Chapter 6
They had arrived at a building with an ultra-modern façade - all glass, steel, and gray marble. A doorman in a navy blazer opened the heavy door and greeted them with a nod. Stepping into the lobby, Elizabeth looked around at the minimalist, and decidedly masculine, interior. There were no paintings on the wall, no vases or other ornaments in the lobby. The floors were made of black and white marble.
Charles' apartment matched the sleek decor of the building. His place was huge, but colorless, with a lot of electronic gadgets. A typical bachelor pad, Elizabeth thought.
“Welcome to the future,” William muttered to no one in particular.
“Will finds my taste in interior decorating bleak and uninspiring,” Charles explained.
Elizabeth smirked and stifled a remark on the irony of that statement coming from someone with such a bleak and uninspiring personality.
“Charles?” came a female voice from the back of the apartment. “Is that you?”
The voice got closer and suddenly revealed itself as belonging to Caroline Bingley. Taking one look at Elizabeth, the smile plastered on her face wavered, but she turned her focus back to her brother.
“What are you doing here?” Charles asked, throwing his coat on the sofa.
“Don't say it like that,” Caroline frowned. “It's okay if I crash dinner, right?”
Elizabeth looked on a scene that was becoming more surreal by the minute. Now Caroline Bingley was standing no more than a few feet away, wrapped in a black silk bathrobe.
“Actually, I don't think there's enough chicken.”
Caroline glanced over to Elizabeth, the reason for the lack of chicken. She didn't bother to hide the look of disapproval in her eyes. A corps de ballet member, it said. That look quickly faded when her eyes darted over to William.
“Oh, you didn't tell me William would be coming, too. Hello there.”
William barely raised the corners of his lips in greeting. Folding his arms across his chest, he scanned the room, ignoring Caroline's gaze. Her eyes lingered on him hungrily for a few seconds, and then she sashayed past them, disappearing into a doorway. Elizabeth heard the sound of a refrigerator opening.
“These chicken breasts are huge,” she called out, “they'll feed five. Thanks, Charles.”
Caroline said as she reappeared briefly.
“Just let me get myself ready and I'll be back in a jiff,” she said, looking straight at William. Flashing a brilliant smile, she disappeared down the hallway. When she had gone, Charles looked at Elizabeth and rolled his eyes, making her giggle.
“I have to apologize in advance for anything Caroline may or may not say to you,” he whispered.
“That's okay,” Elizabeth whispered back.
Charles clapped his hands together and rubbed his palms. “Okay, let me get started with the cooking.”
“Let me help with something,” Elizabeth offered.
“Yeah? Then how about you make a salad?”
“Perfect. Salads are my specialty.”
William cleared his throat. “What can I do to help, Charles?”
In mid-stride to the kitchen, Charles froze and turned his head slowly to gape at his friend. They had known each other for over fifteen years and not once in that span of time had Charles ever known William to offer culinary or domestic help. Even at William's own rare social functions, he always hired assistants to prepare, cook, serve, and clean up. Charles barely knew how to respond, what orders to give his friend.
“Uh...you can...uh...make the garlic bread.”
William nodded gravely, accepting his task, and the trio made their way into the kitchen.
Three subsequent encounters increased Charles' surprise.
The first was the way William ogled Elizabeth's butt as she bent into the vegetable bin gathering ingredients for the salad.
The second was when, despite the vast amounts of counter space, including an island, William decided he would slice the baguette of French bread not more than three feet away from where Elizabeth hovered over a cutting board slicing cucumbers.
The third was William's two failed attempts to engage Elizabeth in conversation.
“So...do you often make salads?”
Pausing at the odd question, Elizabeth answered hesitantly. “Yes...in fact, I do. Quite a bit, actually. Veggies are cheap.”
William nodded, unsure of an appropriate response. Elizabeth seemed reluctant to continue speaking. He saw her furrow her eyebrows as she emptied torn-up and washed pieces of lettuce into the large salad bowl.
Her reticence was beginning to annoy him. Obviously, she thought he enjoyed stooping as far as to talk to some twenty-three-year-old corps dancer. It grated on his nerves that she didn't see his efforts for the compliment they were. Typical of a newbie. Did she think choreographers socialized with their dancers all of the time?
After slicing the bread, he set the knife down and turned to her in conversation attempt number two.
“Are you always this talkative?” he asked dryly.
He saw her pause in her chopping rhythm, before she replied, “Only when I make bad attempts at sarcasm.”
“So I see.”
Elizabeth sent the blade of her knife decisively through a tomato. “Don't you know it's dangerous to goad someone wielding a sharp knife?”
In spite of himself, he smirked, but before he could reply, the buzzer sounded from the intercom on the kitchen wall.
“That must be Jane!” Charles said, his face lighting up. He pressed the intercom and buzzed Jane in. Charles sighed in relief that he would no longer be alone with William, Elizabeth, and their volatile flirting. It made him uncomfortable.
Hearing Jane's voice in the living room cheered Elizabeth, and she grinned when her sister appeared.
“Phew, it's really snowing out. Lizzy! I didn't know you were coming.”
“Charles invited me.”
“What happened to you after rehearsal? Charlotte and I waited for you.”
Elizabeth glanced over to William. She didn't know if she was authorized to mention their private rehearsal.
“She stayed after to help me,” William suddenly answered, sensing Elizabeth's uncertainty.
Jane nodded, trying to conceal her surprise. “Ah, okay. Hello, Mr. Darcy.”
William smiled warmly at her. “How's the knee, Ms. Bennet?”
“I can straighten it again. It's still sore, though. But getting better. Oh, and you don't have to call me Ms. Bennet. Just Jane is fine.”
Nodding, William replied, “Jane it is then. Feel free to call me William outside of rehearsal.”
Elizabeth watched this interaction with puzzlement. How did Jane fall under William Darcy's good graces, when he mocked and insulted her? She turned back to her salad, frowning at no one, and feeling another pebble of jealousy fall into the heap.
“Jane darling!”
Caroline Bingley strolled into the kitchen with her arms open in welcome for Jane. She was now clothed, but barely, wearing a skimpy black halter-top, and skin-tight white pants. Her hair was swept back into a high ponytail and her lips were coated in bright red lipstick. “It's so good to see you!” Kissing Jane's cheek with her own, Caroline then turned her focus to William.
“Have you missed me?” she teased.
William looked heavenwards and inhaled, not responding.
“Hello, we haven't formally met. I'm Caroline Bingley. You must be Jane's sister.” She extended a hand and smiled at Elizabeth. The prima's green eyes betrayed suspicion.
Elizabeth smiled back politely and shook it. “Elizabeth Bennet.”
Still smiling, Caroline looked at her chopping tomatoes. “You cook? What a wonderful skill. I've never been able to cook.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I cook, but not well. My skills extend to cutting up vegetables.”
“I see,” Caroline said, her gaze heading downwards to Elizabeth's sneakers. “You must have just come from the studio.”
“Yes, I'm a bit underdressed.”
Caroline laughed. “Not just a bit, honey. But that's okay, we're all friends here, aren't we?”
“Okay, chicken's going in the broiler,” Charles called out before Caroline could say anything more, “We'll be eating in a little while.”
“And what are you doing over here?” Caroline said sauntering to where William stood by the bread.
He gestured towards the cut-up loaf. “Trying to make garlic bread.”
Caroline waved her hand in front of her face. “I'm a terrible cook. I burn toast. It's true! Jane, can you make this?”
Elizabeth suppressed a snort. In the Bennet family, Jane was an infamously careless cook, the kind who accidentally dumped salt into the coffee instead of sugar, and thought that oven temperature was a matter of personal preference. What sad company to be in for dinner - Jane the klutz and three spoiled rich kids!
“No, Lizzy got all of the culinary talent. I'm dangerous around knives and hot things. Lizzy, how do we make garlic bread?”
Elizabeth looked up from the salad and smiled at her sister. “Just sprinkle some olive oil and garlic powder on the bread. That's the easiest way.”
“Caroline, will you set the table?” Charles asked her.
Staring at her brother, she threw her head back and shrieked with laughter. “I haven't set the table since I was nine years old.”
“It's time to start again,” he said, placing a handful of forks and knives into her hands. Caroline glowered at him, but not wanting to make a fuss in front of William, she pulled her lips into a sour smile and headed out of the kitchen.
“Do you have garlic powder, Charles?” William asked.
“Garlic powder? Uh...I think. Hold on.”
Charles began opening and closing cupboards and rummaging through the refrigerator. Jane gazed at him with an adoring smile; he could do no wrong. To Elizabeth, not knowing where one kept the spices in one's own kitchen was a cardinal sin. She was less amused.
“Forget it. It's here,” William said, walking over to the spice rack in the corner of the kitchen and retrieving the bottle. Charles laughed and shrugged at Jane.
“I don't cook,” he said. Jane giggled and they went over to the oven to check on the chicken.
Elizabeth already had the olive oil out for her dressing. She handed the bottle over to William, figuring that the chances of him knowing what to do with it were slim.
“Drizzle the olive oil over the bread. Not too much, though. Then a light coating of garlic powder. Then into the oven for about ten minutes at 350.”
He took the bottle wordlessly and followed her instructions just as she said. Both worked in silence for a few more minutes, before Caroline burst back into the kitchen whining about the napkins.
Dinner was eaten off of the good china at Charles' black wrought iron and glass dining table. Glancing around the table, Elizabeth realized she stuck out like a weed in an orchid garden. Caroline, with her clothes, figure, and makeup, looked like a supermodel, and had obviously dressed to impress. Both Charles and William wore crisp collared shirts. Jane had obviously made a stop at home after the post office. She wore a beautiful navy cashmere sweater and small diamond earrings. Elizabeth, thinking she would go straight home after rehearsal, was wearing a Gap shirt, her yoga pants, barely any makeup, and an uncomfortable expression on her face.
For all his goodness, Charles made a terrible host. He spoke and listened to no one but Jane, which while endearing in a syrupy, puppy-love kind of way, also left Elizabeth to socialize with Caroline and William. The latter had absolutely no interest in anything but his plate, and focused solely on the tablecloth and the wall in front of him. The former, finding a defenseless listener in Elizabeth, talked of nothing but herself.
“And my manicurist keeps telling me to moisturize, but it's the funniest thing, the older I get, the drier my hands get. Which, let me tell you, is not easy on the bank account when you have to use $100-by-the-ounce moisturizer,” complained Caroline with a resigned shake of the head.
After nearly a half-hour of similarly veined conversation, Elizabeth's patience had been worn bare. She propped her chin up with her hand and smiled politely at the woman sitting on her left.
“And then, of course, Rodrigo tells me they're raising prices at the salon!”
Elizabeth could not longer suppress the barb jabbing at her tongue. “No! That's outrageous,” she feigned in her most saccharine voice. “By how much?”
Caroline touched Elizabeth's wrist. “Five dollars. Fifty dollars for a manicure! I told him that he and his little salon were both crazy, and I would just have to take my business elsewhere.”
“Well. Fifty dollars for a manicure is utterly ridiculous.”
“I know!” Caroline sighed, and smiled across the table to William, who had suddenly lifted his eyes from his fork. He caught Elizabeth's gaze and frowned momentarily in confusion. Behind her sympathetic mask lied the same biting mockery he had fallen victim to at the Nutcracker cast party. Her eyes gleamed with amusement at her private sport.
“You know, there's a great salon up my way,” Elizabeth added, “Harlem Nailz. That's with a ‘z.' Good prices, and on Mondays, they have a manicure and pedicure special for twenty bucks. Extra for nail art, of course. But great colors. Blue, fuchsia, green.”
William watched Caroline attempt to conceal her distaste. His eyes moved from the principal to the corps girl, more than mere cordiality behind her broad smile. He caught her eyebrows twitch in quiet delight. Caroline hadn't even known what hit her.
“Sometimes, after payday, I go to Sun-yun, who does great work, but doesn't speak much English. If you want, I'll give you her card.”
“Uh, well, thank you. But, you know I do tend to exaggerate. I mean, Rodrigo does do a fabulous job. I think I'll be able to spare the extra five dollars every week, if I must,” stammered Caroline.
“Oh?” was the only reply Elizabeth made, before smiling down into her plate. Caroline furrowed her eyebrows slightly, and then turned to her left, interrupting Jane and Charles' conversation to ask Jane what salon she used, as she adored Jane's dye-job.
Raising her eyes, Elizabeth glanced over briefly to the discussion between the two blondes. When she saw that everyone had finished eating, she stood, gathering her plate and utensils and started to clear the table. Those at the table gawked at her, and Charles stood abruptly.
“No way, Liz. Guests don't do the dishes,” Charles commanded with a smile.
“Just leave them over there,” Caroline said, waving her hand dismissively towards the kitchen, “Hilda will do them tomorrow.”
Charles flushed in embarrassment, and cast his sister a chastising look. Managing the most genuine smile she could muster, Elizabeth turned around and took her plates into the kitchen. She counted to ten backwards, and then deciding that wasn't enough, upped the number to twenty. By the time she had reached “nine,” the kitchen door swung open and Jane and Charles joined her with a plate in each hand, the extras obviously belonging to Caroline and William. They set them down, and then Charles urged Elizabeth to return to the dining room.
Without the food to occupy them, conversation lagged at Elizabeth's end of the table. The most important subjects to Caroline had already been covered: manicures, shopping, and Caroline. Naturally, the conversation fell to a comfortable subject- ballet.
“So, William. I hope you're choreographing a wonderful pas de deux for me,” Caroline giggled.
“I'm choreographing it. Whether it's wonderful or not has yet to be determined,” he said dully, raising his eyes to catch Elizabeth's. She shifted uncomfortably and looked down at her lap. Upon hearing the subject of conversation, Charles pulled himself away from the private chat with Jane.
“Oh, is that what Liz was helping you with?”
Both Elizabeth and William shot him simultaneous looks of death, and Charles shrunk under their gaze. Straightening in her chair, Caroline smiled awkwardly and looked to Elizabeth.
“Helping?” she asked, a dangerous tinge creeping into her tone.
“I asked her to stay and work on the pas de deux once I'd dismissed you all after Jane's...after Monday's rehearsal,” William explained.
The smile on Caroline's face flinched. Eyeing Elizabeth, she nodded slowly and arched a thinly plucked eyebrow.
“Oh, and is she understudying the part?” Caroline asked, not bothering to hide the poison in her eyes.
“No,” William answered.
Elizabeth slumped into the chair. She felt small, not from Caroline's bite, but from William's tone. He said “no” as if the notion were so utterly ridiculous, he couldn't believe Caroline had entertained it. Her face burned, half with anger, half with humiliation. An awkward silence passed over the table. Caroline smiled and turned to Elizabeth.
“What roles have you danced before, Elizabeth?”
“Not really anything that memorable. I danced the Sylphide in La Sylphide in college. But we mostly did contemporary pieces.”
Caroline flashed a knowing look at William. “College? Where?”
“Butler University. In Indiana.”
“And did you finish?”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I did.”
“What was your major?”
