The Muse
Chapter One
The soft soles of ballet slippers swished on the hardwood floors. Fantasie-Impromptu filled the
room, trickling out of the open second-floor window of Ballet Theater of New York.
Every morning began like this, with company class, with groggy faces and tired bodies.
Movements turned robotic from constant repetition. It was only during center exercises that the
real dancing began.
Today was different, however. This morning, the dancers walked into the studio, fresh and alive.
The first exercise, pliés, was danced with the grace of Swan Lake, legs were crisp during tendus
and dégagés. By the current exercise, rond de jambes, sweat beads trickled down foreheads and
fell in droplets to the floor. All of this was due to the man who sat at the front, arms folded
across his chest, looking out at the company of dancers as they warmed up in preparation for a
day of rehearsals. Every so often, he would look down, scribble something in a notebook with a
thin black and gold pen, and then look back up with the same boredom in his eyes.
He was William Darcy, the ballet legend, the one in the company’s old promotional poster
hanging in the lobby downstairs. William Darcy, who had now assumed a new title as BTNY
Choreographer in Residence.
He was casting. This class was his audition. All of the dancers knew it; all of them wanted a part
in his next piece, the one the critics were already buzzing about, the one that had yet to be
choreographed.
The music ended, and the dancers brought their arms down to the finishing pose, holding their
heads still longer than usual before sighing and relaxing. The ballet mistress nodded and began
demonstrating the next exercise, frappés.
From the back of the room, on the barre against the wall, Elizabeth Bennet slowly mirrored the
teacher’s movements with her legs, committing the exercise to memory. It was her sixth month
in the company, but her stomach still fluttered throughout class. Every morning when she entered
the studio, she saw her idols, Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst, standing there in leg warmers
and pointe shoes, and now, Elizabeth was dancing with them.
The exercise began and the ballet mistress slowly paced around the room offering corrections to
the dancers. She walked by Elizabeth, staring with an arched eyebrow and then paused. The old
woman tapped Elizabeth’s right hip twice.
“You’re sinking.”
Elizabeth pulled her torso up to correct the misalignment of her hip. With just a raised eyebrow,
the old teacher nodded and continued on. Elizabeth’s heart pounded. Although she had been in
the company for six months, this was her first personal correction from the ballet mistress, who
recognized no one except for her pet, Caroline Bingley. It took a while to establish oneself at the
venerable company. With a concealed smile, Elizabeth took this correction as proof that she
might perhaps be on her way to belonging here.
Class proceeded uneventfully. William Darcy remained grave at his seat in the front, scribbling
notes, and staring indifferently, seemingly unaffected by any of the dancing. Many of the dancers
tried to catch his eye during reverance, but he refused to acknowledge them. Sighing, he looked
down to his notebook and frowned. When class ended, he stood and nodded curtly to the ballet
mistress, to the dancers, and then strode out of the studio silently.
William Darcy took the stairs rapidly, heading straight to the office of the Associate Artistic
Director, Charles Bingley. Charles and he had been good friends during their days in the
company. They had entered the company at the same time, and while William had rose up the
company ranks faster, they had remained close.
“Hey Will,” Charles said, smiling and leaning back in his chair when his friend entered his
office. “How was class? What’d you think?”
William sat down in one of the old leather chairs on the opposite end of the desk. “Terrible.
They’re hopeless.”
Charles laughed. BTNY was not only one of the best companies in the city, it was also one of the
oldest and most highly regarded in the country. Some of the best dancers in the ballet world were
counted amongst its ranks. Corps members in BTNY were fit to be soloists in any other regional
ballet company. Both William and Charles knew they were wonderful, but William, in his dry
way, always loved getting the best of his friend.
“So,” William smiled, “when can I start?”
“Tomorrow if you want. Most of the dancers will be rehearsing Giselle today until three.”
Nodding, William opened up the manila folder on his lap. “I suppose you’ll insist that Caroline
dance the lead.”
Charles laughed. “I won’t insist, but I’m sure she won’t leave you or me alone until she does.”
“She’s a fabulous dancer, but I don’t know about her for this piece...”
“I know what you like, Will. She’s got the technique. Perhaps with coaching, she can give you
what you want.”
William stared absently out of the window behind his friend. “You can’t tease warmth out of
stone, Charles.”
Shrugging his shoulders, the Associate AD looked to William. His sister would throw a hissy-fit
if she wasn’t cast in this piece. She would run to the Artistic Director, Sir William Lucas, and
threaten to quit and join New York City Ballet, as she always did. In appeasement, Lucas would
cave. It was no use fighting Lucas or his sister. He had tried it several times already and lost.
Charles loved his sister because that was what family duty called for, but as administration, he
saw her as a pebble in a pointe shoe.
“Will, please...” Charles insisted quietly.
William managed a terse smile. “So Caroline for the A cast and Louisa Hurst for the B cast. And
them,” he said, throwing the roster of headshots on the table. A few faces were circled in red.
Charles sighed and smiled warmly at his friend. No one in the company understood him better,
watched out for him more than William. It had been that way since day one, and it was still that
way over fifteen years later. Charles plucked the headshots up off the desk and flipped through
them, nodding in approval.
“I’ll send these up to Lucas. He okays anything I do, so I’ll post something on the boards today.”
“Thanks, Charles,” William said, standing and stretching out a hand. Charles shook it and
grinned.
“It’s great to be working together again, eh, Will? Does being back here inspire any nostalgic
feelings?”
“A few. Being back with all of the neuroses and egos, who wouldn’t feel nostalgic?”
Charles laughed and patted his friend on the back. “If you thought it was bad when you were a
dancer, you should see what it’s like on the administrative side of things. Good luck, Will.
You’re going to need it.”
William shook his head at Charles and smiled. William Darcy had talent; he didn’t need luck.
Leaving the office, he headed to the studio to work out some of the choreography before
tomorrow’s rehearsal. Downstairs, a few stray corps members were stretching and gabbing in the
hallways, warmers and T-shirts pulled on over their leotards and tights. Their chatter faded as he
breezed past them and into Studio B, the one without windows, before he closed the door with a
decisive and resounding thud.
Elizabeth Bennet was one of those dancers, bent over her legs, stretching out the kinks in her
thighs. Her sister, Jane, exhaled slowly.
“So that’s William Darcy. He looks younger than in the pictures.”
“Did you see his face during class? He could be one of those human statues that perform for the
tourists in Times Square. He didn’t blink once throughout adagio. I watched him the whole
time,” Elizabeth commented.
Jane Bennet was Elizabeth’s older sister. Unlike her sister, Jane had forsaken college and entered
the ballet world early, at eighteen. This marked her third year as a BTNY corps member, and
lately, she had been allowed to perform a few soloist roles.
Jumping up and down next to them, in an attempt to warm up her feet, was Charlotte Lucas, no
relation to Sir William Lucas. Along with Elizabeth, she, too, had entered BTNY that year,
although she had danced for three years previously at Atlanta Ballet.
“I wonder who will end up in his first piece. Think Bingley will weasel her way into it?”
Jane giggled. “William Darcy doesn’t seem like the kind to be moved by her threats.”
Caroline Bingley was currently the reigning queen of the company, and perhaps the most revered
principal dancer in the country. Still a young and brilliant dancer, she had several years ahead of
her in an already illustrious career. The prima was a whirlwind and virtuoso. Her movements
were bold and crisp, her technique flawless. With long legs and flexible hips, her extensions and
fast feet made her an early favorite with audiences. She had spent only a few months in the corps
de ballet before soaring up the ranks of the company and settling at prima ballerina only three
years into her career, at twenty-one.
Of course, there were other factors behind this speedy ascent. Caroline and her older brother,
Charles, came from old New York money; their parents and grandparents had concert halls,
museum wings, and colleges named after them. Besides being a famous principal dancer, she
was a darling of the New York social scene, dated Hollywood actors and Italian models, and
often appeared in the pages of the New York Times society section.
Elizabeth was now dancing in the same room as she and their paychecks displayed the same
company name, although Elizabeth was sure the number of digits was vastly different. Bouncing
up, Elizabeth announced it was her lunchtime and headed down to the locker room to fetch her
tuna sandwich and apple. When she returned, a gaggle of dancers had amassed before the
message board. Mr. Bingley had just posted the cast for William Darcy’s first piece. Elizabeth
practically whooped with excitement when she saw her name there, third from the top of corps
members, right above her sister, Jane’s.
From across the room, Jane beamed and flashed her two thumbs up. Elizabeth grinned back,
winked, and then accepted the congratulations of a few friends. She glanced over to the door of
Studio B, heart fluttering at her acceptance into the piece of the legendary William Darcy.
At ten minutes before the start of rehearsal the next day, the door of Studio B flung open and
William Darcy stood in the doorway. His sharp features fell into a disapproving frown, and he
scanned the hall outside the studio.
“Dancers in my piece, I start at three sharp,” he ordered, silencing the chatter in the halls. Before
disappearing back inside, he frowned once more.
One of the other corps members, Katherine James, raised her eyebrows. “I have a friend in San
Francisco Ballet, who says he’s a real hard-ass, a stickler for discipline and all that.”
“I’d let him discipline me any day,” giggled another dancer, a brunette named Lydia Lopez.
“Seriously, Lydia,” Katherine warned, “she said he made at least one dancer cry in every
rehearsal.”
The four dancers paused, considering this as they glanced over to the studio.
“How old do you think he is?” asked Charlotte.
“Thirty-five,” Katherine answered, “retired at thirty.”
“And at the rate he’s going, he’ll have a heart attack and die by the time he’s forty,” Elizabeth
said.
“Liz!” Charlotte whispered, looking towards the open door of the studio. Lydia and Katherine
smiled.
Elizabeth nodded towards the studio. “Well, shall we?”
The girls filed into the studio where a few others dancers were already doing pliés and relevés to
warm up their feet. William Darcy stood in the corner, fiddling with the stereo, gazing in the
mirror at the group that had just entered. Taking a quick head count, he was several dancers short
and missing a prima. He sighed through his teeth. To William, the principal was supposed to set
the tone for the other dancers; if she arrived late and lacked discipline, then surely the younger
dancers would follow her example.
By three o’clock, all dancers, except Caroline, had arrived. Not one to go against his own policy
of punctuality, William commanded one of the corps girls to shut the door and then looked out at
the line of hesitant faces staring back at him.
“You,” he said, pointing to Jane, who straightened under his scrutiny. “You’ll come out on stage
from there.” He pointed to the front, left corner of the room.
As he proceeded to direct the dancers to their opening spots, Lydia leaned into Elizabeth. “Nice
introduction, huh? Guess he doesn’t like formalities,” she whispered.
“You, there will be no voices except my own in rehearsal. Got it?” He frowned at Lydia and
Elizabeth. Embarrassed, Lydia nodded and looked down.
The door creaked open and the light titter of Caroline Bingley’s laughter was heard before she
stepped in.
“...I’ll call you,” she chirped to someone in the hall, before stepping into the studio. All eyes
froze on her. Flashing a wide smile, she set her bag down in the corner and strolled to the middle
of the room.
“You’re late,” William said, glancing at the clock in the back.
Caroline smiled. “Sorry about that.”
“Rehearsal starts at three, Ms. Bingley. Not when you decide you’d like to show up. I expect you
to be on time from now on,” he said sternly, watching the smile melt off her face.
Caroline Bingley had not been ordered around since her first few months in the company, nine
years ago. Had this been any other ballet mistress or choreographer, Caroline would have offered
a few choice words, quit the piece, and left the stunned room to their own devices. But this was
no ordinary choreographer. Dealing with a man like William Darcy called for more finesse.
Caroline had no desire to ruin her chance to appear in his piece. Their combined fame and talent
would probably make this work equivalent to Balanchine’s The Four Temperaments or Tharp
and Baryshnikov’s Cutting Up. The allure of rekindling what they had begun several years back
also factored into Caroline’s deference.
“Right, sir,” she said saluting, with a smile warming the features of her face.
A few of the dancers giggled. William’s face remained frozen in a hard stare. Caroline shirked
back, allowing him to finish placing the rest of the dancers. He showed them the first steps,
offered corrections and suggestions, and then positioned them in their formations. Elizabeth
found herself in the back row, all the way stage right.
Caroline, whose entrance came later than the corps de ballet, stood off to the side, yawning and
leaning with both elbows on the barre.
Midway through a pas de bourre, William Darcy looked up at her reflection in the mirror and
stopped mid-step. The dancers looked at him in confusion as he turned around.
“Ms. Bingley, off the barre.”
Caroline’s jaw dropped, as she could only stare at William. “I’m sorry?” she replied. Surely, he
couldn’t be ordering her around, the biggest star in the company, like some summer program
apprentice.
“I said quit leaning on the barre,” he growled. “It’s unprofessional.”
Straightening herself, Caroline raised her chin and replied saucily, “Mr. Darcy, I believe leaning
on the barre is not specifically forbidden in my contract. Perhaps you should discuss it with
Charles.”
William reddened. Caroline Bingley may have been it in the company now, but prima ballerinas
came and went, and he was a legend. He was also the choreographer, highly acclaimed by the
critics, one who could name his salary to artistic directors, probably up there in the ranks with
Nuryev and Baryshnikov, and there was no way in hell he was going to let this little snot defy
him, prima, best friend’s sister, or not.
“Ms. Bingley,” he said, his voice lowered in a chilling monotone, “your contract is the
administration’s concern, not mine. In my rehearsals, I have my own rules. If you don’t like it, I
welcome you to discuss it with William Lucas.”
If there was one thing everyone, including Caroline, knew, it was that Lucas would choose Darcy
over her. Caroline might be great, but William was golden. The two stared at each other in a
momentary standoff. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock’s second hand and a few
stray voices that rose up from the street. The dancers’ eyes darted from the choreographer, his
face frozen in indifferent calm, to Caroline, whose eyes flashed with insubordination. Finally,
Caroline turned away in a silent huff, conceding to William.
Elizabeth stared at the scene, marveling at the choreographer’s contained power. Even Mr. Lucas
could not force such obedience out of the prima. None of them had ever seen Caroline Bingley
silenced so thoroughly and without histrionics or threats, just a slicing glance of those dark eyes.
Although she had done nothing wrong, Elizabeth shrunk into herself, vowing never to do
anything that might warrant those eyes to look at her that way.
“The opening sequence. Again,” William barked, confident that Caroline would give him no
more trouble. Counting the rhythm loudly, William paced back and forth, slowly inspecting the
dancers.
“You, elbows up.”
“Right side. No, your other right!”
“Glissade, not pas de bourrée.”
He had marked the steps twice already and was exasperated that the dancers hadn’t yet picked
them up. He ordered them to go through the sequence again, threatening that he would keep them
as long as it took to get it right, union rules or no.
Stopping at Elizabeth, he stared at her feet.
