Do I?”
“I’m the mother of the bride, and no one is respecting that,” she spat.
“Yes, technically, you are the mother of the bride. A title that should be earned, not assumed. You had no problem leaving Elizabeth before the last piece of cake was served on her eighth birthday, so you haven’t a free pass to wedding cake and such here.”
Sylvia’s mouth dropped open.
“And you don’t have a free pass to your daughter’s life. I will not see Elizabeth hurt by you again. She’s not in need of a motheranymore, and she’s not in need of someone trying to take advantage of that genetic tie.”
Sylvia glared at him.
“If Elizabeth has an interest in contacting you, she will do so. Otherwise, you should go live your life and stay out of hers.”