“I double majored in ballet and French literature.”
“I see. And whatever possessed you to do that? I mean, surely you must have known it would do nothing for your career.”
Elizabeth inhaled slowly. “Perhaps not now, but you can't dance forever.”
“And can you read French books forever?” Caroline laughed.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort, when William interrupted. “It's the degree that matters, Caroline, not the major. It was extremely prudent of Ms. Bennet to get a university degree. She's right. You can't dance forever.”
Elizabeth stared across the table at him, trying to find the sarcasm or mockery that should have been lying underneath his tone, or a hint of humor in his eyes.
“But to waste some of the most important years of your career holed up in some classroom,” Caroline protested, “it's just not smart.”
“I don't believe the semester I spend holed up at Julliard was a waste,” William retorted.
“That's Julliard, though. The best. And you danced at Julliard. You didn't sit in some library reading French books.”
Elizabeth glared sideways at Caroline, who then turned to the younger dancer, grinned, and said, “Oh, no offense. I'm an avid reader, too, of course. Everyone should read, including dancers.”
“Yes, there's nothing worse than a dumb ballerina,” retorted Elizabeth. William cut her a sharp look.
Caroline nodded with self-satisfaction. Casting a winning smile over to William, she saw the choreographer practically boring a hole through Elizabeth's forehead. His gaze was that dark, that intense. Caroline beamed. Not only had she embarrassed the little upstart, but she had also scored a few points with William as well.
“So, you danced mostly modern pieces then?” Caroline asked, trying to rip into Elizabeth from another angle. “A lot of rolling on the floor, that kind of thing?”
“Yes, we were often required to roll.”
“I've never understood modern dance. Any savage can flail around in bare feet. Wouldn't you agree, William?”
Reluctantly, William drew his eyes from Elizabeth's face to Caroline's. He preferred sitting on the sidelines, watching Caroline get shadowboxed by Elizabeth. Upon being dragged into the ring, William narrowed his eyes at the prima, and replied, “I wouldn't go as far as to say that.”
“How far would you go?” Elizabeth interjected, her tone cutting.
“I would say,” William began cautiously, “that modern dance, or any other kind of dance, does not require the same kind of technical proficiency that is required in ballet.”
Elizabeth snorted. Caroline smiled and turned to her. “There's no use arguing with him. William's quite firm in his views on dance, aren't you?”
“I have my opinions, yes. But I'm not inflexible.”
“And what are your opinions, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked, challenging him at the dinner table as she had done in the studio.
“Well, I don't think modern dance is just ‘rolling around on the floor' as Caroline so ungraciously put it. But...I do think modern dance has had a decidedly negative influence on ballet.”
“Really. How?”
“Technique has been sacrificed for fashion.”
“Fashion?”
“Well, rolling, as Caroline put it. Pop music, melodrama.”
He saw Elizabeth sigh and glance away. “Okay. And how are we to prevent the further denigration of the art form?”
Her tone dripped with sarcasm, which he solidly ignored. “Go back to the basics. More form, more technique, more logic.”
“So we should dance like robots?”
“No, that's not what I said. Being logical and being robotic are not the same things. Ballet has a logic of its own. The logic of the body. And there's beauty in that logic which is being sacrificed for histrionics.”
“So, now you think any unconventional effort at artistic expression is just histrionics?”
“No. You misunderstand me. I'm not against expression, just exaggeration.”
“Right. And where exactly is the line between expression and exaggeration?”
William smiled. “Ah, but knowing the answer to that is the mark of an accomplished dancer.”
Elizabeth's sighed in frustration. She had to hand it to the arrogant choreographer; more so than Caroline, he knew how and where to aim his insults.
Opening her mouth to retort, she was cut-off by Charles asking, “Who wants dessert? I have cheesecake.”
“That's not low fat, Charles,” Caroline said.
Charles had already stood from his chair and was making his way into the kitchen. “A little fat is okay every now and then. Wow, it's really coming down out there.”
From the glass window in the kitchen, Charles looked down to the street covered in a blanket of white. The rest of the party, minus William, followed and peered down into a full-fledged snowstorm.
“Looks bad,” Jane commented, “We should probably get going before it gets worse.”
“No taxis are going to be driving in this weather,” Charles said, frowning.
“They can take the subway,” offered Caroline a little too eagerly.
“They can't walk to the subway station. It's blocks away. Let's turn on the news.” Charles and company backtracked into the dining room and then to the living room and turned on the plasma TV. William stood and joined the group watching the weather report.
“Officials are advising that you stay indoors tonight. There is extremely low visibility on the roads. Driving is considered to be dangerous and should be avoided at all costs. We still have not had word as to how this will affect public transportation, but trains to Long Island are already being delayed…”
Elizabeth chewed on her lip.
“I don't think it's a good idea for you to leave in weather like this,” Charles said. “Let's wait out the storm a bit. Maybe it will lighten up.”
Jane seemed pleased enough with the turn of events, but both Caroline and Elizabeth's faces darkened. The shrill ring of Caroline's cell phone joined the blare of the news report.
Picking it up from the dining room table, she flipped it open. “Louisa...No...At Charles'...With William, Jane, and her sister...Oh, do I have something to tell you...Hold on, she's standing right here.” Caroline glared at Elizabeth, before striding down the hall to talk in private.
Charles and Jane went back to the kitchen to get cheesecake. Elizabeth sunk down into the leather couch to watch live footage of the chaos at Penn Station. William stood behind her, hands in his pockets, staring down at Elizabeth. She sighed in frustration when the coverage began to show the amount of snow accumulating in Rockefeller Center.
William walked around the couch and sat down at the other end. She straightened her back at his presence, but kept her focus on the television. Although Elizabeth sensed him watching her, he said nothing. Her heartbeat sped up. She didn't understand why the choreographer chose her for the object of his interest. He made her nervous and uncomfortable.
Just then, Caroline returned to the living room, a saccharine smile plastered on her lips.
“Where's Charles?”
William made no effort to answer so Elizabeth chimed in for him. “In the kitchen with Jane. I think they're having cheesecake.”
“Uh huh. I'm sure that's what they're having,” she said, “I'm off to get myself a piece. William, would you like one?”
“No.”
Caroline shrugged and breezed past them. William glanced over to Elizabeth, who was visibly annoyed at the snub.
“Elizabeth, would you like any cheesecake?” he asked, loud enough for Caroline to hear. She stopped mid-stride.
“No. Thank you.”
Caroline resumed her glide across the dining room and then disappeared into the kitchen.
Turning her head, Elizabeth suddenly felt exhausted after a week of grueling rehearsals and a night in the presence of people she didn't like and who didn't like her. Her eyelids grew heavy. Leaning her head back against the sofa, she sighed softly and closed them for a brief moment of respite.
She wondered why William Darcy seemed to take such glee in baiting her. He was perfectly warm with Jane, and even treated Caroline, for whom he obviously held little respect, with polite disdain. However, he was bent on intimidating Elizabeth. With her, he was cocky and harsh, which just made her rear up like a cobra and strike. Her heart was still pounding from the inquisition at the dinner table. She was stunned by her behavior. After the cast party, she had vowed never to cross Darcy again. She didn't need his wrath and feared she had come away tonight looking the fool. Her whole body burned with humiliation.
“You don't get manicures, do you?” William asked, picking up the remote and switching off the television.
Opening her eyes, Elizabeth turned her head to gaze queerly at him.
“Or if you do, Sun-yun doesn't do a very good job,” he added.
Elizabeth looked to her fingernails, bitten to the skin and marred by the occasional hangnail. Curling her fingers underneath her hands, she looked back up to William and frowned.
A wicked smirk passed over his face, lighting up his eyes. “There's no Sun-yun is there?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “There's no Harlem Nailz.”
“And what if she had wanted the business card?”
Cutting him a sideward glance, Elizabeth arched one eyebrow knowingly and deliberately.
“Point taken,” she heard him mutter. Elizabeth wondered if he was angry. Daring to look at him, she saw, to her surprise, the traces of a smile playing at the corners of his eyes.
At that moment, Caroline reappeared with a plate propped up on her fingertips and a fork in the other hand. On the plate was a sliver of cheesecake no thicker than Elizabeth's thumb. She dropped into a leather armchair close to William.
“Louisa says hello.”
William made no reply.
“So, William, what do you think about my brother's arrangement of Giselle?”
“I think he's doing a good job.”
“Do you think I'll make a decent Myrta?”
“Ideal,” William replied dryly. Elizabeth had to cover her mouth and look away to keep from laughing.
Caroline glanced over to Elizabeth. An uncomfortable truth had been creeping up on Caroline throughout the evening. She alone could not engage the aloof choreographer, but the little corps girl possessed a strange ability to fire up his interest. Figuring she would have to lose the battle to win the war, Caroline turned to Elizabeth.
“And what do you think, Elizabeth? It might be nice to hear an opinion from the corps de ballet.”
Elizabeth started slightly and shifted on the sofa. She wondered why suddenly she was being so solicitously asked for her opinion when Caroline had shown no interest in real conversation the entire evening. William turned his head to her as well. She felt hunted.
“I think Charles is doing an admirable job. He has fabulous insight into the storyline. Makes the ballet almost tolerable.”
William chuckled. “Almost? I take it you're not a fan?”
“Giselle isn't my favorite, no.”
Caroline grinned, satisfied at how well Elizabeth had set herself up. “Don't like it! Giselle is one of the great ballets!”
Swallowing, Elizabeth inhaled and braced herself for another foxhunt. “I do love the dancing. And the music. Just not the plot. It's too...melodramatic. Too many hysterics.” She looked pointedly at William, who smiled lopsidedly.
The hint of laughter again played at his eyes. “Giselle was never one of my favorites, either.”
Caroline paused with the fork halfway to her lips. “And why not?”
William smiled then, his features bursting alive. “It's every danseur's nightmare. Dancing until you die. I can't imagine a worse way to go.”
Caroline laughed shrilly and turned to Elizabeth. “Isn't he funny?”
Elizabeth smirked in spite of herself.
“Do you agree, Ms. Bennet?” he asked, turning to her. She admired his laughter-softened features. He looked so much younger when he smiled.
“Yes and no. True, I can think of no worse way to die than being forced to jump around in a pair of pointe shoes, but for me it's the ending. Blech.”
“But the ending is beautiful. A testament to true love,” Caroline protested.
Elizabeth grimaced. “Giselle should have let the bastard jump.”
William's eyebrows piqued in amusement. “That's rather harsh.”
“He lied. He cheated on her. She went nuts over him and killed herself. Then, she has the gall to let him live? It would have been far more interesting if she'd let Albrecht dance himself to death.”
Although William again smiled dryly, Caroline clucked. “Oh, come on, Elizabeth. You sound like some kind of feminist. What, haven't been lucky in love lately?”
Elizabeth noticed William was now looking at her intently. She tried to smile, but felt trapped in the crosshairs again.
“My love life has nothing whatsoever to do with it. I have a short attention span and need either sex or violence to keep me interested. What can I say, I'm a by-product of a generation raised by the TV,” she joked, plastering an artificial smile on her face.
Caroline swiped a bit of cheesecake off the fork with her tongue. She didn't seem amused. No one did. Closing her lips, Elizabeth lowered her eyes to her fingernails. No one said anything. Caroline dropped her fork onto the plate with an ungracious clank, startling Elizabeth. She looked up, catching William's eyes on her. Elizabeth felt small again.
Standing suddenly, she motioned towards the kitchen. “I...um...cheesecake.” With her head lowered, she rushed past William and Caroline and straight into the kitchen, where she caught Jane and Charles in a heavy lip-lock. They stopped and jerked away when she appeared, blushing guiltily.
“Oops, sorry,” Elizabeth mumbled.
Charles recovered first, but his face was dyed crimson. “I think the snow's letting up, Liz. You and Jane will be able to get home after all.”
Elizabeth smiled stiffly at her sister, still rankled from the altercation in the living room. She repressed the urge to sigh, Thank God. Still, the kitchen was not much of a haven. Charles and Jane, while not making out, kept giggling and cooing to each other in baby voices. Glancing over to the opened box of cheesecake on the counter, Elizabeth figured she would occupy herself with the high-calorie, gooey stuff until they left.
“Got any extra forks?” she asked. Charles didn't hear. Sighing, she began opening kitchen drawers in search of the utensils.
**
Thirty minutes later, Elizabeth regretted it all. She regretted coming to Charles' apartment. She regretted butting heads with the two beasts in the living room. And she regretted eating three hefty slices of cheesecake. Perhaps it was Jane and Charles whispering lovey-doveyisms every few seconds or the sudden effect of too much rich cheesecake, but waves of nausea wrung at her stomach. She braced herself on the kitchen counter, concentrating on settling her insides.
She didn't even care when William strode in for his share of the cheesecake. Staring into oblivion, Elizabeth felt her throat constrict dangerously and focused hard on not hurling that night's dinner.
“Open wide,” Jane sang, waving her fork in the air and making airplane noises before she deposited a bite of cake between Charles' lips.
Rolling his eyes, William picked up a fork. For once, Elizabeth agreed with him. Charles and Jane were making her sick. William sidled up to her, surveying the leftovers.
“This cake has been ravaged.”
Elizabeth only nodded, swallowing down another attack of queasiness. Any talk of the offending cake made her stomach lurch. Eyeing her, William noticed her face had paled to a ghastly white, and wondered if she were angry with Caroline and him. He didn't see what was so wrong with being labeled a feminist. A woman could be called worse things.
“The snow has died down a bit. You may be able to go home tonight after all.”
The thought of having to walk to the next room, much less take herself uptown, made Elizabeth's forehead break out in a cold sweat. She made no response.
William sighed in frustration, thinking of all the other names he wanted to call her besides “feminist.” She ignored him, insulted him, insinuated herself into his choreography. She was rude, arrogant, cheeky. Did she think he normally tolerated behavior like this from corps de ballet girls?
Leaning next to her on the counter, he saw her flinch. In a low voice, he said to her, “The least you can do is tell me to fuck off, Ms. Bennet. That way, we'll both know where we stand with each other.”
Elizabeth straightened. He saw her throat move as she swallowed. His heart stopped in his chest when he saw her eyes - glassy and troubled. Her breathing came raggedly. In that moment, William felt his emotions swell, and he regretted those words. He cursed himself. Obviously, he had deeply offended, pained, or humiliated the girl. Perhaps a combination of the three. Moving her eyes up to his face, she frowned heartbreakingly.
Then, in the clearest way possible, she let him know where he stood. Covering her mouth, and coughing twice, Elizabeth doubled over, and puked all over William Darcy's fine Italian leather shoes.
**
Neither Jane, Elizabeth, nor William went home that night. After being rushed into the shower by Jane, Elizabeth was ordered to lie down in one of the guest rooms, which she did without protest. Caroline Bingley sneered in disgust at the scene in the kitchen and returned to her room, leaving Jane to clean up the mess. William simply shrugged- a good pair of shoes lost, but he could get another. He was more concerned about his steamrolled pride. She'd been sick, not heartbroken, and here he thought he understood women.