“You, heels down.” The steps, however, were too fast for Elizabeth, and she had to sacrifice a
succinct landing after the jump series in order to move on to the subsequent pas de bourrée. “If
you value your Achilles tendon, you’ll get those heels on the floor after you jump,” he said.
Furiously trying to keep up, Elizabeth missed a step, pausing to see where the others dancers
were so she could catch up.
“Don’t stop!” he growled.
Elizabeth frantically caught up just as the sequence ended. She saw William look heavenward
before he yelled to all the dancers, “Once more, until everyone gets it right.”
Too afraid to sigh in exasperation, the dancers walked back to their initial spaces, panting and
tired.
Despite it all, rehearsal ended promptly at five o’clock and the sweaty, exhausted dancers flung
off their pointe shoes and trudged back to the locker rooms. Charles greeted them as they left,
smiling broadly in encouragement. After they had all filed out, Charles rushed into the studio.
“Well, how’d it go?”
“Fine, except for your sister.”
“What’d she do this time?”
“Came in late, lounged on the barre, openly challenged me.”
Charles shrugged. “Sounds tame for her. She challenges everyone.”
Narrowing his eyes, Darcy glared at his friend. “Her behavior isn’t professional, Charles. She
acts like a child. Do me a favor, and tell her to cut the crap.”
“I’m not telling my sister anything of the sort! She’ll rip out my insides and feed them to the
vultures,” Charles joked.
Darcy shook his head and removed the CD from the stereo. “Who’s the one you’re seeing?”
“Jane. Jane Bennet. The tall one with the blonde hair. She’s good, no?”
Darcy shrugged. “She has potential. Nice body, but a little blank in the expression.”
Charles tsked and shook his head at his friend. “You’re too critical. She’s lovely, a beautiful
dancer. The most fluid adagios you’ll ever see. And she’s a wonderful woman. An angel!”
“I suppose you’re just two smiling fools when you’re together,” William said wryly.
“No, actually, we’re not.”
“You know you shouldn’t get involved with the dancers.”
“Why not?” Charles protested, “It never stopped you when you were in the company.”
“It’s one thing being a dancer, and another when you’re on the administrative side of things.”
Charles frowned in response.
“Take it from experience. If she hasn’t asked you for a better part yet, then wait. It’s coming,”
William quipped.
“She’s not like that, Will. I’ve dated women like that. Jane isn’t one of them.”
William was doubtful. “Just be careful, Charles. Dancers in corps de ballet will do anything not
to be in the corps de ballet.”
Charles stared at his toes, considering his friend’s words. Having known William for close to
fifteen years, Charles knew that sometimes the best response to the man was none at all. The two
remained in silence for a time before Charles smiled and spoke.
“But, hey, I’ve been dying to know what you think about the corps. They’re pretty good, aren’t
they?”
Charles smiled, eagerly seeking the approval of his staunchest critic. As the Associate Artistic
Director, one of Charles’ duties was to oversee auditions and choose new members for BTNY.
This meant the corps de ballet, future stars of the company and ballet world, was under his
jurisdiction
William returned Charles’ smile with a more muted grin and nodded slowly. “They’re
acceptable. Strong technical dancers, most of them. But, it’s obvious you were the one who
chose them.”
Charles laughed. “And why is that?”
“They all reek of that Balanchine standoffishness that I loathe,” William explained, knowing his
friend trained at School of American Ballet, founded by George Balanchine. “Their faces are
dead. Bent elbows and wrists. They have no expression, Charles.”
“And here I thought you were ‘following in Balanchine’s footsteps’,” Charles teased, quoting a
recent article in Dance Magazine.
“The man was a brilliant choreographer, and I respect him artistically, but he had a horrible sense
of casting. All limp and dull dancers.”
Charles laughed again, more amused than offended by his friend’s characteristic grouchiness.
“Okay, but what about...what about Lydia Lopez? She’s fabulous. Fiery and quick feet. A real
Firebird.”
“Yeah, and a dead face that’s painful to watch, even if she is fast.”
“She’s young, Will! You have to grow into that kind of expression.”
Charles shook his head. “Okay, okay. There’s Jane’s sister, Elizabeth Bennet. She’s one of the
best incomings we’ve had in a while.”
“Oh, and I suppose Jane Bennet had absolutely no influence on your opinion of her whatsoever,”
William said dryly.
Charles started in mock offense. “You may not know this, but I can formulate an opinion on my
own.”
Elizabeth was halfway down the stairs before she realized she was missing her water bottle. Face
drenched with sweat, throat dry and burning, she decided she needed it desperately and turned
back to the studio.
Voices wafted out from Studio B.
“Oh, and I suppose Jane Bennet had absolutely no influence on your opinion of her whatsoever,”
came a deep voice she recognized as William Darcy’s.
Elizabeth froze and looked around her. The hallway was empty and deadly silent. She feared
taking another step, in case they caught her listening in on a conversation that she shouldn’t have
been hearing.
“You may not know this, but I can formulate an opinion on my own,” said Charles.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, becoming immediately suspicious of the two men talking about her
sister.
“Which one is she anyway?” asked William.
“Little bit darker hair than Jane, but shorter.”
Eyes widening, Elizabeth then realized the two men were speaking of her. Two impulses ripped
through her: the impulse to about-face and flee down the stairs, and the impulse to tiptoe closer
to the open door and listen to what the assistant artistic director and infamous choreographer
were saying about her.
“There are four dancers by that description.”
Charles sighed. “She’s the one with the...” He said no more.
Elizabeth frowned. “With the what?” she whispered urgently.
“Oh. Uh huh,” came the reply from the choreographer. “She doesn’t put her heels down in the
jumps. She’ll get Achilles tendonitis in a couple of years, and you’ll be out of a dancer.”
Elizabeth started. She clutched onto the wall for support and felt her heartbeat spike.
“I can talk to her about that. That’s a habit easily fixed.”
“And this,” William paused, “you don’t find that a problem?”
Elizabeth’s heart thundered in her chest, terrified and desperate to know what “this” meant.
“She’s curvier than the other dancers, yes,” Charles said. Elizabeth’s jaw fell open. She glanced
down at her chest, what “this” meant.
“But she’s thin,” Charles continued. “Not a typical ballerina body, yes. What’s the problem? You
cast her.”
“It was either her or Anne Boroughs. And you know how I feel about her. Besides, Charles, this
is a contemporary piece. BTNY’s repertoire is seventy percent classical. The crux of it is she’s
too short for Sugar Plum, and Clara doesn’t have tits. She’ll hit a dead-end in the corps and be
back in some suburban dance studio teaching pre-kindergarten ballet by the time she’s twentyfive. A bad investment.”
“Oh, Will, come on. She’s not that...”
Elizabeth’s face burned. Her mind went white, her heartbeat crashing in her ears. She felt a lump
of anger well up in her throat, and she resisted the urge to spit a string of curse words out into the
empty hallway.
Chapter Two
Forgetting her water, Elizabeth spun on the balls of her feet, tiptoeing back to the stairway before
she charged down, storming into the locker room. She muttered curses under her breath. Jane and
a few other dancers in the room cast her quizzical glances, which she ignored. Stripping off her
leotard and tights and yanking her hair out of the bun, she strode over to the showers and turned
the water on cold. Elizabeth stepped in, feeling the freezing water fall over her shoulders and
neck. She shivered, her breathing ragged.
It was always the male choreographers and directors who had hang-ups about dancers’ bodies.
She had been told by enough of them to go on a diet, get a breast reduction, wear sports bras - all
that, for a B-cup! By real world standards, Elizabeth was small, but the ballet world wanted their
girls thin and flat. Elizabeth was trim, but her hips and breasts had been a plague all of her
dancing life. No matter how well she danced, it always came down to that- her body.
Just as she made it into BTNY, they were ready to retire her. So much for a sense of belonging.
Forget the dancing; it was all about the body. Even for a supposed “artist” like William Darcy.
What bullshit! Turning off the water, she stalked across the room.
Charlotte lounged on the bench by the lockers, winding a band-aid around a bleeding blister.
“What’s up, Liz? You look like you’re ready to kill,” Charlotte asked. In their six months of
friendship, Charlotte had discovered Elizabeth, for all of her vigor, possessed a simmering
temper when provoked.
“If one more freaking man tells me my boobs are too big, I’m going to go ape-shit!”
“Too late,” Katherine teased from across the locker room.
“Your boobs aren’t big, Lizzy,” Jane said, gazing around the door of her locker over at her sister.
“Who told you that?”
“Oh, only every male choreographer I’ve ever worked with. You know, it’s never the women.
Never! It’s like they’re obsessed with perfect little flat-chested waifs. I’m an okay dancer, for
God’s sake, but it’s always about the body,” Elizabeth raved into her open locker, searching for
her underwear.
“Okay, and who said something this time?” Charlotte asked.
“William Darcy. ‘Too short for the Snow Queen and Clara doesn’t have tits!’ He also said I had
a shelf-life of twenty-five,” Elizabeth said, her hands trembling with anger. “I overheard him
talking with Charles.”
Charlotte frowned and wrapped her arm around her friend’s shoulders. “That’s because he hasn’t
seen you really dance, Liz. Today was an off day. Don’t worry. And look who it’s coming from.
A man who retired at thirty.”
Elizabeth’s face softened. She leaned her forehead against her locker and groaned into its depths.
“Man, I just hate that though. Why is it always about my chest?”
“There’s always the old toothbrush-down-the-throat diet,” Katherine joked again. Elizabeth
turned and rolled her eyes.
Jane smiled and squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “Charles thinks you’re great, Liz. There’s
nothing to worry about.”
“Besides, William Darcy doesn’t sign our paychecks,” Charlotte added. “And he cast you, didn’t
he?”
Elizabeth smiled, her anger ebbing. She sighed and rolled her neck, stretching out her shoulders.
After a few moments, she looked at Jane and grinned. “I suppose Charles couldn’t really fire me.
Kind of hard to sack the sister of the woman you’re trying to bag, huh?”
Jane’s face went scarlet. “Elizabeth Bennet,” she mouthed, putting a finger over her lips with the
sweet strictness of a kindergarten teacher.
Elizabeth laughed and finished dressing, her dark mood dissipating. Katherine grabbed her bag,
slung it over her shoulder, and bid them all goodbye. A chorus of goodbyes followed her out.
“How absurd,” Elizabeth laughed once she had left.
“What is?” answered Charlotte.
“The whole situation back there. I felt like I was in some scene from ‘The Young and the
Restless.’ Like there should have been some camera panning in on my livid face, and I should
have said something like, ‘I’ll get you, William Darcy, and your little dog, too.’”
Charlotte laughed. “Lizzy, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t you think it’s ridiculous? Who says things like that? Who overhears things like that? It’s
like something out of a daytime drama.”
Jane shook her head. “You’ve been watching too many soap operas. Come on, Liz. Get dressed.
I’m starving.”
“Okay. Hold on, I still need to go back and get my water bottle. Hopefully, I won’t hear anymore
of William Darcy’s nasty opinions.” Elizabeth shook her head and then smiled, in spite of it all.
The lights in the studio were still on, but she heard no voices coming from within. Hesitantly, she
entered and spotted William Darcy by the stereo, scribbling into his notebook. He looked up,
alerted by the squeak of her sneakers on the wood floor.
Elizabeth met his gaze, but her expression remained unchanged. Anger had melted away all of
her intimidation, and she breezed into the studio, heading for the opposite end where her water
bottle stood in the corner. Looking into the mirror, William followed her with his eyes. She bent
down and swept up the bottle in her hand. Before turning away, Elizabeth raised her eyes,
glittering and cold.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Darcy,” she said flatly, her lips turning upwards in a smile, but her
voice, with its monotone timbre, lacked any kind of ingratiation. It was a tone he was not used to
from anyone, especially those in the corps de ballet. Spinning around, she strode out of the
studio, leaving William to consider her tone for a few seconds, before he turned back to his
notes.
*
With the dancers now acclimated to his demands for punctuality, William was free to stride into
rehearsals at exactly three o’clock, knowing that they would all be there waiting for him. He
refused to be present in the room waiting around for a stray corps girl.
When placing the dancers or guiding their moves, he noticed they all shirked in fear of him. He
preferred this. Fear and intimidation were the seeds of discipline. William Darcy saw no need to
become best friends with his dancers like Charles did; he just needed them to perform. Girls cast
their eyes down when he grasped their shoulders to move them over a few feet. They nodded
meekly when given corrections. He even seemed to tame the beastly Caroline Bingley, rendering
her mute, but still haughty, during those two-hour rehearsals.
To praise a dancer was to spoil her, so believed William Darcy. Once a dancer received too
much praise, she became like Caroline: lazy, defiant, undisciplined, and arrogant. He never
bestowed compliments, only silence. But that did not mean that William was blind to a good
performance.
William trusted Charles’ opinion. With his friend at the helm, the corps de ballet had been
transformed into an assembly of technically sharp dancers. Perhaps too sharp for William’s taste;
he preferred dancers who danced, not simply dancers who could perform the steps without
mistake. Nevertheless, the quality of dancers had improved in the years that he had been away
from New York.
Thus, William could not take Charles’ words lightly, “She’s one of the best incomings we’ve had
in years.”
He hadn’t noticed anything remarkable about Elizabeth Bennet in company class or rehearsal.
She was petite, with a lackluster body, far too soft-looking, not enough musculature. Her jumps,
while acceptable for professionals, were muddled and not at the level of the other corps de ballet
members. Yes, she was good. They were all good. But one of the best incoming dancers?
William thought not.
Then he had a chance to study her in his second rehearsal. She still fumbled through the jump
sequence, but William allowed his eyes to look further up, ignoring her legs and focusing solely
on Elizabeth’s torso. From the movements of her upper body, he would have never been able to
tell how much she was struggling. Her arms moved through the port de bras gracefully, her head
placed just where it should be, and her face radiating a focus not seen in dancers ten years older
than she. William observed her, his eyebrows furrowed critically.
“You, in the back,” he called out, pointing to Elizabeth, “switch with her.” Suddenly Elizabeth
found herself in the front of the diagonal formation that opened the piece. Rather than the selfsatisfied look of a promoted dancer, there was a cold reticence in her eyes. She sharply strode to
the front, avoiding his eyes, no pleasure on her face at all.
“From the beginning,” William commanded, walking over to the CD player to restart the music.
He crossed his arms over his chest to watch. Four corps members bounded on stage, in a series
of fast-paced jumps, merging and rebounding to somehow form the last diagonal formation.
“You,” he said, nodding sternly to Elizabeth, “you need to close your glissades more
definitively. Attack the descent.”
Elizabeth tried as he suggested, spending less time up in the air, and focusing on closing her legs
coming down.
“Now you’re short-changing the jump. Try again.”