With no shoes and with Charles a size smaller than he, William would be forced to stay until his housekeeper could bring another pair the next morning. He resigned himself almost too easily, given that he was forced to sleep in a bed not his own, trapped in an apartment with Caroline Bingley and the couple from Candyland.
William suspected the reason he was so complacent about this might have been sleeping in one of Charles' guest rooms with a terrible stomachache. He had the strangest urge to fetch her a cool glass of water and sit by her bedside, rubbing her stomach as his mother had done when William was a boy. What a strange woman, he reflected. An odd mixture of opposites: guilelessness and irreverence, humor and subtlety, maturity and girlishness, beauty and, okay, she was simply beautiful.
What strange musings for a grown man to be thinking at - he checked the bedside clock - 2:24 a.m.
Going over the details of the day, William began to suspect an unprofessional admiration for Elizabeth burgeoning within. He had enjoyed the feel of her body in his hands so much that he had chucked all of his rationally choreographed moves, and allowed her to inject her own whims into the piece. Despite the hour, William made an attempt at level-headedness.
She was too young. The same age as his kid sister. She was a corps de ballet member, a flighty, gossipy, insensible species of dancer. She was in his piece, which meant by his self-imposed hands-off policy, he could not consider her beyond the realm of the dance studio. William needed to slam on the breaks with this liaison.
He sighed deeply. His mind was not even close to sleep. He threw off the covers and stood, scratching his stomach, before shuffling out of the room and down the hall. The living room was pitch black. A crack of light, however, came from under the kitchen door and he heard running water. Not wanting company, William paused. He was about to turn back to retreat to his room, when the door swung open. Elizabeth appeared outlined in the kitchen light, her hair loose around her face, and clad in one of Charles' oversized sweatshirts that stopped mid-thigh, revealing a pair of long, naked, and perfectly sculpted legs. She froze as well, her eyes wide, a glass of water held up to her lips with both hands. Only her fingertips peeked out from the sleeves of the sweatshirt.
In that moment, all of William's caution crashed to floor and shattered into a thousand shards.
Someone needed to speak before the moment turned heavy with meaning.
“How are you feeling?” William blurted at the same time that Elizabeth said, “Sorry about your shoes.”
“Fine,” Elizabeth answered at the same time as William said, “Don't worry about it.”
They both chuckled uncomfortably. Elizabeth sipped the water, averting her eyes.
“I was thirsty...,” she explained, running her eyes up his body.
William swallowed hard, only then conscious that he was clad in just his boxers. A dangerous costume, especially considering the alluring way Elizabeth kept taking light sips of water.
“I...I couldn't…Wait, hold on,” he said, whirring around and striding back to his room. He threw on the shirt he had on earlier, buttoning the middle buttons, and yanked his pants off the floor, hurriedly throwing them on.
Upon re-emerging, he found Elizabeth sitting in the darkened living room.
“Sorry,” he said.
“You didn't have to come back out on my account.”
“I can't sleep.”
No reply from the darkness. William sunk into the armchair and asked, “You're feeling better?” His eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could now make out Elizabeth's features.
She nodded. “Yeah, thanks. I think it was the cheesecake. I-I'm really sorry about your shoes.”
“Forget about it. They're just shoes.”
A long moment of silence passed between them. Unlike the silences before, this one held no particular meaning. It was a moment of quiet that could only pass between two insomniacs at 2:30 in the morning. In the stillness, William watched Elizabeth finish the water and tap her fingers against the base of the glass. Then, she looked to him, caught his gaze, and did the most surprising thing. She smiled.
“Do I hold the honor of being the first dancer to vomit all over you?”
He laughed gently. “You are the first. Although I'm not so sure that's an honor.”
“Surely it must be an honor. It's not everyday someone like me gets to ruin the shoes of the infallible Mr. Darcy.” She was mocking him again in that sweet, wry way of hers.
“Please don't call me Mr. Darcy at 2:30 in the morning. And I'm not infallible.”
Elizabeth simply shrugged in reply. “I guess I was under the mistaken impression that you believed yourself one step down from godlike.”
“I don't believe myself to be ‘one step down from godlike.' Maybe two or three.”
Elizabeth cut him a dry look, but even in the darkness, William saw her lips curve faintly.
“In all seriousness,” he continued, “I don't admit to being perfect. I just don't think the dance studio is any place to bare all of my flaws.”
Elizabeth chuckled at the irony. “Right. Why, you've never once demonstrated any insensitivity or self-importance in the studio.”
“And what's so wrong with self-importance? What is so wrong with taking pride in yourself, in your work, and holding others to that same standard?”
“There's nothing wrong with that. But when you take too much pride in yourself? Certainly you admit that's a flaw.”
“I call it confidence.”
“Yes, you're confident that you're better than everyone!” The laughter in Elizabeth's voice was tinted with a bitterness that William couldn't fail to catch.
“And you're confident that you're always right, without knowing the background or details of a situation.”
Elizabeth paused and then smiled dangerously. “Who would have thought you could know me so well in only one evening?”
“My credentials at psychoanalysis are as good as yours.”
She shook her head. “Excuse me, Mr. Darcy. I'm suddenly very tired. I'm heading back to bed.”
William stood with her. “I'm going, also.”
Allowing her to pass first, he silently cursed when, despite his simmering exasperation, he found himself admiring her sinewy and shaped calves. Elizabeth strode to her room next to his, and shut the door with a soft but cold click. William, too, returned to his bed.
On either sides of the wall, two people spent the early morning hours tossing under the sheets, one bothered by the other's arrogance and presumption and her lack of control in the face of it, the other kept awake by images flashing through his head of a pair of graceful, bare legs and how they might feel tangled up with his own.
Chapter 7
Catherine Boroughs hailed from a very rich, very respectable, and very old Manhattan family. She had bought enough antique art to fill her six homes around the world, purchased enough real estate in South America to found a small country, and had stayed at all of the finest hotels in Paris, Cairo, and Beijing twice. She belonged to three country clubs. She owned a hotel. She invested in the stock market. She had raised a daughter, who was now twenty-nine and finally out of the way. And thus, Catherine Boroughs had nothing left on which to spend her money.
So she did what any other wealthy, bored multi-millionaire heiress would do - she supported the arts.
“No one in New York City appreciates the arts as much as I do,” she often said, with a nasal drawl, “in fact, many call me the ‘patron saint of New York's performing arts.'” Catherine was a Platinum Rung benefactor for the Metropolitan Opera, the New York Philharmonic, the Julliard Symphony, and New York City Ballet. She had sat on the Board of Trustees for all of the major New York arts promotion associations at least once during the past twenty years of her career as philanthropist. She had a scholarship at the Julliard School named after her.
Arts administrators feared her and artistic directors despised her. Catherine believed her donations were like an investment in a corporation and that her money entitled her to artistic input. The very blessing of her wealth, she felt, endowed her with artistic sensibility and talent that the masses simply could not possess. The artists needed her opinions, and how could she disappoint them?
Administrators who refused to allow Big C (as she was called behind her back) input, saw their funding cut; directors who complied, saw their visions compromised.
Several years back at a season opening gala for the Philharmonic, Catherine Boroughs had literally stumbled upon Colin Williams, a thirty-two-year-old accountant with the orchestra, who had been trailing her all night. It had been a match made in heaven. Colin was young, dull, obsequious, and annoyed Catherine to no end, giving her an outlet for her short temper, a henchman for her artistic negotiations, and an occasional ego boost from all of his flattery. Colin, for his part, enjoyed the prestige of being seen at Catherine Boroughs' side. He liked the way people deferred to him, how they took a moment longer considering him. With mediocre looks and a personality as solid as a sheet on a line, Colin had never been popular or respected - with Catherine, he was both.
The finance manager at Ballet Theater of New York had just resigned, and Catherine Boroughs knew people there. In a week, Colin had the job, complete with his own spacious cubicle, featuring a picture of him and his patron together at a gala - Colin beaming widely, spit encrusted at the right corner of his mouth, Catherine looking off to the side, cross with boredom or annoyance.
Colin Williams was the kind of man whom William Darcy would have never glanced at twice. In his years at the company, the choreographer had never learned the names of the people in the office and never really cared to learn. They simply put numbers in the computer, and had little to do with him or the creative process. They were the lemmings, he, the artist. However, one thing about the squat, sweaty man caught William's attention- his obvious partiality towards Elizabeth Bennet.
William wasn't sure how the association had begun, but he figured with Elizabeth's outgoing personality, they had somehow fallen into the same sphere of acquaintances. To William, the man was a gnat, constantly buzzing in his and Elizabeth's face. He was always around – after class, before rehearsal, after rehearsal. William clenched his jaw in irritation one day after company class, when he saw Colin waddle over to Elizabeth, who was stretching by herself in the corner.
“Miss Bennet, I am certainly no connoisseur of ballet, but you must let me tell you how devastatingly exquisite your dancing was today. That thing you did with your arms...just magical,” he gushed.
William's lips curved when he heard Elizabeth reply dryly, “I did quite a few things with my arms today, Mr. Williams. None of which seemed particularly magical to me.”
“Oh, such modesty! You must be exhausted. Your poor, tired shoulders. It would be no trouble at all to give you a massage. Here, let me…”
From down the hall, William frowned darkly when Colin reached his chubby hands down for Elizabeth's shoulders. She twisted out of his reach and stood abruptly.
“Mr. Williams,” she snapped, “really, that's fine. I could never ask you to do something so tedious, when the company shells out so much money to hire therapists like Ms. Crawford.”
Colin chuckled embarrassedly. “Well, I-”
“I need to go. Rehearsal starts in ten minutes. Goodbye, Mr. Williams.”
The look Elizabeth threw at the accountant sent ripples of quiet laughter through William's chest. If looks could kill, he thought. Then he stopped and exhaled, looking down in disheartened realization. He had seen that look before directed at himself. William shook his head and continued down the hall to the stairwell.
**
The third time William asked Elizabeth to stay after rehearsal, her face betrayed no emotion. She walked casually to the side, took a long sip of water from her bottle, and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. All of the dancers filed out of the studio, with Caroline cutting the younger dancer a bitter look. Elizabeth pointedly ignored it, waiting to speak until the room was empty.
“How much longer do you plan on these rehearsals lasting?” They were the first words she had spoken to him since Charles' dinner.
William paced slowly towards her, darkness gathering in his eyes like rain clouds. “As long as it takes to finish the pas de deux.”
“I still don't understand why you won't ask Caroline or Louisa.” Elizabeth gestured to the door from where they had just left.
“I don't understand why you take such an interest in their affairs.”
“This whole arrangement just isn't...normal.” She folded her arms over her chest as he closed in on her. He paused.
“I'm not a ‘normal' choreographer, and I don't believe you're a ‘normal' dancer either, Ms. Bennet.” His voice dropped only loud enough to cover the four feet of distance between them. Her eyes faltered under his. She furrowed her eyebrows and looked at the floor, unsure that being called abnormal was something she wanted. Whether it was or not, the dark timbre in William's voice sent her flesh tingling.
William cleared his throat. “Let's go from the beginning.”
Dancing was the refuge. It was when William choreographed, slowly manipulating her in his hands, that the movement took on a tinge of danger. When he choreographed, his voice reverberated low and placid in her ears. Elizabeth swallowed hard as he did it again. His was a voice as erotic as a lover's.
“Lean your head back,” he murmured. Elizabeth complied, keeping her gaze on the safe realm of his chin. Facing each other, she arched backwards. She felt one of his hands snake up her back, the other down her thigh, pushing her right leg behind her into an arabesque. He waited, in a choreographer's hesitation. Indecision hummed from his hands into her. Her back hurt from the prolonged arch. He did not tell her to, but suddenly Elizabeth straightened her spine. With her hands still supported in his, she fell forward on the tip of her pointe shoe until her weight could not be supported with her own strength alone.
Elizabeth leaned into his chest, wrapping her arms around William's neck for support. His eyes widened, affronted and confused at the usurpation, but when her face was merely inches away, her eyes gazing up into his, waiting for him to move, William found himself entirely unable to protest. He was confused. Why was she sabotaging his choreography? How could she think she had the right to do that? And, why these steps? Why so close? Why that look in her eyes? His head swam with questions, drowning all thoughts of dance.
“L-let's try that with the music,” he stuttered, reddening as he walked away from her. He was the choreographer. He was a thirty-five-year-old man, experienced with both dancers and women alike, and a twenty-three-year-old corps girl had him stammering. He breathed deeply, twice, and closed his eyes, trying to banish the memory of her eye color from his mind.
Elizabeth swallowed as he walked away, her own face coloring scarlet. She hadn't meant to go that far, to take the movements into her own hands, but it had felt right within the context. It was beyond her place as a dancer. But, he had not seemed angry, merely shocked. Her face and chest smoldered with embarrassment. Once the music started and William had made his way back to her, Elizabeth attempted to go through the steps with more restraint.
As the dance progressed, she found she couldn't. The music, the steps, his hands swept her away and she began performing the steps as if she were possessed, closing her eyes when he embraced her in the fifth measure. Elizabeth had memorized the steps; she could dance them with closed eyes. The lack of one sense heightened the other; in her self-afflicted blindness, Elizabeth became keenly aware of the smoothness of William's hands, the solidness of his pectorals, his deep, controlled breathing.
The cadence of the music alerted her to an upcoming quadruple pirouette and lift that would follow. Forced to open her eyes, she was pulled back to the world of color and light. Her head cleared. With a hammering heart and lazy panic bubbling in her stomach, she went through the subsequent steps.
Both finished the dance in the same position as before, with her leaning into him, her arms around his neck, and their noses inches apart. Elizabeth stared at the deep bow of his upper lip, her breasts heaving against his chest. The music continued, violins swelling. William remained. Feeling the panic begin to simmer, Elizabeth raised her eyes up to his to find them slowly searching her face. From this distance, she noticed their complex color, the ring of brown around the pupil, and the deep, almost-gray blue of his irises.
William's mouth moved, as if to speak. He didn't understand this. He had danced professionally for twelve years, choreographed for five, yet he had never experienced something as organic as the connection between himself and this woman in his arms. No words were necessary with her. He didn't need to correct her steps, because she instinctively knew what he wanted. Or perhaps, in dancing, she created what he wanted.
“Mr. Darcy?” she whispered, jolting him back to attention. Elizabeth's weight was against him in such a way that if he did nothing to ease her down, she risked twisting an ankle. Starting, he pushed her back so that she could roll off the box of her pointe shoe and then brushed past her to stop the music.
“Thank you. That's enough for today,” he said brusquely in a tone that would have ignited Elizabeth's temper, had she not been equally stunned. She backed away, nearly tripping on her legs, which had turned to rubber. Heart hammering in her chest, she turned to open the door when it swung open, nearly smashing her cheek.
“Oh! Miss Bennet! Oh, my God. Did I hit you? Are you injured?” gushed Colin Williams.
Doubly startled, first from that dance and then from nearly having her nose broken, it took Elizabeth a few seconds to find her voice. “N-no, you missed me. I'm fine.”
Colin's red face melted into a smile. “Oh, oh, I'm so relieved. My goodness, if I had injured you, I-I-I- how could I face myself in the mirror every morning?”
Her head clearing, Elizabeth managed a sardonic half-smile. “It's difficult to say.”
“I brought you Gatorade. For your electrolytes.” He placed a plastic bottle of the stuff in her hands.
“My electrolytes,” she repeated and could have sworn she heard William Darcy snort in his corner. Colin stood with a stupid grin on his features, looking down to the bottle, up to Elizabeth, and then past her shoulders to William.
“Thank you, Mr. Williams. I will drink this in the locker room,” she said professionally.
Colin tittered embarrassedly and once again looked past Elizabeth. “Excuse me, Mr. Darcy,” he called.
William had been listening to their conversation with a strange mixture of amusement, revulsion, and irritation. Upon hearing himself addressed, he raised his eyes and turned his head to look at the new finance manager. Colin smiled once more at Elizabeth before sweeping past her, his hand extended, as he walked over to William.
“Mr. William Darcy, it is such a joy and pleasure to be able to finally meet you. Of course, we've been in mutual company these many weeks, but it was just last night that I learned from my esteemed friend, Ms. Catherine Boroughs, how close you and I actually are.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, watching as William simply stared at the short man, not returning the handshake. Chuckling uncomfortably, Colin lowered his arm and rubbed his hands together. The choreographer said nothing and turned back to the stereo.
“You have the misfortune of being friends with the Beast,” he said flatly.
Colin chuckled. “A wonderful woman. So gracious and generous. And such a lover of the arts, don't you agree? Imagine my utter astonishment when she informed me last night that she was your godmother! And that we had been working together all these weeks without knowing our connection...”
Although Elizabeth possessed no special feelings towards Colin, she cringed in humiliation for him. William Darcy scowled at the other man with such a look of contempt that Elizabeth wondered why Colin did not scurry away shamed. The chubby man continued babbling.
“...daughter, Anne, has graced me with her presence at lunch last Thursday, and I must say it was quite delightful. Such a charming, gifted young woman. And as Ms. Boroughs has informed me of the special relationship that both you and Anne share, I thought it might be wonderful for the three of us to perhaps get together sometime this week.”
With this statement, William's eyes darted over to Elizabeth for a mere moment and then back down to Colin Williams. Anne Boroughs was another corps member, thin and unassuming. Elizabeth couldn't remember him showing Anne any special attention; he didn't even acknowledge her in the halls. She was his god-sister? William's scowl morphed to a glower.
“Thank you, Ms. Bennet. You may leave now,” William snapped, his voice frosty.
Elizabeth bridled at his dismissive tone, especially after...well, after that rehearsal. She spun on her heel and marched out, sitting on the floor in the hall to take off her pointe shoes. It really wasn't her fault if William and Colin spoke so loud...
“Mr. Williams, just to set the record straight about anything Catherine might have told you, Anne and I share no special relationship, as you call it. And I'd like to forewarn you that Catherine Boroughs thinks she's an expert on a wide variety of things, which she knows absolutely nothing about.”
Elizabeth heard a pause and then Colin began stammering apologies.
“And,” William cut in, “I don't appreciate you barging into my rehearsals and disturbing my dancer. Next time, exercise a bit more discipline.”
Elizabeth glowered at the studio door and muttered, “His dancer? Arrogant son of a bitch.”
Then, she heard footsteps on the wooden floors and another quicker set pursuing those. William emerged in the hallway and, spying Elizabeth, he stopped in his tracks. Surprise crossed his features, but was then replaced by storm clouds. He glared at her and mutely strode away, his lips pursed into a hard line. Colin also reappeared then, his face frozen with dim-witted shock. Standing, Elizabeth raised the bottle of Gatorade.
“Thanks for this,” she said, following William to the stairwell, where she proceeded down to the locker rooms to change.
**
William bounded up the stairs, irritated far more than he should have been. Colin Williams was annoying to be sure, the sweaty, squat, obsequious little man that he was. The cretin thought he and William should have been great friends because of Boroughs. Too bad William hadn't spoken to her in nearly five years. However, that in itself was nothing.
William thought of red Gatorade. “Electrolytes,” he spat to himself as he slammed the door to his office. “What an idiot.”
He paced the length of his office, trying to recall Elizabeth's reaction. Had she been flattered? No, he was sure she found Colin just as annoying as he did. Surely, someone as bumbling and moronic as Colin Williams would never stand a chance with Elizabeth. Yet it bothered him. It bothered him, and that thought made him pause.
Yes, he was attracted to her. And why shouldn't he be? She was pretty, in an American apple pie kind of way. Obviously, she was smart. She had gone to college, could hold her own in conversation without resorting to a string of “likes.” And her body, her dancing. Involuntarily, William closed his eyes picturing her face inches from his not ten minutes ago. Her dancing...fairy-light but heady, like a gypsy's. Her long expressive fingers, the graceful cords of her neck. William swallowed. Yes, he was attracted to her. So of course, Colin Williams should have been also. But the man, in all of his bumbling absurdity, didn't deserve her attentions by miles.
A fresh wave of anger coursed through William's chest. Spinning on his heel, William yanked open his door, made for Charles' office, and rapped on the open door. Charles looked up from his computer, his face morphing from a look of concentration into a smile.
“Hey,” he said, “I'll be done in a second, if you want to wait for me.”
William nodded and let himself in. He observed his friend for a few moments. “No matter how many times I see it, I still can't get over you behind a computer.”
Charles chuckled. “All dancers fall from grace someday, huh?”
William sighed and looked past his friend out the window. It was already dark, the orange streetlight outside glowing garishly. Charles hit several keys with vigor and then smiled.
“Done! Did you want to talk to me about something?”
“Why the hell did you hire Colin Williams?”
Charles paused and then leaned back in his swivel chair. “Why the hell do you think?”
“Big C, no doubt.”
“Could there ever be any doubt?” Charles said, shaking his head.
“He's already trying to get his nose as far up my ass as he has it up hers.”
Charles only chuckled.
“And he's harassing Elizabeth Bennet.”
Charles raised his eyebrows. “Harassing her? How do you mean?” It was Charles Bingley's job to watch out for the dancers. Inappropriate behavior towards them was not unheard of, and if anything illegal was going on within the walls of BTNY, he wanted to know about it immediately.
“Oh, like coming up to her after rehearsals, forcing Gatorade on her.”
Eyeing his friend, Charles burst out laughing. “Is that all? I thought you meant sexually harassing her.”
“I think it's borderline sexual harassment.”
Charles looked at William, amusement twinkling in his blue eyes. “I don't think the State of New York would agree with you.”
William glared at his friend and rubbed his mouth roughly with his hand.
“And, uh, Caroline tells me you're still ending rehearsals early to work privately with Elizabeth,” Charles continued uncomfortably.
“And so you think I'm sexually harassing her?”
“No. I don't. I'm just wondering why you're working so closely with her.”
“So I can get closer to her beautiful sister and steal her away from you.”
Charles laughed. “I know she's not your type. But then again, neither is Elizabeth.”
It was William's turn to laugh. “She's not? And just what is my type?”
“Well,” Charles began carefully, “How do I put this gently? You like low-maintenance women, Will.”
“Explain.”
“You like women who will do whatever you say.”
William frowned defensively. Charles continued, “You like women who won't give you trouble. You like women who want the same things you do: sex and distance. I can't remember the last time you were in a real relationship.”
“There was Deborah.”
“Did you ever see Deborah before nine p.m.? Did you ever go on real dates? Like to dinner or the movies?”
William paused. “I don't go to the movies.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Charles, I've been in real relationships before. And I don't like weak women.”
“I'm not saying you like weak women, Will. Just women who won't give you a hard time. Elizabeth Bennet will give you a hard time.”
“So I'm discovering,” he grumbled. He then narrowed his eyes at his friend. “And I'm not in love with her. For the record.”
Charles raised his hands in a gesture of acquiescence.
“I don't like your attitude,” William said.
“Then why are you working privately with her? She's just a corps de ballet dancer. You have Caroline or Louisa. You have dancers far better than her. Why Elizabeth Bennet?”
“I wouldn't expect you to get it.”
“Why?” Charles said, defensiveness creeping into his tone. “Because I haven't been gifted with your artistic insight? Because I'm just some Balanchine-trained robot?”
“Charles. That isn't what I meant.”
Charles eyed his friend suspiciously. There was something that William was either withholding from Charles, or withholding from himself. It wasn't like his friend to take such a vested interest in a corps girl.
William sighed. “She's a good dancer. I'm not in love with her.”
Charles swiveled left and right in his chair. Both men eyed each other for a silent minute. Finally, Charles acquiesced his inquisition and sighed. “I guess I thought it would be fun - two best friends in love with two Bennets.”
“Are you in love with a Bennet?”
“Of course, I am.”
“In love?”
Charles smiled. “Yes, head over heels.”
“With Jane?”
“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”
William shrugged, but looked at his friend skeptically. “And she's in love with you?”
“Yes! What, Will?”
“In love with you and not with your job title or your Upper West Side high-rise?”
Charles sighed. “I'm not going to let you make me jaded. Yes, Jane is in love with me, and not the accessories.”
William was quiet for a moment. “Like in love, marriage in love?”
“The thought has crossed my mind.”
“She's in the corps.”
“So? Besides, I'm thinking of promoting her. Lucas agrees, too.”
“Promoting her? Oh Christ, Charles.”
“What!”
“Okay, after you promote her, see how long it takes her to break up with you.”
Charles furrowed his eyebrows. “Hey. She isn't like that. Seriously. Quit it, Will.”
William eyed his friend. He had always believed Charles to be too naïve and trusting. Charles believed women saw past the title and the money; William, unfortunately, knew better. Gold-diggers, celebrity-hunters, desperate dancers - he had been with them all.
“Charles, all jibes aside. You realize how that will make her look, don't you? To the rest of the company?”
“I don't care what the rest of the company thinks.”
“Yes, but what about Jane? She hasn't been in the company long enough to be able to defend herself credibly from that kind of criticism. They'll think she's with you just to further her career.”
Charles hesitated. “But she's a good dancer.”
“Still. Jealousy blinds. Just look at your sister.”
The other man became silent. Charles stared towards his computer screen, lost in troubled thoughts.
“I'm not saying don't promote her,” William said, “I'm saying be careful. She's an excellent dancer and deserves to be a soloist.”
“I know,” Charles smiled weakly. He swiveled in his chair and stared out the window, in a look of pained pensiveness that William rarely saw in his cheery friend.
“Charles?”
“Hm? Oh, sorry. Uh, what are you doing now? Wanna grab dinner?”
Shaking his head, William declined. “I've had a crap day. I just want to go home and forget about it.”
“Another fight with Elizabeth?” Charles teased.
“Watch it.”
Charles laughed and leaned back in his chair. William stood and left his friend's office. Returning to his, William gathered his messenger bag, slipped his heavy, black coat over his shoulders, and switched off the light.
Chapter 8
Jane and Charlotte waited for Elizabeth downstairs in the lobby. They sat under the poster of William Darcy, shirtless and posed in a grand leap, taken from the ballet La Bayadere. When Elizabeth came up the stairs, flushed and tired, they smiled and stood.
“Ready?” Jane asked.
Elizabeth nodded. “I'm starving.”
The three stepped out into the frigid evening air and began walking uptown.
“How was rehearsal?” Jane asked.
Elizabeth nodded before answering. “Fine.”
“What do you guys do in those rehearsals?” questioned Charlotte.
“He choreographs the pas de deux on me. I don't know. Apparently, he doesn't want to do it with Caroline or Louisa. He won't tell me why.”
Jane, who rarely had the opportunity to tease her younger sister the way she was always teased, giggled. “I think Mr. Darcy's got the hots for her.”
“Oh, please, Jane. Get real.”
Jane laughed and winked at Charlotte, who simply raised her eyebrows.
“So you're going to get a better part out of him, Lizzy?”
“Charlotte! No, of course not. I wish he'd just leave me alone.”
Charlotte looked knowingly at Jane. “Please, Lizzy. You realize you're the envy of everyone in his piece, don't you? Even Caroline. You should make the best of this opportunity. Use it to your advantage.”
Jane smiled embarrassedly and Elizabeth gawked at her friend. “I like to feel that I earn the roles I get.”
“You do earn them. I just don't see what's wrong with taking advantage of William Darcy's favoritism towards you. You may get promoted. Like Jane.”
“Charlotte!” it was Jane's turn to exclaim. “That's not why I'm dating Charles.”
“Charles or no Charles, Jane's good enough to get promoted on her own,” Elizabeth said, not bothering to conceal her irritation.
“Of course. Everyone thinks Jane's next for promotion. The fact that she's with Charles just seals the deal.”
Silence passed over the trio. Elizabeth bristled at Charlotte's insinuation that both she and her sister were using their feminine charms to snag a better position in the company. Charlotte may have enjoyed the politicking, but Elizabeth was more concerned about dancing.
“You're going with him to the Netherfield Gala, aren't you?” Charlotte asked Jane.
Jane nodded, her eyes shining. “He's hiring a limo. I need to get a dress.”
The Netherfield Gala kicked off Ballet Theater of New York's spring season and what the dancers called Gala Week. It provided an opportunity for BTNY's most generous benefactors to hob-nob with each other at a lavish reception, attend normally closed rehearsals in the studio during the week, and finally preview a selection of dances from the spring season repertoire, all in the name of getting New York's wealthiest to open up their checkbooks and donate. The tradition began nearly sixty years ago by the artistic director of BTNY at the time, Ruth Netherfield, one of the pioneers of New York dance in the early twentieth century and Charles and Caroline's great-great-aunt. That one week alone raked in thousands of dollars in donations for the company, and thus no expense was spared – a reception held at the luxurious Netherfield Hotel, and a full-on private performance at City Center. This year, William Darcy's piece would be premiered and the guest list already surpassed anything the company had ever seen. Anyone who was anyone in the New York performing arts scene would be there.
“I think some shopping's in order,” Charlotte commented, “Lizzy, you down?”
Elizabeth sighed. “I really don't have the money right now.”
“Lizzy, you're not wearing that tired dress again, are you?” Jane chided.
“That tired dress is the only one I have.”
Jane tsked. “You're no fun.”
“Student loans, Jane, student loans.”
Elizabeth walked on in silence as Jane and Charlotte planned an all-day shopping trip downtown for that weekend. A twinge of jealousy nipped at her, not only at her sister's extra cash, but also at Jane's fabulous boyfriend. She quickly tucked that feeling away, knowing Jane finally deserved a bit of happiness after a year-long string of disappointing dates. Still, Elizabeth thought, it might be nice to end the unsolicited chastity vow she had taken since graduating in May.
The three women pushed open the door to the small, Mexican restaurant. Charlotte and Jane continued to debate the merits of strappy sandals versus heels. Elizabeth diverted her thoughts from gowns and galas and sex, and looked down to her menu, trying to decide on either the tacos combo or a burrito.