Elizabeth looked blankly at herself in the mirror and jumped again.
“No,” Darcy said, waving his hand. “Okay, everyone from the beginning.”
Frowning, Elizabeth looked at herself in the mirror. How was she supposed to know what he
meant if he simply barked orders at her, without demonstrating? She raised her hand.
“Excuse me, Mr. Darcy,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with as much politeness as possible,
“would you mind showing me the exact rhythm you want for that phrase please?”
He blinked a few times and stared at her. Did she realize at all whose time she was wasting? He
had only two months of rehearsals, only three days a week, only two hours each. He had three
movements to choreograph and clean, and this little corps dancer wanted private lessons. He
shook his head, amazed at the lack of discipline in dancers these days.
“No,” he said flatly, “go back there and figure it out for yourself. That’s what professionals do.”
Elizabeth’s gaze remained on his for a few silent moments before she averted her eyes to the side
of the room. Straightening her spine, she retreated from the center of the studio to stand at the
back.
So William Darcy wanted to insult her professionalism? Since when was asking a valid question
unprofessional? She felt the pressure of pent-up anger press against her chest. She knew others
were staring at her, some in sympathy, some just to stare. Ignoring them, Elizabeth lifted her chin
and put her hands on her hips, waiting for the music. It began, and she silently counted out the
two bars before she bounded out once again into the opening sequence.
*
Rehearsal finished with William proclaiming, “The piece will be a failure if you all don’t start
learning how to look more alive.” Not a positive end to two hours of grueling drills. A few
dancers trudged out. Caroline Bingley was the first to grab her face towel and water and storm
out in a huff. Elizabeth stayed behind.
She had no clue what Mr. Darcy had meant. Attack the descent, but don’t short-change the jump.
Was she supposed to defy gravity? In the back of the room, Elizabeth studied her glissade in the
mirror. A few other dancers were honing steps around her as well, but the choreographer’s eyes
alighted on her. She noticed him pacing slowly towards her, like a tiger waiting, waiting before it
bounded out for the kill.
“You’re not jumping enough,” he said, when he was no more than a few feet from her. She tried
again and he shook his head. “It’s not from your legs. It’s from your hips.”
Elizabeth placed her arms akimbo and looked down in frustration. Head still down, she raised
her eyes up to the choreographer. “I’m sorry, I never learned how to jump from my hips.”
Annoyance flashed across his face. He was the choreographer; he taught them the steps of the
dance, not how to dance. He saw Elizabeth raise her chin, not in conceit like Caroline, but in a
gesture that he could only interpret as a challenge. Her glittering eyes narrowed slightly. He
knew then that she thought he was talking bullshit and that he, too, had no clue what “jumping
from the hips” meant.
He met her challenge flatly. “Don’t go for height. Go for movement. Imagine someone’s
carrying you across in the air. Both legs out.”
Unlike Caroline or even Lydia, Elizabeth did not have the quickness of feet to be a virtuoso
jumper. She tried once more, and the impatient look Mr. Darcy gave her indicated he was ready
to give up and leave her to her own devices. Elizabeth cocked her chin up again and looked him
square in the face, in a wordless challenge to him to show her the right way.
Sighing, he strode behind her and grabbed her waist. “Glissade,” he ordered.
She bent her knees and jumped. His hands were strong but light on her back, lifting her slightly
off the ground. Elizabeth pointed both toes in the air, and she felt the pressure of his hands on her
sides, guiding her back down to the floor. She alighted, feet landing decisively into fifth position.
He had barely moved her off the floor, and yet the dynamics of the jump felt completely
different. William saw recognition in her eyes, and saying nothing, smugly returned to the CD
player.
She tried it a few times herself, and he watched her in the mirror wordlessly. Before shucking off
her warmers and exiting the studio, she cast him one more look, cold, resentful for the help. It
made him pause, his temper instinctively flaring, but before he could respond, she turned and
was gone from the studio.
“Partnering a woman was like making love to her,” a teacher had once told William’s class. They
had been teenagers at the time, and most had blushed furiously at the sudden reference to sex.
“You need to touch the woman gently, but not too gently that she feels abandoned. You need to
be strong, but not too strong, or she’ll feel overpowered and uncomfortable. Good partners were
usually good lovers, and vice versa,” his teacher had said. William had never forgotten that
advice.
Was it the chicken or the egg, he wondered? Had he bedded so many dancers because he had
been a good partner? Or had he become a good partner by sleeping with so many women?
In any case, he always thought of that statement before he touched a woman on stage or in the
bedroom. The thought had been on his mind, too, as he had placed his hands around Elizabeth
Bennet’s waist and lifted her.
In his experience, the same truth held for women - the ones who let themselves be partnered
were usually the ones who melted, molded, and danced under the sheets, the ones who blushed,
flinched, or stiffened when a dancer touched her on the floor, were usually the ones to shrivel up
in bed.
Elizabeth Bennet, he had noted, had eased into him, allowing herself to melt into his hands. He
had grabbed onto her suddenly, a move that would send many principal dancers flinching, and
yet her spine had remained firm. She had not started at all when he put his hands on her slick
skin.
A small detail, but one that would stay on his mind for the rest of the evening.
Jane and Elizabeth Bennet waited for the last taxi to whiz past them before they jaywalked onto
Columbus Avenue. They were discussing the recent intrigue between Jane and Charles Bingley.
“Have you slept with him yet?”
“No!” Jane replied, reddening. “And I wish you wouldn’t imply stuff like that in front of the
others. They’ll talk.”
“Okay, fine. Have you at least kissed him?”
By the blush on Jane’s face, Elizabeth knew she had. “Oh! Details! When? Where? How was it?”
“It…it was in his office. Just last week,” Jane glanced sideways at her sister. “And it was really
nice.”
Elizabeth squealed and squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “This is so exciting. So are you together
officially or what?”
Jane shrugged. “I don’t know what we are. He’s taken me out for that one dinner. We’ve kissed
once in his office. He smiles at me, but then again, he smiles at everyone.”
“But he smiles at you differently, Janey. Like a goof. It’s almost pathetic, really.”
Jane sighed. “I’m sure everyone will think I’m just trying to get a promotion out of him.”
“Don’t worry about what they say. People in companies get together and get married all of the
time. Hell, we’re the only people we have time for,” Elizabeth encouraged. “Besides, do you
know how lucky you are? Sex! With a real man and not some plastic toy! God, how long has it
been...?”
Jane gawked and pinched her sister’s arm. “Lizzy!”
“Oh, come on! Like that hasn’t been on your mind? How long has it been for you?”
By now, Jane’s features were scarlet. “I...I don’t think I have to answer that.”
“Well, you definitely haven’t gotten any in the six months we’ve lived together.”
“Must we discuss this in the middle of the street?”
“Fine, fine.”
Elizabeth and Jane walked in silence and descended into the subway station. Once they had
passed through the turnstiles, Jane began again, “He wants to meet Mom.”
Elizabeth stared at Jane in horror. “Have you warned him?”
“I tried to change the subject.”
“Prevent that meeting at all costs, if you ever want to see him again.”
Jane frowned at her sister, but said nothing in response. Both girls were not looking forward to
their mother’s visit in a few days. It would be her first time in New York City, and she was
coming prepared with two cans of mace, a rape alarm, a fancy money belt with hidden zippers,
and two different guidebooks. Fan Bennet had always been slightly neurotic, a trait which had
only intensified after her divorce from their father a year ago. Now in addition to that, she was
needy, snippy, weepy, and bossy. And she was coming to stay in their cramped apartment in
Harlem. Fan had planned a detailed itinerary of her New York trip, and she expected both
daughters to escort her, seeing to her every need.
She was also coming to one of their Nutcracker performances. No doubt she would sit in the
audience with pen and paper in hand, writing down corrections for her daughters and criticisms
of the other dancers. If Fan met Charles, she would certainly take it upon herself to share those
opinions. She had done it in the past with other artistic directors; Charles’ experience or position
be damned, she would do it again.
It was for this reason, among many others, that Jane had avoided confessing the relationship to
her mother. Unfortunately, she had let it slip to Charles that Fan would be in town for
Nutcracker. Jane knew what their mother was capable of saying. There was no way she was
letting Charles meet Fan Bennet.
Elizabeth stood in the wings, rising up and down on the tips of her pointe shoes. Louisa Hurst as
the Snow Queen was propped up in the air, her King and ex-husband, Bill Hurst, gingerly
balancing her over his head with one arm as he walked off stage. The audience applauded, and
Elizabeth waited for the first high wind notes of the Waltz of the Snowflakes. The other dancers
in the wings shifted nervously, too, pinching each other’s arms and whispering “Merde” for good
luck.
No matter how many times Elizabeth performed, the pent-up excitement and nervousness of
dancing on stage never failed to affect her. They were in the final week of a seven-week run of
Nutcracker, but tonight her heart raced even faster, her hands clammier than usual. Tonight, her
mother had come all the way from Michigan to watch her and her sister dance.
With her cue nearing, Elizabeth inhaled deeply, cast off her everyday persona, and prepared to
become a Snowflake. Dancing on stage was such a vastly different experience than dancing in a
studio. The perspective was much broader, the stage stretched out several yards into the wings,
and the mirror in front was replaced with rows and rows of faces. Lights could blind and drain a
dancer. Grooves in the floor could trip her. Dancing on stage was like walking through an
intersection blind. The dancers needed to have the steps, the music, the sequence of the dance
etched into their muscles. Their heads needed to be free of doubt, free of anything, really. The
dance needed to be automatic, the ultimate nothingness.
Inhaling, Elizabeth leapt on stage. Bodies whizzed by. She heard pages of sheet music being
turned by the orchestra. On stage, a dancer whispered through her teeth, “Slow down, Maestro.”
A bead of sweat tickled Elizabeth’s temple as it rolled down her skin. She counted out the onetwo-three rhythm of the waltz, the steps coming from her body in time to the tempo.
The dance continued, formations made, poses struck. The final sequence of the dance, of the act,
was upon them. Elizabeth braced herself for the fake snow, confetti, and glitter that would fall
from overhead to make it seem as if it were really snowing. She hated this part. In the dance
world, effects like this were an occupational hazard. Elizabeth had slipped too many times to
count on the silver confetti, and one dancer had to be pulled from the Waltz of the Flowers in Act
Two when a piece of glitter fell into her eye, and she couldn’t open it.
The snow fell, and Elizabeth and the rest of the snowflakes posed in their formations, then spun
on the balls of their feet to run off stage, one after the other, in a haze of white tulle and confetti.
Act One was over. Everyone in Act Two kept running off of the backstage area, and into the
dressing rooms, where many would change in order to dance in other parts of the ballet.
Elizabeth simply had to get dressed and wait for her mother at the front of the theater. Helping
Jane brush the glitter out of her bun and hook up her pink tutu for Waltz of the Flowers,
Elizabeth stayed backstage only until the second act began, then gathered her things and headed
for an empty seat in the back of the theater.
“Oh, Janey, you were so wonderful. The most beautiful one up there. And you, too, Lizzy,” their
mother gushed when they were outside after the performance. Jane and Elizabeth carried
matching bouquets of carnations, supplied by their mother. “But, who was the girl in front of you
in Waltz of the Flowers, Jane? The very tall one with the ugly feet. She was absolutely turned
in(1) the whole time, and the ugliest smile I’ve ever seen on a dancer.”
Fan Bennet was a typical backstage mother. She had also been a dancer when she was young, but
was forced to give it up by a despotic father who believed dancing was a silly hobby that
wouldn’t pay the bills. Fan had decided on the day Jane was born to give her daughter what Fan
herself had been denied: a chance to dance professionally. A year later came Elizabeth, and
Fan’s determination was solidified.
She had enrolled them together in ballet lessons when Jane and Elizabeth were six and five,
respectively. She had pushed them incessantly, forcing dance videos and books upon them every
Christmas, fighting with their teachers to put them on pointe early, despite their teacher’s
insistence that the bones in their feet weren’t yet fully developed. She had stayed through their
dance lessons, observing through the tinted window of the lobby. For performances, she had
been a staple backstage, always available to sew pointe shoe ribbons, help a dancer with her fake
eyelashes, or offer words of good luck before the show began. Fan was, at the same time,
beloved and resented by all.
Behavior like this had always embarrassed Jane and Elizabeth as children, but it seemed that
even when the sisters had grown up and become professionals, their mother would still be their
mother.
“…and Louisa Hurst was in rare form tonight, I must say. She could barely hit the turns in Sugar
Plum Fairy variation…”
Both girls sandwiched their mother as they walked through the courtyard of Lincoln Center,
listening silently as she offered her comments on everything from the dancing, to the lighting, to
the orchestra.
In the dark, two figures hurriedly walked up the steps towards them. As they got closer, to both
Jane and Elizabeth’s horror, the figures revealed themselves as Charles Bingley and William
Darcy. Charles’ face lit up upon seeing Jane, and his eyes darted to the petite woman with
frosted blonde hair standing next to her.
“Jane, Liz! Wonderful performances tonight,” Charles exclaimed, smiling mostly at Jane.
“Thank you,” Jane replied, her eyes shifting over to her mother. Fan read Dance Magazine often
enough to know both men. Her eyes lit up, and both Jane and Elizabeth cringed.
“Oh my! Charles Bingley and William Darcy in the flesh,” she cooed. Elizabeth inhaled slowly,
bracing herself. She would leave the introductions to Jane, who made them swiftly and
professionally. Charles smiled and shook the elder Ms. Bennet’s hand vigorously. William
remained further back, not offering a hand, nod, or smile. He simply looked over his shoulder at
the stream of taxis whizzing by. Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether she should be livid or grateful at
his indifference.
“Mr. Bingley, I was just telling the girls about my opinions on Clara’s costume. Don’t you think
it would be much better, if instead of...”
Elizabeth’s face burned in the cold evening air. Charles listened politely, nodding in agreement
every so often. Still, Elizabeth couldn’t bear to look over to Jane, who she knew was probably
even more mortified. By this time, William Darcy, not even bothering to hide his distaste, stared
in open-jawed revulsion at Fan Bennet. He had one eyebrow cocked, his whole face a portrait of
disbelief.
“...that way, she’ll be able to get her arabesque higher just before Waltz of the Snowflakes.
Really, her arabesque was too low. What do you think, Mr. Bingley?”
Charles nodded, the obliging smile never leaving his face. “I think that might be a good idea,
Mrs. Bennet. I’ll have to discuss it with Sir William Lucas, of course, but perhaps we might be
able to work something out for next year.”
Elizabeth saw William gawk at his friend and roll his eyes heavenward. She quickly snapped her
head down to her sneakers, the pounding of her heart drowning out the traffic. She had never
been this humiliated by her mother. Did Fan Bennet have no shame? In front of her were two of
the most important figures in contemporary American dance, and she was speaking to them as if
they were Mr. Bates, their teacher back in Kalamazoo, Michigan.
“Oh, and Mr. Darcy, it’s an honor to meet you, too,” Fan chirped. “No! No, no, no, no, no,”
Elizabeth’s mind screamed. This needed to be stopped immediately.
“Okay, Mom, I’m sure Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy must be on their way back to the theater.
Probably busy with post-performance...things,” Elizabeth interrupted before William could make
any reply.
Charles smiled, and William turned to walk away.
“Not at all!” Charles insisted. “I just forgot my glove in the theater.”
William halted and again glared at his friend, a look that was not lost on Elizabeth.
Fan giggled and turned her attention back to the choreographer. “You know, Mr. Darcy, I had the
biggest crush on you when you were still dancing. Oh, but don’t tell my husband. Well, he’s my
ex-husband now. Oh, but then I guess it really wouldn’t matter if he knew, now would it?”
William knit his brow as Fan tittered away. Mrs. Bennet continued, “And now you’ve become
something of a famous choreographer. Good, good. My daughters are wonderful dancers, Mr.
Darcy. I think they could give your choreography a little bit more oomph.”
Elizabeth couldn’t bear to look at his face, instead turning to the traffic rushing up Columbus
Avenue. Now her mother was soliciting them and insulting William Darcy’s choreography at the
same time. Wonderful. Could this get any more humiliating?
It could.
“I do believe they’re already in my piece,” he said. “In the corps.” He stressed the word corps,
giving the comment an edge that made Elizabeth snap her head up and glare at him. Fortunately,
her mother did not catch the bite in his tone.
“Oh, wonderful! Well, perhaps you’d like a few suggestions on...”
This time it was Jane’s turn to interrupt. “Well, Mom, we’d better be getting back home. Uh, you
know how unsafe New York can be late at night.”
For Fan, paranoia outweighed flattery. Starting slightly, she nodded in agreement, completely
forgetting her previous train of thought. “Yes, yes. They live in Harlem. I tell them it’s really not
safe, but do they listen? I’m sorry, Mr. Darcy. We’ll have to chat later.”
“Yes,” he sneered.
Keeping her eyes averted, Elizabeth grabbed her mother’s arm and pulled the woman away. Jane
followed with the other arm. “Well, goodnight Charles. Goodnight, Mr. Darcy,” the older sister
called over her shoulder.
“Did you ever see such handsome men? And I hear they’re both loaded...” were the last words
William heard Fan Bennet say before her daughters yanked her around the corner and out of
earshot.
Charles smiled to William. “Nice lady,” he said.
William snorted in response.
“She meant well, at least.”
“Well, I’ll give her one thing,” William said, turning and making his way to the theater. “I’ve
had all kinds of dancers sidle up to me for roles, but that woman holds the distinction of being
the first mother who’s tried that trick. Wonder if she’d sleep with me if it meant her daughters
could get a better part.”
“Oh, Will!” Charles exclaimed. “Just because their mother’s like that, doesn’t mean they are.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Charles paused and watched his friend as he walked a few feet ahead of him. Shaking his head,
he followed. The William Darcy of five years ago would have laughed, cracked a few jokes at
the old woman’s expense, and then invited Charles out to some newly opened lounge in SoHo.
Since William’s return to New York City and the company, Charles noticed just how rarely his
friend ever smiled. William had been brazen, often arrogant, but always magnetic. Now, he
reminded Charles of unused, unpolished silver. He had not seen much of William in the five
years the choreographer had traveled across the country, creating dances for different companies.
Had his friend changed so much in that span of time?
Charles frowned, wondering at the change, hoping it was merely the culture shock of returning to
New York City in winter.
Both men crossed the courtyard and headed back into the theater, its crystal chandelier still
glittering from inside the tall windows of the lobby.
Notes :
1. Turned in- Being "turned in" or "turned out" refers to the line a dancer's feet or hips make. A
dancer who is completely turned out will have her feet in a 180-degree line, with both heels
touching. A dancer who is completely turned in will have both feet parallel with each other. In
ballet, having 180-degree turnout is ideal.
Page 3 of 4
Chapter Three
William was in the center of Studio B, staring at his feet, thinking of what came next. He had
reached a dead-end. He didn’t know how to get his dancers off stage and get the principal dancer
on stage. Well, it wasn’t really a matter of not knowing how; it was more like he suddenly didn’t
care. Every so often, utter indifference overpowered William. Did it really matter? He could
have his dancers clip their toenails on stage, and the critics would call it a brilliant feat of postmodern dance. For once, he wanted them to rip him apart, give him something to prove. As it
was, this piece felt like all of the others - pointless.
The door creaked open, interrupting his thoughts, and Caroline Bingley slinked into the studio.
“Hello, William,” she said, purposely dropping her voice to a husky drawl. He turned his head to
acknowledge her.
“Caroline.”
In her street clothes, a beige Calvin Klein turtleneck with tight Seven jeans, she walked over to
where he was standing.
“I haven’t said a proper hello to you yet,” she said.
He stared down at her, with no intention of saying anything. Caroline’s bleach blonde hair hung
down around her shoulders.
“I was wondering if you wanted to come over tonight. To catch up.”
William knew exactly what she wanted to catch. “I can’t.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“You know why I can’t, and that’s the end.”
Caroline frowned. “Don’t worry about Charles. He’s a big boy. I think he’ll understand if his
sister wants to be a big girl.”
William folded his arms across his chest and stared down at her. “There are other reasons besides
Charles.”
“All of which I’ve heard before and none of which are convincing,” she said. William tsked and
walked away towards the stereo. It had been this way for almost as long as William could
remember - blatant overtures that he had spent three years avoiding. But in one post-cast party’s
drunken haze, he had allowed himself to be seduced. An action he was still paying for seven
years later.
“I’m trying to choreograph here, Caroline,” he said sharply, encouraging her to leave.
“Can I be of any assistance?” she inquired, snaking her way over to the far corner of the room
where William stood with his back turned towards her.
“No. I choreograph alone.”
Caroline huffed. “You’re too uptight for your own good, William.”
Raising his eyes to the mirror, William glowered at her reflection. “I’ll see you on Friday, Ms.
Bingley.”
Caroline chuckled, knowing when to admit defeat. She raised the corner of her lip. “No strings
attached, William. Call me if you change your mind.”
She breezed out of the studio quietly, leaving William annoyed and more disoriented than when
he began. Scratching his head, he tried to regain focus on the piece. How would he get the
dancers off stage? He found no way to integrate the corps, which functioned in this piece like the
Chorus in a Greek tragedy, into the pas de deux of the two lovers. He had not even begun to
sketch out the pas de deux in his head. His vision was of something primal, sensuous. The
dancers would slink, arch, and twist themselves into knots and somehow right themselves. But
he didn’t know where to begin and simply stared at his rigid posture in the mirror.
The New York Times had called his works “fistfuls of raging, repressed desire.” While he did
not set out consciously to create dance brimming with sexuality, it came out inevitably. It was his
trademark. No matter what the subject, time period, music, or costuming, there was always
touching, always longing gestures, always the suggestion of sex. Audiences loved to be titillated.
But recently William’s works had become darker, infused with a sexual energy that edged on
licentiousness. The more he choreographed, the less release he found. After five years of the
same consistent thread running through all of his creations, William found himself strung so
tightly that he wanted nothing more than to simply slump to the wooden floor, close his eyes,
and give up.
He approached the mirror and studied his face. Fine lines had emerged around his eyes. Twice in
the past month he had yanked out a stray gray hair from the mass of dark brown waves on top of
his head. William frowned. He had grown old. Once he could no longer dance, he felt the
heaviness of time dragging down the skin on his face. The wrinkles didn’t show now, but give
them a few years. He sighed and sunk into the chair at the front of the room, unable to envision
anything.
After several minutes of white thought, William saw visions of his younger self bolting down the
diagonal in a whirlwind series of leaps, turns, and beats of the leg. As a dancer, he had been a
completely different person - cocky and brash. He had smiled more. Definitely had more sex.
There had been nothing more exhilarating than catapulting himself three feet off the floor in a
grand jeté, whirling around in a quadruple pirouette. Nothing more gratifying than the explosion
of applause after a perfectly executed variation. And now it was gone.
In envisioning his younger days, William suddenly thought of Elizabeth Bennet. Why she should
have popped into his head at that moment, he couldn’t be sure. He thought of her dancing. She
was still clumsy in some movements, but she danced with a fierce, simmering energy. Of course,
her dancing was tempered by the delicacy required of ballerinas, but in her eyes he saw a passion
for expression that he, too, had once felt. Elizabeth Bennet, he could plainly tell, loved to dance.
William rose again and paced towards the center of the room. She definitely had a strength for
balancés, those rocking steps done in a waltz rhythm. Perhaps less vertical movements and more
horizontal would work better in this section. He attempted an impromptu phrase of balancés and
piqués, and ending with a series of chaînés. It fit with the music; it would work. Suddenly,
William had direction. He got out his notebook and scribbled down the steps, envisioning their
execution by a petite corps de ballet girl with a penchant for haughty lifts of the chin and a pair
of cold, glittering eyes.
It was the closing night of Nutcracker. As such, the entire company, administration, and staff
would be present at the cast party afterwards. Elizabeth was relieved to have the ballet finally
over. Nutcracker may have been a favorite with audiences for its kid-friendly content and
holiday theme, but most dancers detested the ballet. Elizabeth thought that Tchaikovsky must
have written the score after eating one too many candy canes. The music was much too chipper,
especially the second act, the dancing uninspiring and disjointed from any kind of story line. At
BTNY, they had been working on the ballet since October, which made nearly four months of
the same music, the same steps. Elizabeth looked forward to moving on to the spring repertoire.
The company would be performing Giselle, not one of her favorites, but at least not Nutcracker.
With a company of tired dancers, tonight’s cast party promised to be tamer than usual. Sir
William Lucas had hired a jazz quartet and rented out a restaurant by the theater. It would be
mellow, a relaxing way for the dancers to wind down from four months of Waltz of the Flowers.
Backstage after the last performance, Elizabeth slipped into the dress she always wore to these
parties, a simple navy gown with a gracefully low neckline. She had bought it on sale at Century
21. Tonight marked its fourth appearance, and she wondered when someone would notice that
she always wore the same gown to these events.
As she had only performed in Act One, Elizabeth arrived early at the restaurant. The reception
was already alive with music. About one quarter of the company was there, mostly staff and
administration. The rest had been in the second act and would come as soon as stage makeup was
removed and buns taken out. Slowly, that night’s performers began trickling in. Jane appeared in
a red Chinese-style gown, cut high in the neck, but hugging her lean body.
“Hey, Lizzy. You look gorgeous, as always.”
“In the same dress, as always.”
“No one will know,” Jane said, smiling.
Seeing a tall, blonde man weaving his way through the guests towards them, Elizabeth looked
down and mumbled to Jane under her breath, “Charles Bingley, incoming,” before he appeared
before them.
“Hello, Liz. Jane, you were wonderful tonight. Congratulations on one more Nutcracker out of
the way.” he said, a radiant smile lighting up his face.
“Thank you. You too, Charles.”
“Is your mother still in town?”
Both sisters colored, remembering the humiliating scene from the week before. “No, she did us
the favor of leaving after a weekend,” Elizabeth said dryly.
“Oh, no. She was charming,” Charles insisted.
“Try living with her for eighteen years. The charm wears off real quick.”
“She seemed to know quite a lot about the ballet.”
“She used to dance when she was young,” Jane explained.
“And she has ten years of experience finagling her daughters’ way through the dance world.
She’s a pro,” joked Elizabeth.
Charles laughed.
“You always say it like it is, Liz, no matter how devastating.”
Elizabeth winked and smiled back. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I couldn’t mean it otherwise,” Charles smiled, but then shifted his eyes to her sister. “Mind if I
steal your sister away?”
“Only if you bring her back before it’s time to go.”
Charles smiled and offered his arm to Jane, who wove her own into it. The two sauntered off to a
private corner of the restaurant, leaving Elizabeth to pluck a glass of wine off of a tray balanced
on a waiter’s open palm.
She raised the glass to her lips, scanning the room. Lydia had passed up the party for a new
nightclub in the Meatpacking District, Katherine was nowhere to be seen, and Charlotte, who
was famous for her primping, was probably still backstage with the curling iron. Elizabeth sighed
and figured that the buffet table would have to keep her company for the time being. As she
continued to gaze around the room, her eyes alighted on the figure of William Darcy listening to
Sir William Lucas and Caroline Bingley blab on about something, but strangely, his eyes were
fixed firmly on her, stormy in their intensity. Elizabeth quickly looked away, folded her arms
across her chest, and took a long sip of wine.
Slowly, so as not to be noticed, she let her eyes rove back to where he stood. He was still staring
at her. This time, Elizabeth let her gaze remain on him, and for one heightened moment, they
stared at each other. Finally, Elizabeth spun slowly on the heel of her shoe and walked away to a
corner of the room where William Darcy would not be able to cast a critical eye upon her.
As she criss-crossed through huddles of partygoers, Elizabeth realized that her heart was beating
nervously. Even outside of the studio, William Darcy’s eyes still brimmed full of condemnation.
She wondered what it could have been now - not putting her heels down as she walked? Perhaps
a less than ramrod posture? Frowning, she muttered, “Screw it” and emptied the rest of the drink
down her throat.
Glancing once more to where the choreographer stood, Elizabeth flushed when she saw him
continuing to stare. She turned away angrily. Rubbing her nose, Elizabeth made sure she didn’t
have any food stuck to it. Nothing. Elizabeth shirked even further back into the crowd, heading
over to the buffet table.
Sir William rattled on to Caroline Bingley about the line-up for the spring season. As William
paced slowly by, the director had stopped him and dragged him into the conversation. Parties
soured William’s mood and he preferred to pass the time pondering how much he hated them.
Nevertheless, William admired and loved the artistic director like a father, and so entertained the
older gentleman. Sir William had been the artistic director during William’s rise to ballet glory,
and had sustained him through his knee injury and the demise of his career. But the man, with his
affected hand gestures and penchant for gossiping, could grate on the nerves. And Caroline
Bingley - nothing else needed to be said about her. He needed to escape.
“...and Darcy’s piece is going to be it, Caroline dear. It’s going to be it. It will make you the next
Gelsey Kirkland. And if you and Darcy here will ever just get together like I’ve been saying, it
will be the best PR the company’s seen in years.”
Caroline laughed and scratched William’s bicep playfully with her long nails. Sucking in his
breath, William stiffened and drew back his shoulders in an instinctive defensive reaction.
“Excuse me,” William said, patting Sir William on the back. At events like these, William
regretted giving up alcohol four years ago. He recalled his younger dancing days, when he used
to put away glasses of champagne and martinis, when parties like this had been fun. William
headed to the buffet, hoping that if alcohol couldn’t save him, perhaps food and a solitary corner
could.