**
On Saturdays, Elizabeth often went down to the West Village to attend Afro-Caribbean dance classes. They were expensive, early, and crowded, but these classes diverged completely from everything she knew at BTNY, and she looked forward to them as a welcome change from the stiff inaccessibility within those uptown walls. Dancers of all body types and backgrounds came to these classes: pudgy and curved, tall and muscled, lean and short - they were all there. All styles too: sweatpants, tie-dyed sarongs, leotards, ponytails, dreads, and headscarves. Elizabeth loved the freedom of that studio, the warm repartee that the dancers and drummers shared before class, and the frenzied, trance-like beat of the drums. She left those classes beet-red in the face, panting, and sore, but satisfied in a deep and primal place. “Better than sex!” the dancers always joked after class, and it was true.
Elizabeth sat on the 1 train, staring lazily at her reflection in the glass. At only nine in the morning, her mind had not yet awakened, and she was barely conscious of anything except the rhythmic click-clack of the subway wheels on the track.
“Next shkrrr 14th krrrsh get off kuk-krrrr. Thank you,” the train announcer screamed into the static. Elizabeth raised her eyes to the speaker and then returned them to the window. The MTA really needed to do something about the train announcements.
The subway doors opened at 14th Street allowing passengers on and off. Elizabeth perked up when a tall man with aviator sunglasses and Diesel jeans sat down on the bench across from her. He raised his glasses onto his short, brown hair and slouched casually in the seat.
“This train krrr express from 14th street krrrrsh krrshh transfer here.”
Elizabeth looked up startled, and snapped her head over to the door. Grabbing her bag, she attempted to jump off of the train before the doors closed and it went express past her stop down to Chambers, but it was too late. The doors hissed, and closed in her face.
“Crap,” she muttered, and turned to sit back down, when she nearly crashed into the cute guy from before. He too had apparently been trying to run off the train. Laughing, he looked down at her and shrugged.
“Guess we're stuck.”
“Guess so,” Elizabeth sighed.
“They really should do something about those announcements. Who could understand that?” he said, leaning against a pole.
Elizabeth shrugged and rolled her eyes. Checking her watch, she groaned. By the time they got down to Chambers and she caught another train back uptown, she would be late to class, missing warm-up and therefore unable to participate. She might as well head back home.
“Crap,” she muttered to herself again.
The cute guy laughed, and Elizabeth looked up at him. Blushing, she smiled in spite of herself, embarrassed by her outburst.
“The New York City subway system has ruined my plans,” she explained.
The man dug out a cell phone from his pocket and checked the time. “Looks like it's fucked mine up, too. Where were you off to?”
“A class,” Elizabeth remarked vaguely, not wanting to share too much information with a stranger on the subway. He was hot, but hot guys could be psycho, too.
“You're a student?” he asked, smiling. His blue eyes sparkled with no malice whatsoever. He just seemed like a friendly guy. Relaxing, Elizabeth shook her head.
“A dance class.”
“Hey, me, too.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Where?”
“At New York Rhythm.”
“Afro-Caribbean?” the man said, his perfect smile broadening even further.
“Yeah!” Elizabeth said, returning the grin. “Wow, small world. I've never seen you there.”
“It's my first class. I just moved back to the city. So you're a dancer?”
“I am.”
“Professional?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I dance with Ballet Theater of New York.”
The man laughed. “What's a ballerina like you doing dancing Afro-Caribbean?”
“Hey, we ballerinas can do more than strut around in tutus.”
The subway pulled into Chambers Street, and the doors slid open. Elizabeth and the mystery man stepped off. Looking around, Elizabeth sighed.
“We're going to be late, which means we won't get in. They don't let in stragglers after warm-up.”
The man's face fell slightly, and he shrugged. “That's shit. Oh well, next week, then.”
“Are you heading back uptown?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yup. You?”
“I guess,” she replied, and they headed up the stairs to transfer to the opposite platform. “So are you a dancer?”
“I am. But not with a company. Although I'll probably head to a few auditions. I just moved back here a few weeks ago and haven't found work yet.”
“And where were you before?”
“Oh, all over. I do a lot of hip-hop so L.A. for a bit, Miami for a few years. But New York is home.”
“You're a Noo Yawkah, huh?” Elizabeth asked, trying to imitate the infamous accent.
The man laughed, deep dimples creasing his cheeks. Elizabeth thought her heart would literally stop beating. “Yup, born and raised.”
They only had to wait several seconds on the platform before the uptown train pulled in. Stepping in, they sat together on an empty orange bench.
“What about you?” the man asked.
“I'm originally from a town in Michigan no one's ever heard of.”
“Ooh, the Midwest. I hear you girls are naughty up there.”
“Yes, very. Smoking pot behind the movie theater, buying 40's at 7-11 with a fake ID. Very, very naughty.”
The man smiled, his blue eyes running up Elizabeth's face in a way that made her cheeks burn.
“I know people in the city don't usually do this,” he began, “but why don't you get off at 14th with me and let me buy you a coffee?”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “But you're a stranger. I don't even know your name.”
“It's Greg. Greg Wickham,” he said, extending a hand.
“Elizabeth Bennet,” she replied, shaking his. “My friends call me Liz. Or Lizzy.”
“Okay, Liz. So now that we're not strangers anymore, will you let me buy you a coffee?”
By this time, Elizabeth's heart was thundering in her chest. Guys like this didn't ask girls like her to coffee. Greg was hot. Hollywood heartthrob, runway model hot. She would be insane to refuse. Besides, they would be in a public place, and if she detected psycho vibes she wouldn't have to hang around for long.
“Sure. Thanks.” Elizabeth grinned stupidly.
Greg smiled and then proceeded to answer all of Elizabeth's questions about L.A. until they reached 14th Street, and stepped off the subway.
They sat on a pair of plush, purple chairs in Starbucks, Elizabeth sipping a latté and Greg a chai tea. During a lapse in their conversation, Elizabeth gawked. She wanted to steal a reflection of them in the glass again, but had already tried that trick three times in the past five minutes. Greg lounged in the chair, his full lips cocked into a crooked smile, and his tight, ribbed sweater doing everything for that glorious expanse of chest. “Holy crap,” thought Elizabeth, “every girl in this Starbucks is staring.”
“I have a confession,” Greg said suddenly, smiling into his drink.
Elizabeth's eyes widened. Oh, no. Here it came. She knew it had been too perfect. He'd been in a mental institution for several years. Or, he'd been following her. He was broke and needed to borrow a couple of hundred dollars.
“I actually danced at Ballet Theater for a few months,” he said.
Elizabeth exhaled and then smiled in relief. “I thought you were going to tell me something terrible! You danced at BTNY? When?”
“Long time ago. Ten years ago? Maybe less.”
“I would have never taken you for a ballet dancer.”
“Why? Not uptight enough?”
Elizabeth cast him a droll look. “Thanks.”
“Oh, no, I didn't mean that. Hey, any dancer who goes to Afro-Caribbean is cool in my book. Yup, I was there when little Carrie Bingley was in the corps de ballet and Charlie was a soloist.”
“You know Caroline Bingley?”
“Knew her. Real bitch, even then.”
Elizabeth threw her head back and laughed.
“Charles was a good guy, though,” Greg continued. “Don't know what happened with the DNA of those two.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Charles is dating my sister. She's in Ballet Theater, too.”
“No kidding?” Greg said. “Who else is there that I would know?”
“William Darcy?” The name came to Elizabeth's head like a bubble popping up to the surface of a lake, and she blurted it out unthinkingly.
Greg inhaled slowly. “Yes, William Darcy was there...” he said slowly, his eyes darting down to his lap.
“And was he just as pompous then as he is now?”
Greg looked up, the reservation in his eyes wholly changed. “So, he's still an asshole?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Guess things don't change much.”
“Nope. He was already a principal dancer when I got in to the corps de ballet. The ego was alive and well then, too. In fact- well, maybe I shouldn't say this.”
“Trust me, Greg. There will be no love lost between Mr. Darcy and me.”
“Okay, Darcy was the reason I stopped dancing at BTNY.”
Elizabeth emptied the last of her latté down her throat. “Why?”
“Why? Hm...Here's the short version. I was a pretty good dancer. When I got into the company, they were already talking about promoting me to soloist. Of course, you know Darcy's ego. He was the best, and he didn't want anyone beating him. I guess he felt threatened by me, but he made my life in the company a living hell.”
Elizabeth frowned. “What'd he do?”
“Oh, petty stuff like bumping into me during exercises. But there were other things...a few incidents. Plus, he knows people. People who donate a lot of money to Sir William Lucas and his company. I crossed Darcy, and I got fired for it.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at this revelation.
“Well, as you can imagine, once you've been fired from BTNY, it's kinda hard to find work in New York. No one wants to hire you. Word spreads fast. So I had to move out to L.A. to find work.”
“Wow,” Elizabeth said, finally regaining her voice. She shook her head in disbelief. “I knew he was a jerk, but I didn't realize he could sink that low.”
“He's got powerful allies, Liz. His godmother is Catherine Boroughs. She was best friends with his mother. Lucas eats out of the palm of Boroughs' hand. Plus the Bingleys, the Andrews, the Tisches. They're all old friends with his family. You think in America we don't have an aristocracy, but you're wrong. William Darcy belongs to a rare breed of New York blue-bloods whose heads are still back in 19th century England.”
Elizabeth could only shake her head. “Incredible. I never knew.”
“Not many people do.”
“How do you?”
Greg arched a perfect eyebrow and leaned in to Elizabeth, his blue eyes piercing. Her heart skipped a beat. “I've danced with William Darcy ever since we were kids. We went to the same dance studio. Even though I was four years his junior, I was just as good as he was. He's been jealous of me since I was eight years old.”
Elizabeth absorbed all of this with increasing incredulity. William Darcy didn't seem like the type to react with jealous wrath. He regarded himself too highly to be envious of others. His narcissism spared him the insecurities that would have led others to jealousy. Apparently, however, she did not know him as well as she believed. Leaning back in the soft chair, Elizabeth gazed to the traffic outside, an anxiousness gnawing at her chest.
The conversation continued to a separate subject. Elizabeth spent the next hour in Starbucks with Greg, before he left for a lunch date with a friend. Before that, he asked for Elizabeth's number, which she happily provided. He promised to call sometime that week and take her to dinner. They parted ways with a chaste handshake, Greg walking downtown, Elizabeth walking west to get back on the subway.
She had met a funny, charming, handsome, and - by all outward appearances - straight man in New York City. Plus, he was a dancer and shared her interests. She was tap-dancing inside. Yet, an unidentifiable sensation chewed at her, not allowing her to savor the ecstasy of her find. On the subway ride back up to Harlem, Elizabeth thought of Greg Wickham and William Darcy the entire time.
**
At rehearsal later that week, Elizabeth was unfocused, William noticed, her dancing, detached. William was frustrated at having to explain arm movements that she should have instinctively understood. Less than a month stood between now and the piece's debut at the Spring Season Premiere, and only seven weeks before the world premiere. William hadn't even finished half of the piece.
“No,” he growled, when she once again missed the rhythm for the jump before the lift. “You're going to get dropped, if you jump like that.”
“It's not me performing it anyway,” she grumbled.
“That doesn't matter,” he said, softening his voice in an attempt to rein in his frustration. “Can we try it again?”
Standing behind Elizabeth, he placed his hands on the sides of her ribcage and waited for her to perform the jump leading up to a lift that would have her sitting eight feet up in the air balanced only on his palm. Elizabeth concentrated and jumped. William reacted to her rhythm and lifted her off the ground. With his arms, he propelled her upwards, trying to get her over his head. He felt her wobble and jerk leftwards suddenly.
“Whoa!” she cried, falling out of his grasp. Luckily, William had decades of partnering experience and he caught her with ease, seizing her with his left hand and pulling her to his body to break the fall.
Elizabeth buried her face in his chest. He felt her breath rising and falling fast against him. Several seconds later, she pushed herself away, her eyes filled with fear.
“Crap,” she whispered, rubbing her eyes with the tips of her fingers.
William simply stood there, not quite sure what to do. The fall had been her fault. She hadn't trusted him and wavered on the lift. Had she gone straight up, she wouldn't have fallen. Any experienced dancer knew this. Yet, as she stood before him, trembling, how was he supposed to tell her that? Elizabeth was shaking. As a choreographer, he felt responsible for pointing out her mistakes. Another part of him, however, a part that went beyond a mere choreographer, wanted to pull her to him, gently rub her back, and call it a day. William swallowed and dismissed that thought swiftly.
“Why didn't you trust me?” he asked her harshly.
Elizabeth exhaled and dropped her hands. She stared at him with flames crackling in her eyes, a look so familiar to him by now.
“So this is my fault?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You dropped me.”
“You fell.”
Elizabeth's chest rose with the long inhalation of breath she took. Her hands were still trembling. William stared at her coolly, wanting to continue, but knowing it was fruitless. Something was wrong with Elizabeth today. She wasn't dancing as well as she normally did.
“I think we'd better finish here,” he said. Elizabeth immediately turned away and headed towards the side of the room. Sitting, she began unraveling her pointe shoe ribbons.
William slowly paced towards her. “What's wrong with you today?”
“Nothing,” she said, avoiding eye contact.
“Your dancing was off.”
“That can happen sometimes.”
William paused. “Fine, I'll see you tomorrow.”
He turned and stalked away from her. Elizabeth finished removing her pointe shoes. Her pulse still fired away at her near-fall. Teetering up in the air, Elizabeth had felt such terror when she realized she would come crashing down and then such relief when William's arm grabbed her and pulled her into his steady torso. Her hand had brushed his stomach when she pushed away from him. It had been all hardness.
She left the studio quickly, not bothering to say goodbye to him. William watched her leave in the mirror.
Outside, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself and paced sharply on the pavement. Her anger spiked when she remembered his tone- Why didn't you trust me?
“Cause you're an asshole,” Elizabeth muttered to herself. He had dropped her. Mr. Darcy might have liked to blame her, but it had been he who had faltered. He claimed her rhythm was off, but shouldn't a good partner be attune to all of the nuances of his cohort's dancing? All of her training had indicated as much.
The door opened, interrupting her thoughts. William stepped out, his hands deep in the pockets of a soft-looking, brown suede coat. When his eyes caught hers, he stopped mid-step and stared. Elizabeth felt her breath catch when those sharp eyes bored into her with an intensity she couldn't quite place. In his street clothes, William looked like a model - tall, dark hair and eyes, sophisticated, and simmering with intensity. His shoulders were raised against the cold. William walked down the stairs, his eyes riveted on Elizabeth.
“I thought you would have gone home by now,” he said.
“I'm waiting for someone,” she replied coldly, looking down the block.
He made no immediate reply, simply choosing to stare. “Are you going somewhere?” he finally asked.
Elizabeth glanced up at him. “Yes, in fact, I have a date.”
She could have sworn she saw his eyebrows flinch. “A date. Well, have fun.”