Although if he were completely honest with himself, he would also admit that several seconds
earlier he had seen Elizabeth Bennet retreat in that direction.
For reasons that puzzled him, the corps girl had occupied his thoughts more than corps girls
usually did. Her dancing, while gracious, was not stellar. She was simple - just some girl from
suburban Michigan. He had checked her file. And while she was certainly pretty in a girlish kind
of way, she definitely lacked the sophistication of the women he usually dated. So, he knew it
could not have been admiration of her talent, nor could it be the intrigue of sex, that attracted
him.
He stared not to admire, but to observe. There had to have been some particular reason why he
had choreographed nearly a minute of the first movement while thinking only of her. There was
also an excellent explanation as to why he hadn’t been able to peel his eyes off of her during
tonight’s performance. After countless Nutcracker performances, he couldn’t explain why this
particular woman had grabbed him. Perhaps she resembled some old friend or distant relative?
Thus, he stared. And when he saw her pull back into the confines of a dark and isolated corner,
in an immediate reaction, he followed.
Elizabeth saw the choreographer break away from his companions and head in her direction. She
observed the way he walked, his feet rising and landing on the stone tile, how he kept his
shoulders high and pulled back, one hand in his pocket, his eyes focused down intently. He was
heading right towards her. Panicking, Elizabeth turned around, plucked up a plate, and pretended
to be absorbed in the tray of fruit. William Darcy slid right up to her and surveyed the food as
well. When she realized her folly, Elizabeth’s stomach lurched.
They stood shoulder to shoulder in silence, both inspecting the fruit platter. Elizabeth stabbed a
few pieces of pineapple with a toothpick and dropped them on her plate. She could see from the
corner of her eye that William Darcy was oblivious to anything but the food. She doubted that he
even recognized her without her leotard and bun. His self-absorption came as welcome relief,
and Elizabeth sighed to herself. It was foolish to think he had crossed the room to purposely seek
her out.
Just as she was about to back away from the buffet, she heard him speak.
“You’re in my piece, but I don’t know your name.” Of course, William knew her name, but he
very well couldn’t let her know that.
His voice, when not fighting for authority over the music or filled with boredom or disdain,
caught her by surprise. It reverberated richly in the several feet of space between them.
Elizabeth looked up at him and replied, “Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding but keeping his focus straight ahead on the fruit. He darted his eyes to the
right where Elizabeth’s neck craned past him to the center of the room. It was the look of a
woman planning her escape. William Darcy detested small talk, and small talk with a corps
member was unthinkable. They could have nothing of worth to say, but he felt compelled to get a
few more pieces of information out of this Elizabeth Bennet. William needed her to disappoint
him: an overeager personality, nervous giggling, or the overuse of the words “like” or “you
know,” anything that would situate the young woman firmly into the brackets of “young and silly
corps girl” so that he could get on with the business of being a serious choreographer and not
some obsessed old man.
With a bland look, he turned to fully face her. She only turned her head in response, staring back
at him with a look of equally feigned indifference. “And when did you enter the company,
Elizabeth?” He said it as if he were an uncle asking his little niece what she got from the Easter
Bunny.
“About six months ago,” she answered, popping a grape in her mouth. The answer elicited no
response from William; he continued to consider her face. She wore no makeup except for
mascara and lipstick, slightly inappropriate for an affair such as this. However, she had pretty
features and smooth skin. Upon closer examination, William concluded she didn’t really need
any other makeup, black-tie gathering or no.
Waiting for him to fill in the next obligatory piece of the conversation, Elizabeth raised her
eyebrows and the corners of her lips. She turned her shoulders, and they were now both facing
each other.
With Elizabeth wearing that gown, it was inevitable that William’s gaze would fall lower. She
was a petite woman and he towered over her. The difference in height and the cut of her dress
afforded William with a lovely view, one he wasn’t normally treated to at these parties. Most
dancers were completely flat-chested. Over the years, William had learned to shut off his desire
for a nice pair of breasts, but tonight, Elizabeth’s were reminding him that he was not yet totally
desensitized. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her décolletage. Discerning where his eyes roamed,
Elizabeth flushed and narrowed her eyes.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself, Mr. Darcy.”
Inhaling sharply, William nearly choked on the pineapple he was chewing. He coughed for a few
seconds and cleared his throat.
“I mean,” Elizabeth said, smiling slyly, “isn’t this a great party?”
Holding a closed fist over his mouth, he cleared his throat. “Do you really think so?”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and turned her face to the crowd. “I do, yes. Do you not like cast
parties, then?”
“After so many of them, no. Same food, same company, same conversations...”
“Hmm, then maybe we shouldn’t converse. I wouldn’t want to subject you to such
predictability,” she said, a smile of disapproval on her face.
“Hm,” he grunted in response. Looking away, she rolled her eyes to no one in particular and
looked back at him. The choreographer wore a severe look as he perused the crowd. A waiter
breezed by them holding a try laden with wine glasses. Elizabeth stopped him and chose a glass
of red.
He stared at her as she brought it to her mouth and sipped lightly. Licking her lips, she gazed out
to the crowded restaurant, hoping her silence would provoke him to leave. Elizabeth was sure
she had offended him. Why he hadn’t walked off in a huff, she hadn’t figured out yet. The
silence dragged on for a full minute, the din of the room engulfing them. Shifting uncomfortably,
Elizabeth glanced up at the choreographer, only to find his intense gaze squarely on her mouth.
She started and frowned. Yet, he did not look away except to raise his stare from her lips to her
eyes. Elizabeth added bizarre and creepy to her list of the man’s faults. It was time to end this
awkward encounter.
“Excuse me, Mr. Darcy. I’ve just spotted a...” she began before the booming voice of Sir
William Lucas interrupted her.
“Hungry old man, coming through!” he laughed to no one in particular. “Darcy! I was wondering
where you ran off to. I see we had the same thing in mind.” The round man wagged his eyebrows
at the food. “Oh and hello, Miss Elizabeth. Enjoying yourself, I hope.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Lucas. This is a wonderful spread. You’ll have the fattest dancers in New
York if you keep on with buffets like this.”
“Ho ho!” Lucas said, rubbing his generous stomach. “We’ve already got the fattest artistic
director, eh? Well, Darcy, don’t just stand there staring. Get some food! Elizabeth, I’ve known
this boy for almost twenty years, and he gets more and more miserable at every cast party we
throw. He doesn’t dance, he doesn’t talk. He just stares.”
Elizabeth looked away from the Artistic Director and raised her focus to William Darcy. A smile
melted her features. “Mr. Darcy seems to be a very...eager observer of things,” she commented,
casting her eyes away for a brief moment.
William’s face colored at the veiled reference to his earlier observation of her cleavage.
“Yes, yes, very eager. But he should save that for the studio. Not parties!” Sir William piled
several strawberries on a plate as he spoke.
Once again, Elizabeth smiled. Sir William’s teasing manner emboldened her, and she looked
straight up into the smoldering gray of William Darcy’s eyes. “Mr. Darcy is certainly a keen
observer in the studio as well. He picks up all mistakes, no matter how miniscule.”
William blinked and straightened his posture. Being a connoisseur of the art himself, William
recognized her sublimely veiled disparagement. “I’ve always supposed, Ms. Bennet, that to be a
successful artist not only involves creative inspiration, but also an eye for perfection.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows while sipping her wine, sensing the barb behind the platitude.
“And you are, of course, successful because you excel at both,” she countered.
William bristled and arched an eyebrow at her. To his shock, she mirrored him, adding a
lopsided, knowing smirk to her features.
Sir William turned back towards them, his plate loaded with fruit, cold cuts, and mini-quiches.
“Yes, yes. That is all well and good. But this jazz band didn’t come cheap and no one’s dancing
yet!” Lucas pouted.
Elizabeth’s stomach flopped inside of her, knowing a comment like that would only be followed
with an encouragement to get out on the floor.
“The music’s wonderful, Mr. Lucas. I’d love to dance, but I have a huge blister and these heels
are killing me. You’ll have to excuse me,” she remarked, ending any suggestion of dancing that
the director might have made.
Sir William looked down at Elizabeth’s feet. “You women do have a way of torturing
yourselves, don’t you? Pointe shoes, high heels. You know in China, they bind their feet up to
give themselves high arches. It’s really quite ridiculous. What you girls do to your feet!”
“Lucas, they ended that practice almost a hundred years ago,” William said dryly.
“Ho, ho. So they did! What do I know, I’m just an old man, eh?”
Elizabeth saw William inhale in irritation and take a long sip from the tumbler. Sir William, too,
noticed his silent chastisement and winked towards Elizabeth. In a hushed whisper, he joked,
“William, you see, holds a very high opinion of his opinions.”
Looking to the choreographer, Elizabeth frowned in response. The tall man gazed out into the
crowd, away from them. In all of his severity, William Darcy, she had to admit, was an
extremely handsome man. He looked like a Calvin Klein model, magnetic in his stormy sulk.
Yet, she thought his surliness, not only towards herself but towards the happy-go-lucky director,
simply rude. He may not have enjoyed the company, but to plainly reveal it, showed a lack of
manners more appropriate in a toddler than a grown man accustomed to gatherings like these.
Turning back to Sir William, Elizabeth smiled.
“I hope you’ll excuse me. I just saw a few dancers who I wanted to congratulate. Enjoy the rest
of the party.”
“You too, darling,” he replied, smiling at her.
William returned his gaze down to Elizabeth. For a flash of a second, she held it with a glare of
her own and then turned away. William watched her leave, the image of her eyes seared into his
own. They were hazel with a darker brown band around the pupil, framed by brown lashes, not
long, but naturally curled, and expressive eyebrows. Eyes that crackled with something, he
couldn’t tell what, though. A look like that could only mean two things: come hither, or fuck off.
As Sir William continued to mumble something about the mini-quiches, William focused his
gaze on Elizabeth Bennet standing across the room. His breathing, he noticed, had quickened,
but he was not angry.
She stood, laughing with a group of soloists. A principal dancer came up to the group, and he
saw Elizabeth smile hello and offer the woman a congratulatory kiss on the cheek. William
watched her. Normally, ambitious corps de ballet members tried to ingratiate themselves with
older dancers. There were always one or two of them, the social butterflies, who cared more for
company politics than the dance.
He sensed none of this in Elizabeth. She didn’t fawn, and because of it, they accepted her as an
equal, turning to her for opinions and laughter. She commented when she needed to, never
interjecting a response simply to be noticed. Another principal dancer, a respected colleague
during William’s dancing days, pulled Elizabeth from the group to introduce her to his partner, a
dancer with New York City Ballet. She chit-chatted with them before spying her friend, the tall
girl in his piece, and excusing herself.
Elizabeth ebbed and flowed with corps dancers, principals, staff, and musicians alike. William
stood in the corner with a half-empty glass of ginger ale.
“You must be lonely, over here all by yourself,” came a voice whispered into his ear. He jerked
his neck around to see Caroline, the stem of a champagne glass held delicately in her fingers.
Clenching his jaw, William turned back.
“Alone, but not lonely.”
Caroline stepped around to join him on his right side, missing the hint. “One too many cast
parties, William?”
“Perhaps.”
“Great minds think alike. These people are so boring.”
“Not all of them.”
“Oh, no?”
“No. The company has improved since I last remember.
Caroline laughed a throaty laugh. “And so now you like these things? How the great William
Darcy has changed! And whose company, may I ask, has changed your opinion?”
Nodding his head over to the far end of the room, he replied, “Hers.”
Caroline followed his gaze. There were only two people over where William had indicated. The
really tall girl in the corps, and the short one with the boobs. Caroline frowned.
“The giraffe?”
“No. The other one, Elizabeth Bennet.”
Caroline’s frown morphed into a look of shock and then disgust. “Her? She’s in the corps de
ballet, William.”
He shrugged and kept his gaze to the far end of the room. When Caroline saw she would get no
further reaction from him, she chuckled and patted his shoulder. If William enjoyed the company
of corps dancers, then she would let him to it. “I don’t know what they did to you in San
Francisco, William...”
Turning away, she shook her head and made for the bar.
“Jane’s nuts if she doesn’t think politics belongs in the ballet world. Tell your sister she’s crazy.”
“Charlotte!” Elizabeth groaned. “Jane’s not with him to score better parts. You know she doesn’t
think like that.”
Charlotte shrugged. “But others do. I’m sure Charles does. He’s been in the business long
enough. How do you know he’s not using Jane?”
“For what? Her money? Or maybe it’s all that influence she wields,” Elizabeth remarked dryly.
“That’s not what I mean. Maybe he thinks she’s sleeping with him just for a better part. How
much you wanna bet she gets promoted?”
“If she does, it won’t be because she’s dating Charles Bingley, Charlotte.” A hint of
defensiveness crept into Elizabeth’s voice. Her sister was a good dancer and would succeed
without having to hit the casting couch.
“Liz, you know I think Jane’s great. But other people...”
“I don’t really pay attention to what other people say.”
Charlotte gave her friend a doubtful look and frowned. “You cared about what Mr. Darcy said
the other day.”
“That’s different. That wasn’t gossip. It was a comment about my career made by a
choreographer. Of course, I’m going to care about that.”
Charlotte nodded slowly, concealing another disbelieving look from her friend and scanned the
room. “So then I’m sure you won’t care that he’s staring at you again.”
Elizabeth snapped her head past her friend to where the choreographer stood alone in the far
corner of the room. She met his stony eyes and quickly averted her own. “I think I pissed him
off. I said some things back there that I probably shouldn’t have.”
“He doesn’t look angry,” Charlotte reasoned.
Elizabeth glanced over to him again and then back to her friend. “It’s a shame a man that hot can
be so utterly creepy.”
“I don’t know about creepy, but hot, yes. A bit old though, no?”
“He’s old and rude and arrogant like you would not believe. You know what he said to me back
there? ‘I’m a great artist because I’m creative and have an eye for detail.’ Implying that I don’t.
Jerk.”
Charlotte shrugged. “It’s not like he doesn’t have anything to brag about.”
“For someone with so much to brag about, he has terrible manners. He shouldn’t come to parties
if all he’s going to do is glower the whole night.”
Glancing once more in his direction, she caught William staring at her again. He casually looked
away and began pacing slowly around the edge of the room. Seeing that, Elizabeth pulled her
friend to the center of the restaurant, behind an enormous flower arrangement. For the rest of the
night, Elizabeth ensured she was always engaged in conversation, never alone, and thus never
exposed to horrible possibility of another conversation with William Darcy.
Chapter Four
Elizabeth had a fear of lists. They always, inevitably, disappointed her. The unfeeling white
computer paper, the staid Times New Roman font, and the columns, only two words per line, a
first name and a last name - cast lists. There was a mania that followed in the wake of their
posting, a stiffly shielded frustration that accompanied seeing her name towards the bottom of
the paper, or not at all.