He turned and then froze, a chill running up his flesh. There in front of him stood Greg Wickham. William started, suddenly unable to move. Greg's eyes met William's for a brief second before he cast them over to Elizabeth.
“Hey Lizzy,” he said, his face breaking into a smile.
“Hello to you, too,” William heard her respond, a warmth infused in her voice which he had never heard.
“Hello, William,” Greg said. A hint of spite lay under his tone, as fine and sharp as a razor's edge.
William could only nod. He felt his stomach turn cold, and his eyesight go red at the tone behind Wickham's words. Glancing back, he saw Elizabeth gazing up at Greg with such adoration in her eyes that he almost wanted to laugh. He did not bid them good-bye. He simply straightened and escaped, fixing his sight onto the sidewalk.
His head swam, flashing back months, years, decades, building rage pressing against his ribcage. He thought of Upper East Side Dance Academy, of playing hide-and-go-seek in Central Park, of BTNY classes, of a tutu, of Caroline Bingley, of Miami, of his sister, his mother, of lawyers' offices and a courtroom, of that fucking piece of shit, of all the ways he wanted to beat his face in. Why had he been there? What was he doing with Elizabeth?
Elizabeth. His thoughts stopped. He stopped. Looking up, William realized he'd walked nine blocks in the wrong direction. His breathing came fast and shallow. Closing his eyes, he first tried to calm himself with three deep breaths. Then, he stepped to the curb and hailed a cab.
Sitting in the confines of the car, he watched the scenery of a New York City Monday night rush by. He thought of the smug look on Greg Wickham's face, and he thought of Elizabeth. His chest hurt, as if he'd fallen five floors onto the pavement. William thought Greg had finally disappeared. Finally, after years of screwing over William and his family. But, for him to reappear so suddenly and to reappear with Elizabeth...Someone up there must truly loathe William, he thought.
He smiled bitterly as he caught his reflection in the window. In a city of eight million, why her? There must have been at least two million lonely, single women in New York City. Why Elizabeth? The red and white lights of cars whizzed by.
At times like this, William wished that he still drank.
Chapter 9
Charles spun his chair around to face the window. Leaning back, he sighed and read the memo again.
Big C strikes again. Threatened to cut funding if A.B. doesn't get promoted. Will she work in any of next season's rep? Let's think about this seriously!! -W.L.
Attached to the memo were three headshots and resumes: Ravina Willis, Jane Bennet, and Anne Boroughs. Three dancers up for one soloist slot.
With the upcoming Netherfield Gala, came the announcement of spring season promotions. It was company tradition to announce the names of new soloists and principals at the Gala, to make the guests feel like their donations were buying them insider information. Good news opens checkbooks, is what Ruth Netherfield had always said.
Of course, the dancers found out before the big night. As the end of February approached, speculation about promotions became rife in the locker rooms. This year everyone pinned Jane Bennet for the only soloist role opening up. She had danced the Dolls in The Nutcracker, and found herself learning the soloist role in William Darcy's piece. Once casting was announced, she would almost definitely be given the role.
Despite Jane's achievements, however, other voices whispered that, of course, she was a shoo-in for soloist, since she was fucking the assistant artistic director. Charles was well aware of what these voices said; his sister chided him every night about it, and he figured her voice was one amongst the gossip.
But Anne Boroughs? Charles could never credibly pass Jane up to promote Anne. An uninspiring ballerina, the woman had been in the corps de ballet for nearly eight years. She was passing her prime, even though she had never really hit it. Frail and bony, Anne had no verve in her dancing. She was good, but not spectacular. Indeed, the only reason she had gotten into the company in the first place was due to her mother's money. Anne Boroughs as soloist? No one, not the dancers or the audiences, would be able to swallow that one.
Charles rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. This was the part of the job he loathed. He just wanted to create ballets, create a world-class dance company, but oftentimes, politics and money got in the way. He wanted Jane Bennet promoted, but Lucas would never approve, not when Catherine Boroughs and her contribution was at stake.
Never one to deal with conflict well, Charles swiveled in his chair and threw the memo underneath a stack of paperwork. Tomorrow. He would think about this tomorrow.
**
Elizabeth floated through the doorway to her apartment to find Jane lounging on the sofa. The older sister looked up and smiled.
“Well, how was it?”
Sighing, Elizabeth threw her bag down with an exaggerated sweep of her hand and then twirled and jumped into the living room. Jane giggled at her sister's antics. Finally, Elizabeth turned and finished with an overdone plop into the couch.
“Wonderful, spectacular, marvelous” she answered.
“Ready to marry him, yet?”
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “No, you know how I feel about the institution of marriage. But, if I did want to get married, Greg Wickham would rank very high on my list of potential candidates.”
“Did you kiss him?” Jane asked, leaning in towards Elizabeth.
“Oh yeah, did I kiss him. It should be a crime for a man to kiss that good.”
Jane giggled. “Where did you go? What did you talk about?”
Kicking off her shoes, Elizabeth tucked her feet under herself. “Well, he took me to an Italian restaurant kind of close to Grand Central. Real swanky. We talked about everything, Jane! About dance, about you, about...about William Darcy.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
“Mr. Darcy?”
“Yeah, he told me everything. He's rotten, Jane. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff Greg told me.”
Jane frowned, not making any reply.
“Okay, first, he comes from the most conceited family on the east coast. You should have heard some of the stuff Greg told me. The way they treat their maids, the people they've bribed with their money! Greg says his sister is a royal bitch. You know, a Louis Vuitton-toting spoiled brat. And- what?”
Jane's face had continued to fall into an expression of disbelief until it finally rested on her sister in one of quiet resignation.
“Lizzy, I don't mean to contradict you or tell you you're wrong or anything, but it just seems so...unexpected.”
“Unexpected? How?”
“Mr. Darcy is a little severe, but he doesn't seem cruel. And Charles says the best things about him. He always gushes to me about Mr. Darcy. You know what they say, you can judge a person by his friends. Charles is great. Why would he associate with a slimeball?”
Elizabeth sighed. “You've seen Caroline, haven't you?”
“Family's different, Lizzy. How would you like it if everyone judged us by what Mom did?”
Elizabeth waved Jane's comment away. “What incentive would Greg have to lie, Jane? From all of my interactions with Mr. Darcy, I don't doubt Greg for one second. The man is pretentious, he's rude, and worst of all, he's a horrible person.”
Sighing, Jane shrugged. There was no convincing Elizabeth once she got a notion in her head. The more you argued with Elizabeth, the firmer she became in her convictions. Best to let it slide and not make a big fuss. Jane swiftly changed the subject to plans for a next date. Elizabeth replied that there weren't any, but was thinking of asking him to the Netherfield Gala. All talk of William Darcy, fortunately, died amid a torrent of giggles concerning the infamous dress for which Elizabeth would definitely have to find a replacement.
**
William stared at himself in the full-length mirror of the studio, considering his stature as a stranger would. He had been trying to choreograph all night, yet the steps would not come. Listening to the music over and over again did nothing to help. He simply ended up thinking about her body, her eyes, her lips. In fact, trying to work on this piece and not think of her was as impossible as breathing without inhaling.
How had this happened? William ran both hands through his hair and turned off the stereo. Shutting off the lights in the studio, he walked down the hall of his apartment towards the kitchen. An orange tabby, Austin, lounged on the counter. She stood and stretched her front legs when her master appeared.
“What have I told you about the kitchen counter?” he said, scooping up the cat and placing it on the tile. It mewed in response.
“Don't talk back.”
Austin purred and nudged William's ankle with her soft head. Chuckling, William wondered why all women couldn't be as compliant as his little cat. He sighed, thinking of her again. Getting himself a glass of water, William leaned on the kitchen counter and let his mind wander to Elizabeth.
Her eyes, the color of olives, her supple body, nimble movements, her legs under Charles' sweatshirt, her thighs, what it might be like to run his hands up those thighs. William took a long sip of water, quenching the dryness in his mouth. And her voice, rich, throaty, and warm. But not with him. Towards that cretin, Greg Wickham.
William felt a tidal wave of anger rip through him again. This June would make it one year since he had last seen Greg Wickham walk out of that Miami-Dade County courtroom, and the fury he felt now had only paled slightly compared to that time. How did a man like that manage to rope in all of the women that mattered to William? First, his mother, then his sister, and now Elizabeth.
William froze and swallowed a mouthful of water.
Did Elizabeth matter to him? came the question from deep inside.
“No,” he said out loud, giving Austin pause in between her tongue bath.
The word rang false in his ears even as he spoke it. For weeks, William had been able to admit his physical attraction to Elizabeth. He admired her dancing. He respected her resolve and her mind. Not many dancers thought beyond physical steps. She did. She thought about music and expression. Elizabeth had gone to college and knew other things beyond the confines of dance.
But she was so young. A corps dancer. And in his piece.
The excuses that had been playing on-loop in his head reverberated emptily. They had become so trite. The words had lost their meaning. William realized that now.
He wanted her. Over five years and seven cities, he hadn't cared enough to want any woman. It had only been about dance and choreography. And it still was. The problem was that every time he tried to dance, every time he tried to choreograph, Elizabeth was there.
William laughed from the absurdity of it all. A muse. They only existed in Greek myths and Broadway musicals. He had enough experience, enough talent, enough passion to choreograph without the help of some twenty-something-year-old corps girl. Yet, here he was. Genuflecting at the altar of Elizabeth Bennet. He got in a studio with her, and felt his senses burst alive. He touched her, and created minutes of choreography. He watched her dance and wanted to smile and cry at the same time.
He might have been fine with all of that, were it the only integer in this tangled equation. It wasn't. He knew it. He knew it, but he could not bring words to it. Not tonight. William envisioned Greg Wickham, heard that asshole's voice, and felt like someone had kicked him in the ribs. The memories from a year ago, the face of his sister, drawn and lifeless under the fluorescent lights of the courtroom, came back to him. No, tonight he could not put words to the other half of the equation that came out in all calculations as Elizabeth Bennet.
**
The next day when he stepped into the studio, he felt his face turn warm. William looked down at his notebook, ignoring her.
Rehearsal proceeded smoothly, with William finally finishing the first movement before the first hour. He ran through it twice with the dancers, satisfied that every step, every arm, and every face was where it should have been.
Nodding, he proclaimed it “acceptable” and asked them to sit at the sides, while he started working out the pas de deux with the leads, Caroline, Louisa, Marc, and Jacob. William glanced at Elizabeth for a millisecond, her eyes also on his. He quickly looked away before anything could be communicated.
Elizabeth eased herself down and began stretching out her calves. Her ankle had been bothering her today in class and rehearsal. She figured her calf was tight and overworked, and just needed a good loosening up.
William paired up the principal dancers and began explaining the first few steps. They nodded, absorbing his instructions, and then tried to execute the movements. Off to the side, the corps de ballet stretched, sipped on water bottles, whispered quietly amongst themselves, or watched the dance.
Jane Bennet watched. Her eyes grew wide at the opening sequence of the pas de deux, knowing her sister had been intimately involved in its creation. She knew that William Darcy was famed for his sensual choreography. Jane just never realized how sensual it got.
Both Caroline and Louisa looked at the choreographer quizzically as he explained their parts. Caroline arched an eyebrow at the other principal dancers, and looked back at William as if he were crazy.
“Okay, let's just try that much,” William said. Caroline stepped into Marc's arms and repeated the steps William had seen Elizabeth execute so many times, but they were wrong. Everything about them. Caroline's timing, her expression, her nuance. She danced to the rhythm of the music, not her own internal rhythm. William frowned.
“No, there needs to be a lift before you arch back. No, that's too big. Not a port de bras.”
As Caroline protested that William was being too vague, Lydia Lopez sidled up to Elizabeth as she stretched.
“Who knew Bach could be this sexy?” she commented, with an arch smile.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in distracted agreement.
“Must have been fun doing all this in a room with no one else.”
Elizabeth thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in the other woman's voice. She shrugged. “It's just dance.”
William sighed and attempted to explain the timing of the steps to Caroline and Louisa. “It's not a large movement. Just a breath, a transition. You have to want his touch and revile it at the same time.”
Caroline laughed. “You're asking the impossible, William.”
“It's not impossible,” he growled, casting his eyes to the back of the room. He saw that chatty brunette kneeling next to Elizabeth, who had her legs stretched out in front of her. They were whispering about something. His heart thudded and sunk. She wasn't watching. He needed her help, and she was gossiping nonchalantly off to the sides.
“Ms. Bennet,” he clipped.
Elizabeth and Lydia halted in mid-conversation, snapping their heads towards William. Lydia flushed immediately, guilty at getting her friend in trouble for talking. Elizabeth simply stared, her eyes widening.
“Come here,” he said.
All of the dancers turned their eyes to Elizabeth. Only some knew she had been assisting William with the pas de deux, and the rest eyed her curiously. Those who had been focusing on other things besides the dance, stopped. The room went silent.
William watched her approach. Her eyes locked on his, uncertain and questioning. Those eyes darted over to Caroline, Louisa, and then back to him. She licked her lips nervously. Raising his eyebrows at her, William tried to send her a wordless signal of reassurance.
“Show the opening sequence please,” he intoned softly.
William nodded towards Marc, indicating Elizabeth was to perform the steps with him. Raising the corners of his lips, Marc attempted to calm the obviously flustered corps dancer. She exhaled and, conscious of everyone's eyes on her, stepped into the arabesque.
“Fine. Now, after the developpé front, you fall back...” Elizabeth timed her movements to his voice. Marc caught her well enough, but she wobbled slightly. His grip was far less stable than William's.
“No, Marc, you have to hold her squarely enough so that she can make that arc.”
They tried again. This time he held her too tightly; the movement stuttered to an ungraceful end. William shook his head. He looked down to Elizabeth, who had a look of resigned frustration in her face. She, too, knew the steps were all wrong.
“Hold on. Move out of the way for a second. Like this,” William said, stepping around Marc to take his place.
Elizabeth looked up at William. They were going to dance together in front of all of these people. The legend and the nothing. Her eyes doubted him. He gave her a small, private smile that said trust this. William saw her irises move across his, and the uncertainty clear like a retreating sun shower.
When Elizabeth stepped into him for the first arabesque of the piece, he had a sudden, strange thought. The dance between them was theirs alone, and no matter how he tried to show it, Caroline and the rest would never understand. William felt a sudden futility well up in him, one that, curiously, did not produce frustration, but rather a smug contentment. He wondered if Elizabeth sensed the uselessness of it all.
The two other pas de deux couples attempted the steps without the music. Their dancing still fell short of the image in William's head. As the opening sequence, this phrase would either capture the audience's attention for the next five minutes, or give them an excuse to catch a brief nap. These steps needed to be perfect.
“No,” he sighed. He looked to the floor in obvious frustration and, as he looked up, caught Elizabeth's gaze. His breathing hitched. For the first time in their acquaintance, she looked to him with sympathy, a beautiful, placid look of compassion. She understood his frustration. To hold a vision in one's head, and not be able to physically see it through! He shrugged in resignation, visible to no one but her.