The fear had begun back in Michigan. She was twelve years old, Jane thirteen. It had been
Nutcracker. Jane had been cast in a prime role as Franz, Clara’s older, mischievous brother.
Elizabeth was chosen to be a soldier, just as she had been for the past two years. She had
watched her sister and mother squeal and hug each other, as her heart had fallen with a dull thud
into her stomach. She remembered turning back and running her index finger up the paper again,
letting each letter on the page bleed into her memory.
Such scenes would become commonplace through the years, playing out in summer dance
recitals, Nutcrackers, and Swan Lakes. Slowly, Elizabeth’s name had risen up on those dreaded
lists, but it had never surpassed that of her sister.
One day when she was seventeen, a senior in high school, debating whether to plunge into the
professional world of dance or to stall the leap with a college education, another list had gone up.
Jane had graduated high school and moved to New York City a month prior. With no shadow left
to stand in, this was certain to be Elizabeth’s year. With Jane gone, there was no question that
Elizabeth would be cast as Clara in Nutcracker. She was the best in that small-town dance studio.
She had understudied the part the previous year.
The list went up. The very first line read: Clara- Maggie Shepherd. Elizabeth swallowed, her
insides scooped away like the unwanted seeds of a cantaloupe.
After dance class that day, she had slowly approached Mr. Bates, her teacher. He had offered her
a warm smile before asking, “What can I do for you, Lizzy?”
Steeling herself, Elizabeth raised her chin to him. “I...I just wanted to ask you about Nutcracker
casting. I...I’m happy to dance Arabian. I’m grateful. But, it’s just that...well, I thought...”
“You thought you would be dancing Clara?” her teacher offered, a sad, understanding smile
crossing his features.
Elizabeth nodded and looked down at her ballet slippers, the peach fabric dark at the tips from
continued wear. Mr. Bates chuckled sadly.
“It’s hard for me to tell you this. You’re a fabulous dancer. The best we’ve got at the studio.
Now, I know you won’t go gloating to the other girls...”
Elizabeth smiled, but furrowed her eyebrows. If she was the best, then why was she not Clara?
“You know that casting a ballet isn’t just about talent, sweetie. You’ve gotta look the part, too.”
Cocking her head in confusion, Elizabeth waited for her teacher to elaborate. He sighed.
“I’ve known you since you were this tall,” he continued, lowering his palm to the middle of his
thigh, “but you’re not a little girl anymore. Lizzy, you’ve got the body of a woman and Clara’s
supposed to be a girl.”
Realization spread across Elizabeth’s features along with a silent, scarlet blush. She glanced at
herself in the mirror and then back up to Mr. Bates. He told her how sorry he was and tried to
explain to Elizabeth that while she didn’t look the part of Clara, she could definitely pull off the
sensuous Arabian Coffee pas de deux in the second act. She barely heard the rest.
That night, before her shower, she stood looking at her naked body in the mirror. Running her
hands over her chest, Elizabeth gawked. How strange and awful to not even realize the
metamorphosis of her own flesh. Nothing about her dancing had changed, but suddenly in the
span of a year, Elizabeth’s chest had gone from tiny buds to breasts that filled her hands. She had
sunk onto the bathroom floor and sobbed over something any normal seventeen-year-old would
praise heaven for.
Several days later, Elizabeth had visited her school counselor, asking him whether it was too late
to get a letter of recommendation for a few colleges where she was thinking of applying.
Monday in rehearsal, William could not help but watch Elizabeth dance. She had finally gotten
the jump sequence, and her execution of the phrase was crisp and up to speed. With the technical
details taken care of, he was now free to admire the way her body turned and glided through the
steps.
Elizabeth was riveting. Many dancers moved only their bodies, but Elizabeth danced with her
eyes as well. Unlike the rest, she didn’t stare at herself in the mirror throughout the steps. She
didn’t have the vacant look of someone making a mental grocery list. Her eyes moved as if they
were hands or feet.
Nevertheless, William Darcy never admired, only critiqued. Elizabeth Bennet may have had a
lovely pair of olive green eyes, but they did not buy her immunity from criticism. In fact, they
seemed to inspire it. He singled her out three times in rehearsal that day, each comment growing
sharper and more exasperated. The last correction he gave her, once again about putting her heels
down in the jumps, was practically yelled in her face. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
When he turned his back to stalk off to the stereo, several dancers tried to catch Elizabeth’s eye
to offer sympathetic glances. She ignored them.
Elizabeth expected his wrath. Step on the lion’s toes, and the lion will instinctively pounce.
William Darcy believed himself king of the studio, and she had stepped on his toes at the cast
party. At least he hadn’t kicked her out of his piece. His attempts to squash and embarrass her
made her smile, actually. He was legendary, celebrated, famous in the dance and New York
social world. She was nothing. Did he really need to go to these lengths? Except for his
condescending tone, she didn’t mind his corrections much.
Tuesday’s rehearsal played out very much like the day before it.
“Ms. Bennet,” William called out over the music, “I’ve already told you. Hips forward!”
Maintaining her composure and continuing with the steps, Elizabeth jerked her right hip in line
with her left. She saw William sigh and rub his eyes. Off at the side, Jane frowned for her sister.
William’s corrections bordered on ruthless.
While his comments towards Elizabeth may have been excessive, his severity was not hers alone.
He was harsh with all of the dancers.
On one particular occasion, he focused his wrath on the other Bennet sister.
“Triple pirouette!” he yelled at Jane. “Come on, you’re in Ballet Theater now.”
Swallowing, Jane prepared for the turn, but only managed two-and-a-half revolutions and a
swivel to get her back to the front. From his chair, William propped his jaw up with his fist, and
raised his eyebrows.
“Again.”
Jane steeled her nerves, bent her knees, whipped her leg in, and completed one, two, and three
turns. But she had so much force going into the pirouette that she fumbled her landing. Coming
off of her supporting leg in an awkward position, she twisted her ankle and fell, the knee of her
other leg crashing into the wooden floor. The noise was ghastly and several of the dancers
gasped.
“Sorry!” she cried, attempting to stand up. But she yelped in pain and crumpled back to the floor,
cradling her knee.
Elizabeth was the first to rush over to her sister. Several others approached in concern. Elizabeth
knelt down next to Jane, examining her knee. “Are you okay? Can you move it?”
Jane’s eyes filled with tears, and she winced as she tried to straighten it. “No,” she whispered.
William stood and approached Jane, kneeling down next to her as well. He stared at her knee for
a few seconds, and then stood and barked to Katherine who was standing in the back.
“Go get Ms. Crawford.”
Ms. Crawford was the company’s physical therapist. Katherine scurried out of the room, and
William knelt back down to examine Jane. He smiled.
“At least you hit the turn. Nice work.”
Elizabeth snorted. He looked up at her. Her eyes were narrowed, glowering at him.
“Yes, wonderful,” she muttered.
Jane was sniffling, bravely trying to conceal how much pain she felt. William scooped her up in
his arms, and began carrying her to the therapy room, Elizabeth on his heels.
From down the hall, Katherine and Charles Bingley ran to meet them.
“What happened?” Charles asked.
Before Jane could answer, William piped up. “She took a nasty fall. It’s her knee.” He looked to
Jane to see if his assessment was correct. She nodded, wiping the tears from the corner of her
eyes.
“Are you okay?” Charles said, worry filling his face.
“It hurts to straighten it.”
A ballooning panic pressed against Elizabeth’s chest. One fall could end a dancer’s career
forever. Jane was still young, only twenty-four, and a hair’s breadth away from being promoted
to soloist. She had been the one who urged Elizabeth to join the company; she was Elizabeth’s
rock. For her sister’s career to end so young, and because of someone so unfeeling and
vicious...Elizabeth clenched her knuckles, feeling a surge of fury rise inside of her.
“Let’s get her to the therapy room,” William said calmly, starting up the stairs with Jane still in
his arms. Elizabeth and Charles followed. Once on the administrative floor, he speedily carried
her into the therapy room and placed her down on the massage table in the center of the room.
Ms. Crawford began asking Jane a string of questions, while tenderly touching the surrounding
area of her knee.
William sighed and placed his hands on his hips. He seemed disturbed, but not apologetic or
worried. His eyes darted around the room, settling on the clock above the door. Elizabeth noticed
his behavior with increasing rage. He just wanted to get back to his rehearsal! This man had just
ruined her sister’s career. Jane would never dance again, she had no college degree, she was
trained for nothing else...and all he cared about was his rehearsals. She turned away, clenching
her teeth.
Ms. Crawford looked up at the small crowd and smiled gently. “Thank you all for your concern,
but I’d like a little privacy with Jane, please.”
Charles frowned at Jane and reluctantly turned to leave. William followed him, but before he
walked out of the room, he looked at Jane and said, “You’ll be okay.”
Then, facing Elizabeth, he said, “Let’s get back to rehearsal.”
Elizabeth shot him an icy glare. Squeezing Jane’s arm, she whispered words of comfort to her
sister and then turned, her gaze hardening immediately after Jane could no longer see her face.
As her temper flared, her breathing grew shallow and her face warm. Charles had gone the other
way, back to his office. Elizabeth quickened her step to catch up with the choreographer and met
up with him just as they reached the stairwell.
“It’s a good thing that we still have a few more minutes to rehearse,” she said bitterly. “Wouldn’t
want to waste any more time than we already have.”
“The show must go on, as they say,” he replied flatly.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. They both descended the stairs, Elizabeth lagging because of her
clunky pointe shoes. “My sister’s dancing career may be finished.”
William paused on the stairs and turned to face her, his gray eyes now burning. “She won’t be
the first, Ms. Bennet.”
Elizabeth started. Opening her mouth to form a reply, she found no words. She was stunned by
his bluntness, his unapologetic lack of compassion, and his implied agreement with her that
Jane’s dancing days were numbered. William sighed when he saw the alarm pass over her face.
“She’ll be okay. If her knee were broken, she would have screamed bloody murder when I
picked her up.”
He stared up at Elizabeth, her eyes brimming with fear. She had witnessed a scene no dancer
ever wanted to watch, like seeing a friend die on the battlefield. William turned and continued
back to rehearsal, his heart beginning a slow descent into his stomach.
Inside the studio, all of the dancers, including William, were jittery and unfocused. He couldn’t
conduct a rehearsal in this state. Putting on a straight face, he pronounced rehearsal for that day
finished. The dancers quickly gathered their things and left.
Watching Jane fall had brought back memories of his career’s demise. After the dancers left, he
slumped into the chair at the front. The sound of Jane’s knee meeting the wooden floor had made
the fall sound horrific, yet bone, he knew, was far stronger than ligaments or tendons. She would
be fine. Even if it were broken, it would heal with proper treatment. He knew enough about knee
injuries to know that. And yet... Her injury had been the result of his relentless pushing. He had
never injured a dancer before, and certainly never ended one’s career. Rubbing his eyes, he
leaned his head back against the mirror, hearing only the whir of the heater and a taxi horn in the
distance.
He thought of her fall, how her arms had flailed, her face twisting in fear, the reverberation of
bone meeting wood. William remembered the sickening pop of his own knee, how his leg had
crumpled, the hollow sound of his body meeting the wood floor. And then it had been over. The
ligaments in his knee were gone and, with them, his career. The soft clod of pointe shoes
snapped him back to attention.
Elizabeth Bennet had come back to retrieve her things. He could see that her nose was red, and
she had obviously been crying. She forced her shoulders back as she stepped into the studio, her
chin up but tilted away from his gaze. William sat in silence watching her shakily kneel down
and reach for her warmers, water, and towel under the row of barres.
He felt a twinge of guilt, but not for Jane. Injuries happened. William never blamed William
Lucas for his injury, although it had happened in the artistic director’s rehearsal. Rather, William
felt guilty about his words in the stairwell, his hardness, his lack of compassion. As someone
who had experienced all of the pain and frustration of loosing a ligament and dance career,
William knew that he should have at least feigned sympathy.
Elizabeth was trying hard to ignore him. He heard her sniffle twice. Pushing himself off of the
chair, he strode to where she now stood.
She turned her eyes to him as he approached, icicles reflected in their depths. It was a look of
utter loathing, one that he wasn’t used to having directed at himself. Suddenly, in the face of this
petite, corps de ballet dancer thirteen years his junior, he felt shy and small. He swallowed and
leaned his hand against the row of barres, unable to think of anything to say.
He was so tall that Elizabeth was forced to crane her neck upwards to meet his eyes. She waited
for him to speak. After several moments, when he simply stood and stared down indifferently,
she looked at her feet and shook her head. Moving to brush past him, she was stopped by his
voice.
“You’re over-reacting. She’ll be fine.”
She chuckled bitterly and turned her head over her shoulder. “Thanks for the reassurance.”
“I do have a bit of experience with knee injuries, Ms. Bennet.”
Elizabeth simply stared into the middle-distance, making no reply. After several moments of
silence on both parts, she glanced at the choreographer one last time before exiting the room.
William sighed, contemplating all of her looks. There was no doubt; this time she wanted him to
fuck off
When Elizabeth returned upstairs, the door to the therapy room had been opened. She knocked
before entering. Jane had her leg submerged in a deep metal bathtub, her face contorted in pain.
Upon seeing Elizabeth, she managed a weak smile.
“How is it?” Elizabeth asked, deeply worried at the look of pain twisting Jane’s features.
“Freezing!” Jane exclaimed. Elizabeth walked over to the bathtub and saw her sister’s leg was
sunken up to the kneecap in ice. She laughed.
“Don’t scare me like that! The look on your face was awful!”
“It’s freaking cold,” Jane said, “but, luckily my knee’s not broken. They’re going to do some
CAT scans, but Ms. Crawford thinks I’ll just have a nasty bruise. I should be back to normal in a
few days. It hurts like hell, though.”
“Oh, Jane.”
Jane laughed. “Don’t worry, Lizzy. I’m a Bennet. We’re tougher than we look.”
Elizabeth laughed, too. Just then, Charles walked in and smiled at Elizabeth. “Your sister has
bones of metal,” he joked, as he approached Jane. Then he turned to her and said quietly, “I’ve
got to get back to the office, but I’ll be back in an hour to take you home.”
Jane nodded and smiled. Before leaving, Charles glanced briefly at Elizabeth and then kissed
Jane lightly on the cheek. He squeezed her hand before leaving the room. Elizabeth raised her
eyebrows.
“Now I see why you’re all smiles,” she teased.
Blushing, Jane wiggled her toes in the ice bath and just smiled.
“Okay, okay. I won’t press you now, but I’ll be getting the full report later tonight.”
They heard a knock at the door, and William Darcy stepped in, hands buried in his pockets. He
leaned against the doorframe, smiling awkwardly.
“Will she live?”
Elizabeth’s smile slipped away, a look that did not go unnoticed by both Jane and William.
Without making a reply, she turned her head back to Jane, leaving her sister to answer.
“Probably just a nasty bruise. It’s still tender. But Ms. Crawford said I’d be back to normal in a
few days.”
William smiled. “Glad to hear it. Your turn really was excellent. Keep that energy, just don’t fall
when you land.”
Jane nodded and laughed. “I’ll try.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and then squeezed her sister’s arm. “I haven’t even taken my shoes off.
Charles is taking you home?”
“Yup. Go on without me. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, see you at home.” Elizabeth turned towards the doorway where William still stood, her
smile instantly fading. Stepping aside to allow her to pass, William bid Jane get well soon and
then followed Elizabeth down the hall. Her gentle demeanor had disappeared, and she stalked to
the stairwell well ahead of William.
He checked his watch - 4:27. Technically, he still had over thirty minutes of rehearsal time left.
An entire day had been wasted with this mess, and he still hadn’t even touched the second or
third movements. Elizabeth, though a corps member, was at least here, and he hoped he might be
able to make headway in the pas de deux.
“Ms. Bennet,” he called, making her stop halfway down the stairs. “There’s still a half-hour left
of rehearsal time. Can I see you back in the studio?”
Eyes widening in surprise, Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort, “Dream on,” but soon realized
that technically he was right. It was still contracted working hours, and she should have still been
in rehearsal. He was the choreographer, the boss, and she couldn’t argue. She knew all of this,
but her temper was nearly through the roof. Closing her eyes, she counted down from ten.
William overtook her on the stairs, and she had no choice but to follow him.
Chapter Five
Entering the studio, William ordered Elizabeth to close the door. Her heart pounded as she
realized she would be alone with him. She had no idea what he meant to do with her, why he
would need or want to work privately with a mere dancer in the corps de ballet. If he meant
simply to intimidate her, it was working.
William walked over to the stereo and changed CDs. Elizabeth watched him from her place on
the opposite wall. The music blasted from the speakers, and William lowered the volume. He
hovered over the stereo listening, tapping out the counts with his index finger. After listening to a
few bars, he stopped the music and turned around.
“I need to work out some things for the pas de deux. Any body will do.”
Elizabeth frowned and swallowed down the lump of anger in her throat. It had been an
exhausting day. She was paid to dance, not be his Barbie doll, just some “body” to experiment
with. Folding her arms over her torso, she stared up defiantly at him.
“I’m not warm,” she said.
“Do a few relevés.”
“Shouldn’t Caroline or Louisa be doing this instead?”
“As I said, any body will do.”
Fuming, she marched to the barre as he turned on the music. Throughout her warm-ups she
glared at him, resenting this rehearsal and, deep in her heart, terrified of being in the same room
with him alone. Bach’s Air in G flowed out again from the speakers. He listened to the opening
bars a few times before pausing the music.
“Come here,” he ordered, walking to the center of the room.
Elizabeth hesitantly made her way to him. He noticed the defiance in her eyes had disappeared.
She glanced up at him tentatively. Satisfied with her acquiescence, William offered out his
hands.
“Piqué arabesque into me. Arms forward.”
Exhaling slowly, she unfurled her right leg and stepped up onto the tip of her pointe shoe, her
other leg extended to the back.
“Your hip, Ms. Bennet.”
She twisted it forward. William shook his head.
“You’ll have to have a hip replacement by the time you’re forty if you keep doing that.”
Elizabeth relaxed and put her hands on her hips.
“Tendu back,” he said
Elizabeth complied, assuming a similar position as the arabesque, only with the tip of her toe
touching the floor. Darcy lowered his hands to her hips and held onto them firmly. It was not his
touch that sent Elizabeth’s pulse racing, for she was used to hands on her body, but it was the
way his eyes darkened as he gazed at her face. “Now, arabesque.”
Raising her leg, Elizabeth struggled to create a 45-degree angle with her legs; she could normally
get her leg up over 90-degrees.
“There,” Darcy declared, releasing her hips. “That’s your true arabesque.”
Elizabeth gawked at the mirror. That was the line of a child, not a professional dancer. An
arabesque like that would get her fired. She laughed, not allowing herself to fall prey to
William’s joke.
“I’m sure Mr. Lucas wouldn’t like to hear that.”
“The more you work on it, the more flexible your hips will become. Eventually, your arabesque
will go back to where it was,” Darcy explained. “But you’re better off sticking to this. Your hip
sockets will thank you.”
Elizabeth’s mouth hung open and she had to laugh again. “Mr. Darcy, I’m sure you’ve danced
long enough to know that no teacher, choreographer, or director will let me get away with an
arabesque this low.”
Raising an eyebrow, he replied, “Then, you’d better work at getting it higher. I don’t want to see
crooked hips again.”
He turned, walked back to the chair, and plucked his day-planner from beneath it. Pulling out a
business card, he handed it to her.
“Ever done Pilates?”
She nodded. “For a semester, while I was in college.”
“Go back. This is my teacher. She’s one of the best in the city. She studied with Joseph Pilates.”
Elizabeth furrowed her eyebrows and hesitantly reached out to accept the card. She hurried to the
side of the room to place it down by her other things and then returned to the center. William
Darcy’s eyes were on her the entire time. As she approached him, Elizabeth felt her pulse
thundering. She felt sick. Despite her resolve not to let him intimidate her, she was terrified to
have him hold her, to partner with him. He had decades of dancing and choreography experience.
He had partnered with prima ballerinas from around the world, with all of the greats. Right now,
he was probably comparing her to them, when there was no comparison.
“Try again,” he said, his voice low, his eyes boring into her.
Elizabeth nearly choked on her own breath when she stepped up onto the tip of her shoe and
reached for his hands for balance. His fingers were delicate but firm under hers. He held her
there, staring down into her face. There was such intensity in his hard eyes. It made her wobble
in the balance. His hands tightened under her fingers, steadying her. Thinking of the next
movement, he raised his arms taking her hands with him.
“Developpé front,” he said. Elizabeth passed her leg from the back of her body to the front. He
walked around until he was standing behind her, both of their arms raised. “Arch back. Fall into
me.”
“What do I do with my arms?”
“Bring them around my neck.”
Elizabeth considered his request and then attempted the step. Arching her back, she allowed the
weight of her head to take her back until she felt the hardness of his chest pressed against her.
The difference in their heights made it difficult to find his neck. Glancing in the mirror, she used
their reflections to guide her hands. The image of herself pressed so close to him sent her
stomach churning. His eyes, stormy and dark, gazed into the mirror, locking with hers.
With her hands around his neck, she awaited his next instructions. Elizabeth felt the rise and fall
of his chest as he breathed, inhaled the faint spice of his shirt, and felt his breath somewhere
around her ear. And then to her horror, saw him close his eyes, turn his head towards her, and
press his lips into the crown of her head.
Elizabeth’s heart burst into a frenzied rhythm. What was this? Before she could open her mouth
to protest, one arm wrapped around her waist, pressing her torso into him. With the other, the
one closest to the audience, he grasped the soft flesh under her bicep and proceeded to run his
hand down her arm, the sides of her breasts, her ribs, and waist, finally meeting with the other
hand on her stomach.
Elizabeth held in her breath until it became shallow and ragged. She was pressed so close to him,
his nose and lips still buried in her hair. Panic began welling up inside of her. What was he
doing? Trying to seduce her? Elizabeth remained frozen, overwhelmed by him.
Then, patting one of Elizabeth’s hips, William eased her off her pointe shoes.
“Okay, I think that might work. Let’s try it again.”
He released her, and Elizabeth exhaled. She looked on incredulously as he made his way over to
the stereo and jotted down a few notes in his notebook. Staring at the broad expanse of his back,
she blushed hotly. She had thought he was trying to seduce her, when he was merely
choreographing! They both tried the sequence again, Elizabeth’s face growing redder, not from
their physical closeness, but from her own naïveté.
For his part, William marveled. Few dancers would have been comfortable with that sequence.
Most would have asked him to stop, some probably would have jabbed him in the ribs with their
elbow, or tittered uncomfortably. For a moment, he worried that Elizabeth might have been
suppressing her discomfort to placate him. He then thought of the cast party the other night, her
cutting looks and words not moments before, and knew that if Elizabeth had a problem, she was
the kind of woman who would not keep silent.
They ran through the sequence twice more. William choreographed a few more bars, then it was
five o’clock, the end of contracted working hours, and William knew he had to let her go. After
Elizabeth left, he stayed for an hour more. Steps poured from his mind down to his feet and
eventually to the pages of his choreography notebook. It was only after Charles came to tell
William he was locking up that the choreographer reluctantly packed up his notebook and CDs.
Rather than hailing his customary cab, he walked home that night, hoping that the slicing
February winds would do something to erase the sensation of Elizabeth’s lithe body pressed
against his own.
Back in her apartment, Elizabeth threw herself on the sofa and closed her eyes. She reached for
the remote and turned on the news, the monotonous blare of the TV lulling her into a light sleep.
Her rumbling stomach told her it had to be past six, but she lacked the energy even to order
Chinese.
Rolling her ankle, the ligament clicked slightly, a sound that, as of late, had become more
common. It didn’t hurt, but it was still worrisome. Elizabeth wanted to see a doctor, but didn’t
have insurance. She thought about visiting Ms. Crawford, but therapy sessions were reported to
the administration. Elizabeth worried any injury – real or potential- might jeopardize her career.
The phone rang on the end table behind her. Reaching back, she picked it up and brought it to
her ear.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Hey. Coming home now?”
Jane tittered on the other end. “Actually, uh...I’m at Charles Bingley’s.”
“Okay...”
“And he’s invited me to stay the night.”
Elizabeth’s voice raised an octave. “Okay...”
“And I’m going to stay.”
Elizabeth clapped. “O-kay! Oh my God, I want to know everything tomorrow.”
Jane laughed and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I don’t think there will be much to tell. His
sister refuses to leave. By the way, Charles told me you stayed after with William Darcy.”
“How did Charles know that?”
“I’m not sure. Mr. Darcy must have mentioned something. What were you doing?”
Elizabeth ripped a hangnail off of her middle finger. “He needed a doll to practice on.”
“A doll?”
“I helped him with the pas de deux.”
Jane was silent for a moment. “Does he want you to dance in it?”
“Ha! That’s the last thing he’d want. He spent the whole time lecturing me on my hip placement.
He says I need to go to Pilates.”
“Pilates?”
“Or I’ll need a hip replacement by the time I’m forty,” Elizabeth said, lowering her voice to
mimic William Darcy’s own deep and stern one.
“That sounds serious, Liz.”
“No, it’s not serious. He just says things like that to make his dancers feel like shit. He thinks it’s
some kind of privilege to be put down by him. Just like he was so satisfied with himself after you
nearly ruined your knee.”
“Oh, Lizzy. He wasn’t satisfied with himself. He was very worried for me.”
“He was worried about his piece.”
Jane sighed. “Don’t be so hard on him, Lizzy. Oh! Caroline’s leaving! Okay, gotta go. Can you
bring me a clean leotard and tights tomorrow?”
“Sure thing. Don’t do any more damage to that knee,” Elizabeth cooed.
Jane laughed and hung up the phone. Elizabeth smiled and shook her head, lightly chastising her
sister for her eternally optimistic outlook. William Darcy concerned for a corps dancer? Not
likely.
But she supposed that was why Jane ended up with men like Charles Bingley, and Elizabeth
ended up with the six o’clock news. It was not only Jane’s simple and radiant beauty that men
loved, but also her sweet nature, her guilelessness.
Elizabeth tried to crush the pebbles of jealousy resting in the bottom of her heart. Jane’s innocent
outlook, after all, had gotten her heart trampled on many times, by both friends and boyfriends
alike. Yet, they hadn’t shattered her rose-colored glasses. Elizabeth felt that finally Jane’s
sweetness was paying off; she had met an ideal match in Charles Bingley. Elizabeth should be
happy for her sister.
Elizabeth groaned. She couldn’t help it; she envied Jane. Elizabeth hadn’t been on one date since
coming to New York City six months ago. The life of a dancer afforded little time to socialize.
On weekdays, she came home exhausted. On weekends, Elizabeth rarely went downtown to the
bars or clubs because she simply could not afford eight dollars for a beer.
Fortunately, the thrill of living in the city and dancing at BTNY was still fresh enough to take her
mind off of her sex life. On Saturday nights, Elizabeth sometimes took the train down to the East
Village and walked around by herself, taking in the rows of brick buildings, once former
tenements, now restaurants, bars, and variety shops. Once in Union Square, with the buildings
rising up around her, the traffic roaring by her, and the people so varied in their color and
composition, she had sat on a bench and cried, overwhelmed by the incredible feeling of being in
the center of the world.
But the newness of it all was wearing off. A frigid New York winter had descended upon the
city, coloring everything gray. With the cold weather, all social activities remained indoors, and
all indoor activities - from museums, to shopping, to eating - required money, which Elizabeth
didn’t have. Plus, the glamour of dancing with superstars like Caroline Bingley (pompous diva),
Louisa Hurst (bi-polar drunk), and William Darcy (ogre) had worn off.
Elizabeth sighed and thought of William Darcy. In spite of it all, her cheeks grew hot again
remembering the feel of his hands running down her body. He was even more attractive in
person than in pictures, his eyes glittered in a way that no camera could catch. She thought of
that photo, the Hermes one, a black-and-white William Darcy stark naked, only the shadows of
the photograph preserving his modesty. That ad had caused an uproar in the world of
professional dance. Never had a classical ballet dancer been the spokesman for a commercial
product. Never had a professional dancer been launched into super-stardom the way Hermes had
launched William Darcy. Now dancers posed for all kinds of ads: watches, cars, luxury brands.
But William Darcy had been the first and, by far, the biggest.
And today his hands had been all over her. While this would have made some giddy, Elizabeth
could not muster the excitement she would have once felt. The noise of her sister’s knee crashing
into the floor replayed in her mind. Even remembering it now, her stomach twisted. It was still
not clear whether Jane would fully recover; if she didn’t, Elizabeth would blame William Darcy
in all of his unfeeling arrogance.
Elizabeth’s ankle cracked again when she pointed her toes. Frowning, she pointed and flexed,
each time her ankle produced the same click, as if the ligament were stuck on something. That
wasn’t a good sound. She remembered the business card William had given her.
She had no clue how much Pilates lessons cost, but figured it had to be cheaper than seeing a
doctor and more private than going to Ms. Crawford. Pressing the talk button on the cordless
phone, she dialed the number on the card. The line rang several times.
“Hello?”
“Yes, hello. My name is Elizabeth Bennet, I dance with Ballet Theater of New York and I was
given your card by a....teacher.”