“Let's see if the music will help,” he sighed, walking over to the stereo. “You all watch the dynamics. It's not about the steps, it's about the dynamics.”
He pressed the play button and then returned to the center of the room. The speakers crackled. The dancers fell back, ready to observe and learn, and those on the sides, to watch.
The first plucked notes of the violins began. Elizabeth stepped into William's hands and began to dance. She performed the first steps tentatively, still shy in front of her peers. William sensed her nervousness. When she fell back into him, he squeezed her sides and whispered in her ear.
“Relax.”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, melting into his hands. He felt her acquiesce and forget the room. She danced and his heart swelled. Yes, this was it. It was perfect. They danced the first bars, but the music so overpowered them both, that even after the first steps had been demonstrated, they continued.
He held her fingers lightly in his hands, and reluctantly let her go for the half-circle promenade. Rewarded with her graceful return, William nearly smiled when she leaned back against him. They were so close. They chests, their arms, their lips. With dozens of eyes on them, he felt the tension in the room and the impulsive urge to protect the petite dancer in his arms.
The disastrous lift was approaching, but Elizabeth showed no signs of stopping the dance. She jumped and he vaulted her up. She wobbled, but then steadied herself. Slowly lowering her to the final pose of what had been choreographed so far, William caught the expression on Elizabeth's face. She bit her lip, concealing a satisfied grin that threatened to burst forth. As she glanced up, he saw her eyes gleaming with a happiness that she had never before shown him. William's head swam with gratification and pride. And suddenly, he found the words he hadn't dare search for the previous night. I'm in love with her.
As if those in the room consented, they lightly applauded.
Elizabeth stood in the center of the room, panting from the exertion. Glancing over to Jane, she saw her sister beaming. Elizabeth reddened and looked down at her shoes. She was afraid to look at the other principal dancers.
“Like that,” William said brusquely, returning to the dancers.
The two couples performed the sequence with far more vigor than before, and while still not perfect, William found it acceptable enough to end rehearsal. He dismissed them all, not asking for Elizabeth to stay as he always did.
She lingered anyway, purposely avoiding Caroline Bingley and now Louisa Hurst's glares. When William saw she was not leaving, he lifted his eyes to her and held her gaze. Elizabeth did not look away. Once all of the dancers had left, she automatically went to the door and shut it. She turned and leaned against it as she spoke.
“What was that?” she asked. Her voice was cold, but not with anger. She sounded frightened.
William answered her with the same cool tone. “They wouldn't have gotten it.”
“And will they ever, do you think?”
William furrowed his eyebrows, unsure of the question's implications. “I'm afraid they won't.”
“Then it's pointless. Whether you use me or not. It's pointless. Please stop,” she pleaded softly. Without anger to shield her, she found she could not maintain eye contact. Elizabeth stared down at her feet. William allowed nearly a minute of silence to pass between them before he spoke.
“I'm curious as to why you don't want to work with me. Any other corps de ballet dancer would claw her way through half the company to be in your shoes.”
There it was. She looked back up to him, the gentleness in her eyes replaced by the glint of anger.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means it's not everyday that-”
“Someone like you would even consider someone like me?” she interjected.
William opened his mouth to protest, but then realized that, yes, he had meant that very thing. He quickly shut his mouth, instead looking away in his wordless reply. Elizabeth glared at him, in a silent challenge.
“I'm not going to lie to you, Ms. Bennet. Someone in my position doesn't give someone in your position the treatment that I've given you-”
“I knew-!”
“But,” he insisted before she could say anything else, “You're a good dancer. And so I don't see what the problem is.”
He had never complimented her before. The curses she was about to spit at him suddenly died on her lips. Elizabeth could only stare at him, wide-eyed. Shaking her head, she tried to recollect herself.
“Mr. Darcy, I'm sure you would be the first to admit that dance companies are full of petty jealousies. Full of politics.” She thought of Greg Wickham as she spoke.
“Yes, that's true.”
“And that some dancers, motivated by jealousy, will do anything to cut down a younger, upcoming dancer?”
William stared at her. “What are you getting at?”
“Caroline Bingley is a viper and Louisa Hurst isn't much better, Mr. Darcy. I'm sure you realize the kinds of things they would do to me.”
He didn't understand her subtle jab. “They won't do anything to you, because if they did, they'd find themselves out of a job.”
While William meant the quip to sound heroic, to Elizabeth, it only provided proof for his past misdeeds and interferences, as told by Greg. William Darcy wielded the power to fire people, and he used it indiscriminately. Elizabeth's mind ricocheted with furious, bitter thoughts. She so desperately wanted to read off her list of reasons she hated him; it took every bit self-control not to do it.
Footsteps on the wooden floor jerked her out of her rage.
Elizabeth looked up and there he was, an arm's length away, towering over her. His eyes darted across her face in a look she could only describe as pleading. Suddenly, her heartbeat exploded. His breath came slow, but she could see he was struggling to maintain it. And his eyes, normally hard and metallic, now shimmered like the surface of a lake. He smiled weakly, and she shrunk back into the door.
“I can't promise you that Caroline won't do anything. We're too far along now for you to just quit,” his voice was so soft. Where had her anger gone? She could now only tremble, her hands, her legs, her stomach.
He took one step closer to her. Kissing distance. Elizabeth's heart lurched up into her throat. Her face had gone white, her eyes round, her mouth hanging open. William's eyes smoldered the same way they did when he choreographed. She knew it then. He was going to kiss her. But, what would she do? Elizabeth hadn't ducked, hadn't turned and left, hadn't made any effort to squash the increasingly magnetic charge between them.
William reached his hand out. Instantaneously, Elizabeth wondered how demanding a kisser he would be. If he kissed anything like he choreographed, she knew she would be in for a fireworks display. She knew he was an asshole, that she should recoil, or at least not encourage him, but those sensuous, bowed lips did nothing for her resolve. His hand caressed her shoulder. In her nervousness, she started slightly.
Then, William blinked, like someone awaking from hypnosis, and the light in his eyes changed. His fingers tightened. He smiled stiffly and patted her shoulder three times. Like a T-ball coach would his pitcher, before the bottom of the ninth. Startled, Elizabeth looked down at his hand and back up to his face.
“Ms. Bennet?”
“Uh…I-I-I…uh….what I, I mean, um. Fine. I won't, uh, quit,” she stammered, feeling very much like Colin.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice clipped. He nodded, business-like. “Then I'll see you Friday.”
Elizabeth nodded, wetting her paper-dry lips again. She fumbled for the doorknob. Spinning around, she yanked it open and strode from the room. She ran, down the hall, down the stairs, and into the locker room where she sat on a bench, buried her face in her hands, and cursed her utter, utter stupidity.
**
Charles heard the humming coming from down the hallway. It grew louder as it approached his door, and then revealed itself to be coming from William Darcy looking into his spiral notebook, as he passed Charles' office on his way to his own.
“Will!” Charles called out.
The humming ceased and then the choreographer's figure appeared in the doorway once again.
“Charles,” William said, a hint of playfulness in his voice.
“What's wrong?” Charles asked.
Leaning against the doorframe, William furrowed his eyebrows. “Wrong? Nothing.”
“You're humming…Bach?”
“Yes, and?”
“Didn't you once say whistlers, hummers, and knuckle-crackers deserved a hell of their own?”
William chuckled. “Your memory's too sharp for your own good. Rehearsal went well. I have some good direction for the pas de deux.”
“So the dancers are picking it up, then?”
“Actually, no. I don't think they get it at all.”
Charles frowned in confusion. “Oh. Then why was rehearsal so good?”
“Uh, just…like I said. I got some good direction. That's all.”
“Right. Speaking of direction, I need your opinion. Can you close the door?”
William stepped in and shut the wooden door behind him. “What is it?”
Reaching across his desk, Charles handed Sir William Lucas' note to William. It took several seconds for the choreographer to skim it. Looking up, he frowned and handed it back to Charles.
“What do you think?” asked the assistant artistic director.
“It seems you have no other choice.”
“You know I wanted to promote Jane.”
William sucked in his breath slowly. “I told you before that I don't think that's a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Charles.”
“William.”
William sighed and began counting on his fingers. “One, it looks suspicious on her part. Two, it looks suspicious on your part. You know you have a reputation to maintain. How do you think everyone's going to react when the girlfriend of BTNY's artistic director gets promoted? The company has a reputation to uphold.”
“She deserves it though. She's a good dancer.”
“Regardless.”
Charles stared at his friend sourly. Massaging his temples, he wondered if everyone in the company had gone crazy but him.
“Three, Catherine practically finances this whole company.”
“She won't not donate,” Charles said sharply.
“Yes, but how much can BTNY afford to lose?” William replied, with the same edge in his voice. He had a point. With the recent political atmosphere pervading the city, arts funding had been slashed dramatically. The wilting economy drove down ticket sales. Every arts organization in the city was suffering. If Catherine Boroughs withheld her money from Ballet Theater, there would be some other dance company or orchestra that would get it. Charles sighed again.
“But…Anne?”
William nodded in agreement. “You lose the battle. You win the war. She won't be a fabulous soloist, but she'll keep her mother's money where it should be and keep the company's finances healthy.”
Charles sighed again and shook his head. “I don't understand how you and Lucas think. I just don't. Jane deserves this.”
“You aren't thinking practically, Charles. Just promote Anne. Jane Bennet can wait another season. She's young.”
Staring at his desk vacantly, Charles made no reply. William took this as a sign of assent. Turning, he opened the door again, but before he left the room, he looked over his shoulder and smiled sadly at his friend.
“There's a reason I declined that position in San Francisco. I don't envy you.”
Charles returned the weary smile and watched William leave. Swiveling in his chair, he leaned back, closed his eyes, and made an inner apology to Jane. He would promote her next season. He promised himself.
Chapter 10
“Tell me what you know about Anne Boroughs,” Elizabeth said, stabbing her fork into a grape tomato.
“Anne Boroughs?” Greg repeated, looking askance. “Not much. She's Catherine Boroughs' daughter. Has been lusting after William Darcy since she was sixteen.”
Elizabeth guffawed. “Anne Boroughs doesn't seem like the ‘lusting' type.”
Greg snickered. “She does have the whole unsmiling, gray, Communist Russia look going on, doesn't she? But, her mother's been trying to marry her off to that man for years. Why? What's little Annie doing now? Has Beauty's dream of snagging the Beast finally come true?”
Elizabeth laughed, but then grew thoughtful. “She's been promoted to soloist, you know.”
Greg's mouth fell open. He shook his head in disbelief. “I'm telling you, Liz. It's her mother. Money rules everything in this business. Money, connections, and, of course, sex.”
Elizabeth chuckled and chewed on a piece of lettuce. Sitting in a St. Marks Street cafe with Greg, she thought of Jane and wondered if sex really did rule everything in the dance world. Certainly money seemed to. She stared into her salad.
Not that her sister had begun dating Charles for the promotion, but if sex really did rule the halls of BTNY, shouldn't Jane have been promoted? Elizabeth thought back to her sister's behavior this past week- listless and unsmiling in dance class, pensive at home, prone to staring out windows, and crying in her room. Jane would never confess it, but she had been expecting that promotion.
With dance, Jane had never known disappointment's swift kick to the gut. Elizabeth had. She knew no amount of comfort would quell the demons of self-doubt that plagued a dancer after rejection. She knew Jane would now second guess herself every time she stepped into a dance studio, wondering if her arms hung like wet noodles, wondering if her feet flapped clumsily during jumps, and when her close self-inspection provided no revelation, wondering why.
Greg raised his coffee mug towards a waitress gliding by, gesturing for a refill.
“You told me your sister was up for promotion. How did that work out?” Greg asked.
Elizabeth simply shook her head in reply.
“Sucks,” Greg said.
Elizabeth nodded. “I think she was expecting that promotion, too. She really tried to hide her disappointment, you know? She's been a little mopey ever since it was posted a week ago.”
“It's a shame. Money, sex, and connections. I'd like to meet this sister of yours. You talk so much about her that I feel like I already know her.”
Elizabeth grinned. “Yeah, you should come over and meet her. I'll give you the grand tour of our rabbit's cage.”
“And risk my life going up to Harlem?”
“Hey, it's not that bad.”
Greg met her gaze with a sultry look of his own. From across the table, he reached for Elizabeth's hand and traced his thumb against her fingers. “I'd like to meet your sister. And I'd like to see your apartment. Preferably, though, when your sister isn't there.”
Elizabeth leaned her cheek on her palm, and raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And why is that?”
“You know as well as I do that there are certain...views...that are best enjoyed when no one's around,” Greg teased, his tone full of innuendo.
Elizabeth titled her head back and laughed throatily. Taking a sip of her water, she replied with a shake of her head. Greg met her admonition with a single, arched brow and took a silent sip of coffee. Elizabeth tried to suppress the stupid grin on her face. Flirting. How long had it been? She did a fast rewind through the past few months. Too long.
Elizabeth changed the subject. “When you were in the company, did you go to the Netherfield Gala?”
“Yes,” he replied, rolling his eyes, “or the Netherfield Zoo, as we affectionately called it then. The chance for us to dance around like monkeys for all the rich folk.”
“It's that bad?”
“It is. Although the booze was pretty good. All the champagne you can drink.”
Elizabeth frowned. “That's too bad. I…”
“What?”
“I was actually going to ask if you'd like to go with me. It's in two weeks, and I don't have a date, so…”
Greg grinned. “Well, when I went the first time, I didn't have such an amazingly beautiful, sexy, luscious woman to go with.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but you wouldn't have one this time either,” Elizabeth laughed.
“That's what I like about you, Liz. Always so self-deprecating. But, yes. I would love to go with you. What day?”
Elizabeth smiled with a look of satisfaction.
“The third of March. It's a Saturday.”
“Perfect. I'm there. I can't wait to see you all dolled up.”
“Well, then I'll make sure not to disappoint you,” Elizabeth said with an exaggerated toss of her hair.
“Don't worry, Lizzy. You could never disappoint me,” Greg replied with a wink as he took a sip from his coffee mug.
**
After class, Elizabeth stood at the back of the room, stretching out her calves. Her ankle hurt again. The pain bit at her Achilles heel whenever she walked, jumped, and bent her knee. It had been slowly getting worse, to the point that Elizabeth could not ignore it anymore.
She stared blankly into the back wall, her head swirling with dreadful prognoses and the voice of William Darcy, telling her that she would ruin her ankles if she didn't put her heels down in the jumps. She was too worried to feel spite for his accuracy.
Elizabeth didn't want to see the company therapist. If this was something that could be resolved with just an ankle brace, she didn't want to risk damaging her career. Elizabeth chewed on her upper lip with her bottom teeth. The studio emptied and she soon followed suit.
The noise and laughter of the locker room swirled around her, but she ignored it. By now, worries clouded over the rest of her senses. Lydia and Charlotte shrieked with laughter in the background at some crude reference to one of the male dancers' packages, but it was lost on Elizabeth. All she could feel was her ankle.
**
The idea of asking Elizabeth Bennet to the Netherfield Gala had actually materialized the night William had seen her with Greg Wickham. Like a whiff of steam, it dissipated in a moment, just the product of a vengeful, confused mind.
Yet, like steam, the thought had left its mark upon the glass. His mind clouded with visions of whisking Elizabeth into the Netherfield Hotel and reveling in her jade eyes the whole night.
Sir William Lucas quickly killed that vision when he begged William to take Anne Boroughs.
“Just think of the PR, William. The PR! The benefactors will love it,” the artistic director chirped. “The star choreographer with the newly promoted soloist! PR gold!”
William had nothing against Anne Boroughs and, at times, rather enjoyed her company. She was morose and shockingly plain, but William found her lack of duplicity a welcome change from the simpering likes of Caroline Bingley. He and Anne had been good friends for years - quiet friends. The kind of friend he wouldn't speak to for months, but who would fly to his side if he ever needed her. They understood each other, each in their own severe and detached way. William often wondered how so overbearing and regal a mother could have produced such a wallflower daughter, but he supposed that was the way families often worked.
Besides, Anne would take his mind off of things – and people – that he should not have been thinking of. The lure of Elizabeth Bennet had grown too much for him to resist on his own. With each pas de deux rehearsal, he found his staunch self-control slipping from his hands like dry sand. At least in the studio, he had dance to cover his blatant want of her. As unethical as it may have been, William allowed himself some release in touching her waist, feeling her breath on his neck, having her eyes focus on him during a step. He dreaded, almost feared her outside of those walls, though. There was no credible way to explain away his desire then.
“I'll take Anne if she'll go with me,” William answered.
Opening his mouth to protest, Sir William snapped it shut and then eyed the choreographer. “You will?”
“That's what I said.”
“Oh. Okay. But…why?”
William sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know I have no problems with Anne. I'd be glad to go with her.”
“And you'll both actually mingle?”
Arching an eyebrow, William replied dryly, “I'll do anything for a check.”
“Because you both have rather – how do I put this? – unsociable personalities.”
“Lucas, you're all compliments today.”
“But it would be so good for PR.”
William stood abruptly from the cushy leather chair in Sir William's office. “I said I'd do it. No more.”
“Thank you, William. You know I love you,” Lucas simpered with a huge grin.
In spite of himself, William smiled, too. The old man should have been locked up in a mental institution or retired on a beach somewhere in Fiji with his pool boy, but it was that quirkiness in the artistic director that had humored and sustained William through his dancing career. He couldn't fault the man his eccentricities now. William was satisfied. Left with no choice but to go to the Gala with Anne, he no longer had to worry about the threat of his mouth countering all reason and asking Elizabeth Bennet to go instead.
**
There were three things that Colin Williams liked about Elizabeth Bennet: one, she was a woman who could hold her own, a quality Catherine Boroughs found very important in the wife of a busy man. Two, she was young and, according to Catherine Boroughs, a man could always make himself look better with a young woman on his arm. Three, she was pretty, something not specifically approved of by Catherine Boroughs, but a characteristic which Colin felt she would not specifically disapprove of, either. Thus, all was settled quite early on - Colin would fall in love with Elizabeth, date her for a few months, and then get married, have kids, and move out to Westchester. It was as Catherine said, there was something utterly unattractive about a single man in his thirties gallivanting around as if he were ten years younger.
This endeavor proved to be far more difficult than Colin expected. Elizabeth was shyer than she let on. Whenever he went to talk to her, she shirked away and seemed painfully unable to speak to him. Colin, however, found her allusiveness charming. New York City women were hard, edgy, and far too opinionated for their own good. Women like Elizabeth, modest and gentle, were rare in the city. Colin considered himself blessed that he had finally dug one up.
Colin would make Elizabeth overcome her reserve and admit to her feelings for him. Standing on the steps after work hours, he resolved to do that all that night, when he asked her on their first date to the Netherfield Gala.
The doors suddenly swung open and Colin stiffened. William Darcy stepped out, eyeing the little man, and nodded in greeting. Sighing, Colin made an exaggerated gesture of wiping his brow.
“Phew! Mr. Darcy, you certainly startled me. Oh! But in a good way, of course.”
“In a good way,” William repeated wryly.
“Is Elizabeth out of your rehearsal yet?”
“I didn't have rehearsal today.”
“Oh, I see. Of course you didn't. Pardon my ignorance.”
William barely raised the corners of his mouth and turned to walk away when Collin blurted out, “I'll be escorting Miss Bennet to the Netherfield Gala, you know.”
Slowly turning back around, William wondered why on earth this little gnome felt the need to announce that to him. Then, the comment registered. William was silenced by disbelief. In all of his observations, Elizabeth had shown nothing but the most indifferent contempt for Colin.
“Elizabeth Bennet and you?” William asked with a tone that would have offended a greater man. Colin merely puffed out his chest and grinned.
“Yes. Well, I haven't asked her yet, but I have a very good feeling that she'll accept me. Miss Bennet is very shy with her feelings, but I'm a perceptive kind of guy, if you know what I mean.”
“I have no clue,” William said, hiding his amusement under an overly grave tone. Lord, he wanted to watch the ensuing pyrotechnics when Colin asked Elizabeth to the Gala.
“And yourself, Mr. Darcy? I imagine a man as illustrious as yourself will no doubt be escorting a very lucky lady to the Gala.”
“Lucas asked me to escort Anne Boroughs.”
“Oh, Anne Boroughs. Anne Boroughs? Daughter of Catherine Boroughs? You know, she's my very good friend. Oh, but I've told you that before, haven't I? Well, in that case, Mr. Darcy, I do believe that it is you who are the lucky one, for there is no one quite as amiable as…” Colin simpered.
The door opened again, and a bevy of corps girls stepped out, Elizabeth among them. Catching sight of William, she started and snapped her gaze away.
“Well, Colin. I'll let you to it,” William said, his eyes lingering on Elizabeth. He strode away without bidding any good-byes.
“Perfect, perfect ass,” sighed Lydia, her eyes followed the choreographer's retreating backside.
“Miss Bennet, I have a very pressing matter which I would like to discuss with you. If I could just have a moment of your time,” Colin asked.
Turning to her friends, she shrugged. “I'll catch up with you later.”
Once the girls were out of earshot, Elizabeth returned her gaze to Colin's red face. “Yes, Mr. Williams?”
“Well, first, Miss Bennet, I'll allow you to start calling me by my first name, Colin. I believe that is the first step in advancing our relationship.”
Elizabeth scrunched her face up into a frown, suppressing the laughter that threatened to burst from her throat. “Thank you…Colin.”
His eyes lit up in his pudgy face. “And…may I call you…Elizabeth?”
Pursing her lips, Elizabeth's eyes danced. “Colin, I think you may be rushing things a bit here.”
He blushed. “Oh, uh, of-of course. I-I…forgive me. I meant you no offense, believe me, Miss Bennet.”
“I believe you, Colin,” Elizabeth said with mock graveness.
The man smiled in relief and then shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He looked like a little boy who had to pee.
“You mentioned an urgent matter…”
“Oh! Yes, yes, I did.” Clearing his throat, Colin squared his shoulders, looked Elizabeth in the face, and began, “Miss Bennet, you and I are at an impasse.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in confusion.
“Our relationship is at a stalemate, and I believe that if things continue as they are, we will never proceed to the next level...”
Blinking, Elizabeth made no reply. She had been unaware that Colin Williams and she had even had a relationship.
“…Of course, I can blame no one but myself for this hellish state of affairs. After all, you are a timid creature, and I presume myself to be far bolder than you. I apologize, Miss Bennet, for keeping you in a purgatory that must have wrecked at your feelings…
Throughout this speech, Elizabeth's bottom lip lowered closer and closer to the sidewalk.
“…I believe, despite our hardships, that we would be extremely well-suited for each other. My great friend, Catherine Boroughs – I'm sure you've heard of her, she's quite wealthy – has advised me to seek out a woman, just like yourself. You are, after all, a quiet and docile woman, and I am a man who wants a quiet and docile woman. Thus, I believe we are ideally matched…”
Opening her mouth to protest, Elizabeth was stopped when Colin raised his palm.
“…Miss Bennet, please. Before you protest my horrible inattention and, frankly speaking, roguish behavior, I do want to repent. I will make you this proposition. I will take you to the Netherfield Gala. How does that sound? What time shall I pick you up? Is seven thirty acceptable, or is that too late?”
Elizabeth had never wanted to simultaneously laugh and punch someone in the face as she did now. She was certain Colin Williams had to be insane. They had only spoken to each other a handful of times; other than that, she steadfastly avoided his come-ons, even to the point of rudeness. How on earth could anyone mistake such disdain for shyness? Then, Elizabeth had a flash of understanding. She snorted.
“Nice joke. Did Mr. Darcy put you up to this?”
“Mr. Darcy?! Why, why, no. Of course not. I can't imagine…Elizabeth - oh my God, I mean, Miss Bennet - please do not put yourself down. I know it may be a bit farfetched for a man of my position to ask a woman like you to the Gala, but rest assured, Catherine Boroughs has given me permission.”
“Why was he standing out here before?”
“I'm sorry?”
“William Darcy. Why was he standing out here before?”
Colin had never seen this side of gentle, sweet Elizabeth and was flabbergasted by the sudden fire in her eyes.
“I-I-I...he-he...I...we were simply discussing the Gala and you just happened-”
“So he thought it would be really funny if you asked me? A great joke.” Elizabeth snorted again.
“A joke? Miss Bennet, I'm not understanding you. He was only telling me that he's escorting Anne Boroughs, who, you know, is the daughter of Cath-”
“I know who she is.” The bite in her tone caused Colin to step back in alarm. Elizabeth glared at the silly man before her. She shook her head. It dawned on her that perhaps he truly was insane. Perhaps William Darcy had not put Colin up to anything. Her temper settled.
“So will seven thirty be fine?” Colin whispered after a few moments.
A sardonic grin spread across Elizabeth's lips. She had no clue what strange designs were at work here. She and Colin? Better yet, William Darcy and Anne Boroughs? She pictured the four of them, paired off in two bizarre, improbable couplings – like an Addams Family portrait. Stifling a giggle, Elizabeth silently said a prayer of thanks for her foresight in asking Greg Wickham, thus sparing her any guilt she may have felt in turning down Uncle Fester.
“I do appreciate the offer, Colin, but unfortunately, I already have a date for the Gala. I'm really sorry.”
The man's face drooped into a look of horror. He had not expected rejection. He could not fathom it. Elizabeth was so demure, so gentle, and sweet. For weeks, she had been doing everything to attract him, and now she was refusing him? Colin's normally red face turned a deep shade of crimson.
“Miss Bennet, may I remind you that I have the specific blessing of Catherine Boroughs.”
Elizabeth looked at him as if the man had just spoken to her in Urdu. “I'm sure that's significant for some people, but I'm sorry. I told you I'm already going with someone, and I'm really in no position to entertain two dates that evening.”
“I...Well, I just...I am extremely shocked by all of this. Perhaps I was wrong about you, Elizabeth Bennet.” His voice cracked like a thirteen-year-old's.
“How so?”
“Yes, utterly fooled. You've led me on in a completely vicious and unladylike way!”
“Led you on? Please do tell me, how?”
“You've flirted with me incessantly!”
Now, Elizabeth could not contain herself. She threw her head back and laughed. Colin watched her with increasing agitation.
“My God, I'm in a Beckett play.”
“Well, I'm glad to see you find this so amusing. But I, for one, don't find your absolutely inappropriate behavior funny. Perhaps it's best that we not go to the Gala together. I'm sure Catherine Boroughs would not stand for such wantonness in a woman!”
“Such wantonness,” Elizabeth repeated, unable to control the laughter gurgling in her throat. She wondered where this man had picked up his vocabulary. Moby Dick? The Bronte sisters? “Yes, I'm sure you're right, Mr. Williams. I'm sure Catherine Boroughs would loathe me. Too bad about that.”
Colin huffed. “Well, I can see I was wrong about you, Miss Bennet. Excuse me, I have another engagement. I hope you have a good evening.”
“Yes, you too, Mr. Williams.”
He gave her one, last look before brushing past her, his generous backside jiggling with every step. Elizabeth giggled again and rolled her eyes, knowing Jane would shriek with laughter when she heard this story.
**
“So you turned him down?” Charlotte said, her face hanging in disbelief. “You do know he's in with Catherine Boroughs, don't you?”
“I didn't know that's what they called ‘being someone's bitch' nowadays,” Lydia interjected, taking a swig of her beer.
Elizabeth snickered. “I don't care how ‘in' he is with anyone, the man is revolting. He called me ‘wanton.' If he weren't such a cretin, I'd be more offended.”
Lydia guffawed and banged on the bar.
Charlotte looked thoughtful. “He's not that bad, Lizzy. Maybe just a bit disingenuous, but...”
“But what?” Elizabeth asked.
“But he does have a connection to Catherine Boroughs.”
“And that makes him a better person because…?”
“That woman has connections to every major dance company in New York City. Don't you ever read the New York Times?”
Elizabeth shrugged. She didn't because she couldn't afford it. “Charlotte, if you're comfortable putting up with Colin just to hob-nob with Boroughs, then you deserve him.”
Lydia laughed. Charlotte, however, sat at the bar stone-faced. She cast Elizabeth a cutting glance and stared into the untouched depths of her beer.
“Not everyone can be Mr. Darcy's pet. Some of us have to shoot our sights a bit lower.”
Lydia's face changed. She bit her lip and looked at her lap uncomfortably. Awkwardness snaked mute and heavy between the three. Around them, laughter, Sheryl Crow, and the clanking of glasses punctuated their silence.
“I'm not Mr. Darcy's pet,” Elizabeth replied quietly. “It may seem that way, but you know I had absolutely no intention of getting on his good side. You know I can't stand the man.”
Charlotte continued to gaze into her drink. Finally, she sighed, slumped her shoulders, and gave her friend another, more embarrassed glance. “Hey. I'm sorry. It's been a long day, okay?”
Elizabeth smiled weakly and nodded. Eager to return to the cheerier mood of before, Lydia immediately piped in with a piece of gossip concerning Louisa Hurst and her infamous drinking habits. Elizabeth attempted to listen and react lightheartedly, but her good humor had died. She wondered at Charlotte's outburst, the palpable envy that had been on the surface of her words, and the implication that Elizabeth had somehow orchestrated to ingratiate herself with the choreographer. She wondered that if this was what her friend thought, then what did everyone else believe? She had visions of herself as the topic of locker room gossip, the butt of vengeful pranks. For a corps member not one year into her tenure, the idea of being universally hated struck fear into Elizabeth's heart. She imagined spending the rest of her days in the company, friendless and resented. Elizabeth loved people. She thrived on being surrounded by friends. To be isolated and exiled was, to her, a worse punishment than being fired from the company.
Elizabeth downed the rest of her beer, tasting nothing, staring off to the rows of liquor bottles lining the back of the bar, as Lydia and Charlotte traded secrets about fellow dancers.
© Jessi 2005-2006
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