“Yes?”
“Um, I’m interested in your Pilates lessons.”
“Okay, would you like private or group lessons?”
“Um...when are your group lessons?”
“Usually on Saturdays at eight.”
“A.m.?”
“Yes. I do sometimes arrange Thursday night lessons, but only rarely. Privates I can do at your
convenience.”
“Okay, and how much are those?”
“For professional dancers, I have a special rate. Seventy-five for an hour.”
Elizabeth almost dropped the phone. “Oh, I see. And how much are group lessons?”
“Fifty dollars.”
Fifty dollars, Elizabeth mouthed in open-jawed horror. “Uh, okay, well, let me check my
schedule and I...uh, I’ll call you back. Thank you.”
The voice on the other side thanked her and Elizabeth hung up the phone. Shaking her head, she
again grumbled, “Fifty dollars. What kind of Pilates does that woman teach? What dancer could
afford that?”
Pushing herself off of the sofa, Elizabeth treaded into the kitchen to come up with that night’s
meal. The refrigerator offered her few choices, the cabinets even fewer. Sighing, Elizabeth
pulled out a half-filled carton of eggs and a pack of mushrooms. What she could buy with fifty
dollars! Surely something that tasted a lot better than an omelet again, for the third night that
week.
The dancers glanced at each other in confusion and then up at the clock on the back wall. Before
he had a chance to take it back, they quickly scrambled for their things and made their escape
from the studio. William Darcy had ended rehearsal thirty minutes early in a gracious, if
uncharacteristic, gesture.
Smiling and raising her eyebrows at Charlotte, Elizabeth thought of all the things she could do
with thirty extra minutes of daylight. The bank would still be open. She could grab a leisurely
cup of coffee before dinner.
“Ms. Bennet,” William called, making the smile disappear, “I’d like a moment of your time.”
Charlotte furrowed her eyebrows, in a silent question to her friend. There was no reason why the
choreographer would want to see Elizabeth alone. Elizabeth, however, looked more annoyed
than confused or frightened. Rolling her eyes towards her friend, she waved Charlotte’s look
away in a gesture that said, “I’ll fill you in later.”
With her hands on her hips, Elizabeth turned to face William, trying to conceal the frantic
rhythm of her pulse behind a mask of annoyance. He waited for the last dancer to leave before he
rose from his chair, strode past her, and closed the door gently.
Elizabeth waited for him to begin speaking, unsure of why she had found herself, once again,
alone in a dance studio with William Darcy. Turning back to her, he held her gaze for a long
moment, both still. William moved first, stalking past her to the stereo.
“Mr. Darcy?”
He made no reply, instead replacing the CD and then pacing back into the center of the room.
William held Elizabeth’s eyes with a gaze that made her stomach wobble.
“What we did yesterday,” he snapped. Hearing his tone, Elizabeth regained herself. She snorted
and shook her head. William narrowed his eyes.
“You’d rather not work anymore today?” he asked flatly.
“It’s not that.” Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. He glared at her in reply.
“Mr. Darcy, are you trying to intimidate me? Or, prove a point?”
William started in confusion. No one had ever spoken to him like that, certainly no woman, and
most definitely not a corps girl. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how to respond. Should he dignify
such disrespect with an answer? Kick her out of the room? Or ignore the remark altogether?
Inhaling slowly, he straightened his back and gazed down into Elizabeth’s cold eyes.
“It’s called choreography, Ms. Bennet,” was all he could muster. Inwardly, he stamped on his
own foot. Justifying himself to a member of the corps. He should have just kicked her out.
“Is there a reason that I have, once again, been honored as the vessel for your creative genius?
Caroline and Louisa were both in rehearsal before.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
“I’d have to teach them everything from the last time. You’ll do. Piqué arabesque,” William
ordered, ending all argument.
Elizabeth raised her chin, her eyes smoldering with resentment. She contemplated telling him
where to go and walking out, but immediately thought of Caroline Bingley and her diva fits. No,
Elizabeth would not lower herself to that. Composing herself, she swallowed down the acid in
her throat and followed orders.
But, she found it was not easy. Partnering was about cooperation, and Elizabeth had never
danced with a man she so badly wanted to knee in the crotch. Without thinking, she went
through the same steps that they had danced before, but instead of Bach, her pulse throbbed in
her ears.
William Darcy’s face remained as placid as stone. He completely ignored Elizabeth’s dancing;
this rehearsal was about him and his choreography. He showed no gratitude for her help or effort.
So, when he commanded the steps, she performed, but always slipping traces of her displeasure
into the dance. If he pressed her to him, she craned her head away. Elizabeth arched herself away
from him when he touched her. She kept her face as solid and fortified as his. As his eyes grew
darker, Elizabeth congratulated herself on so thoroughly and innocuously pissing him off. He
deserved it.
In the mirror, William watched his pas de deux slip from the confines of his vision. Elizabeth
Bennet was interpreting his dance far too liberally, teetering on the brink of outright defiance.
She was sabotaging his choreography. And it looked amazing. The choreographer in him itched
to chastise her, but the artist in him whispered to let the girl do what she wanted. The artist won.
From up close, William could see that Elizabeth was raging mad. He knew women enough to
know that. Her cheeks were flushed red not only from physical exertion, but also from
suppressed fury. Those eyes glittered with frosty contempt whenever he paused the music to
offer her further instruction. She was so small in his hands, but certainly not frail. Her dancing
was fluid and rich. Despite being in his foreboding presence, she moved with assurance. William
found his mind straying from choreography.
Elizabeth’s eyes distracted him. They were such an interesting color, somewhere between
yellow, brown, and green, framed by lush eyelashes. A few freckles dotted her nose and cheeks
and several wisps of hair were matted by sweat against her temples.
Then there was the issue of her body. As a dancer, it disappointed, but beyond that William
could find nothing lacking. She was not bony or chiseled; her muscle did not reveal itself in
harsh cords down her neck. It was certainly there, but gracefully defined by indentations in her
flesh when she moved. The scoop of her leotard revealed a soft plane of skin, and further down
the darkened valley of her cleavage. William moistened his lips and swallowed. To his chagrin,
Elizabeth’s curves were indirectly messing with his choreography; he so strongly wanted to feel
her pressed up against him that he completely ignored the movements he had choreographed the
night before and changed the dance to suit his...needs.
This had really gone beyond professionalism, he chided himself.
William looked at their reflections in the mirror; his own – the ballet demigod, Manhattan
socialite, one-time Hermes model, Julliard educated, world-renown choreographer, and hers –
just some corps de ballet member. It was then that William decided to break with one of his
policies. He ended rehearsal early, with four minutes to spare.
He stood at the stereo, with his back to her, pretending to write in his notebook. But really, he
was trying to control his breathing the way he had learned in yoga class. He believed in the
power of the body and its ability to control the mind. If he could calm his senses, then he could
calm his thoughts, but today controlled breathing wasn’t working.
Staring up into the mirror, he watched her unfurl the ribbons of her pointe shoes. When Elizabeth
pulled off the left shoe, he noticed a wine-red stain on the toes of her tights. A burst blister.
William had grown used to these miniature displays of gore and did not look away.
Elizabeth glanced up at him, catching his gaze. Although blisters were a way of life for her,
something she couldn’t prevent any more than she could prevent a hangnail, she suddenly felt
ashamed of her bloody toe. He stared at her severely, probably disgusted. Her feet should have
been so callused by now that she could withstand even the hardest of shoes. Elizabeth and
William remained with their gazes locked in the reflection of the mirror.
“Did you call Phillips?” he asked suddenly.
Elizabeth looked puzzled.
“Marge Phillips. The Pilates teacher whose card I gave you.”
“Oh, right.” Elizabeth heaved herself off of the floor, her pointe shoe ribbons dangling from her
hand. “Yes, I called her yesterday.”
“When are you going to see her?”
“I’m not.”
William frowned. “Why?”
“Her prices are a bit steep for a mere corps de ballet salary.”
“She’s worth every penny.”
“Well, she charges more pennies than I can afford,” Elizabeth said, dropping her pointe shoes in
her bag.
“Think of it as an investment in your dancing career. You really need Pilates, Ms. Bennet. You
need to correct your bad alignment.”
Elizabeth clenched her jaw. “Mr. Darcy, I still have student loans. Once those are paid off, I’ll
think about it.”
“And when will those be paid off?”
“A few years.”
William shook his head and walked over to her. “It will be too late by then. You don’t put your
heels down when you jump and I’m surprised you don’t already have ankle problems. Then,
there’s your extensions, which you’re forcing.”
Elizabeth thought of the clicking in her ankle. Yes, he may have had a point, but that didn’t
excuse the attitude. Placing her hand on her hips, Elizabeth smiled down to the floor and then
back up at him. She raised her eyebrows in silent reply.
“You and your sister could split the cost of a private lesson. It would be less than forty dollars
each,” he said.
“That’s forty dollars that we each don’t have.” The smile faded from her mouth. She had no
desire to discuss her financial situation with a man who had no clue about the value of money.
“Perhaps if you were to go out less on the weekends, you would be able to afford it,” he retorted.
“I don’t go out on weekends.”
He stared at her doubtfully. A young, single, and beautiful woman like Elizabeth, who lived in
the most exciting city in the country, didn’t go out on weekends? Not likely. His eyes reflected
aggravation and disbelief. Again, both locked eyes in a silent clash.
The creaking of the door hinges broke their stand off. Charles poked his head through, looking
puzzled. Both Elizabeth and William stared back at him, not offering any words of greeting.
Opening the door further, Charles entered the studio and smiled.
“All of the dancers were out...I thought rehearsal might be over,” he explained.
“It is,” William said gruffly, turning back and heading towards the stereo.
“Hello, Liz,” Charles said, smiling at her.
Elizabeth managed to return the smile, but still felt her whole body tense with irritation. She
glared at William Darcy’s back, which did not go unnoticed by Charles. He wondered what
William could be doing in here with her alone. He would have to ask later.
“Will, I’m leaving now. Are you coming over?”
“Yes, I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“Hey, Liz, you should come too. Your sister’s coming.”
“Where should I go?”
“My house. I’m cooking dinner.”
“You cook?” she asked incredulously. Somehow, she always imagined Charles as too sweet to
be practical and too rich to do anything for himself.
“Not really,” he replied, “but I grill a mean chicken breast. Come. Jane’s coming.”
Elizabeth glanced over nervously to William. She didn’t feel right going over to the assistant
artistic director’s house. Jane may have been dating him, but Elizabeth’s relationship with him
was strictly work-related. Plus, William would be there. After barely tolerating his insults and
condemnation for thirty minutes, Elizabeth doubted that she could withstand his grave face from
across a dinner table.
Sensing her hesitancy, Charles smiled. “You’re coming. I insist. We’ll meet you downstairs in
fifteen minutes.”
Elizabeth, seeing Charles’ generous and genuine smile, raised the corner of her lips and nodded.
“I-I’m going to go get showered,” she said feebly, before rushing out of the studio.
Once she was gone, Charles stood patiently, waiting for his friend to explain. William sensed his
friend eyeing him.
“I don’t want to hear about it, Charles.”
“Just wondering if there was a reason you were rehearsing privately with Elizabeth. You’re not
one to bother with the corps de ballet. That’s all.”
“I know what you’re implying, and it’s not that.”
“No?”
“Charles, I don’t like your tone.”
Laughing, Charles replied, “That might matter to the dancers, but you know I don’t watch my
tone when I’m with you, Will.”
William glared at his friend and strode towards the door. “Let’s go. I’m getting hungry and
sitting here listening to your accusations isn’t making it any better.”
Except for Elizabeth, the locker room was empty. Pulling her wet hair back into a low ponytail,
she only had enough time to apply a coat of mascara and wet her lips with clear gloss. Elizabeth
frowned at her reflection. She hoped this wasn’t a fancy dinner party; she had come to work that
day in sneakers, loose yoga pants, and a pink long-sleeved shirt. With only fifteen minutes to
shower and change, she didn’t exactly look elegant. William would probably take any
opportunity he could to critique her appearance. Reaching in her makeup bag, she applied a bit of
eyeliner and then gathered her things to leave.
Throwing on her red pea coat, she headed downstairs, where she saw Charles and William
already waiting for her outside.
“Sorry I took so long.”
Charles smiled. “No problem. My place is close by, so we’ll walk if that’s okay with you.”
“Yup, sounds good.”
William glanced down at Elizabeth. The physical exertion of dancing had colored her cheeks, but
the shower had left her skin fresh and glowing. With her eyelashes now coated with mascara, he
admired how thick they were. Bundled up in her pea coat and thick white scarf, she looked
adorable, like a doll.
“Jane had to run to the post office. She said she would meet us at my place,” Charles said.
Elizabeth nodded, feeling awkward in the company of the two older men.
“Don’t worry, Liz. We won’t bite,” Charles joked, “At least I won’t.”
William threw an annoyed look at his friend. But, glancing down, he saw Elizabeth smiling to
herself. His heart thudded and he turned away.
Charles asked how rehearsals were proceeding. Elizabeth let William answer and contented
herself with staring up into the stormy winter sky. The weather forecast had predicted snow for
that evening, and indeed, the first flakes flurried around them. She fell behind them a few steps,
listening to both men talk about the flooring in Studio B versus C. Such a trivial subject really.
Suddenly, Elizabeth was overcome by a feeling of awe, like an out-of-body experience, strange
and overwhelming. She was walking down Broadway with William Darcy and Charles Bingley,
going to Charles’ house for dinner. It was too weird. These were dancers whom she had read
about as a child, and now she was socializing with them as their peer.
Elizabeth was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the conversation between
William and Charles had died out. Looking up to the tops of the buildings, she had a soft smile
across her face, lost in reverie. William cast his eyes back to her and was suddenly struck by her
innocent beauty. She wore a look of wonder unique to New York City newcomers. It was the
first time he had seen her up-close without that glacial look on her face. She was radiant.
Inexplicably, he felt an overpowering need to speak to her.
“You know, they say length of time you’ve lived in New York is inversely proportionate to the
angle of your vision when you walk down the street,” he blurted out.
Charles turned to him with a confused grin. Immediately, the pleasent smile faded from
Elizabeth’s lips.
“You’ll have to explain that one for those of us who don’t excel at geometry,” she quipped.
“The longer you’ve lived here, the lower you look. I’ve lived in New York for most of my life,
and I never walk with my eyes up. I always look down,” he said, attempting a smile. “And you
look up. Only newbies and tourists look up.”
“Am I so easily given away?”
William only shrugged. Charles interrupted with a deep laugh. “Don’t listen to this one, Liz. I
always walk with my eyes up. How can you not in a city like this? There’s so much to see. And
I’ve lived here all of my life, too.”
Elizabeth smiled archly at William as he looked back to her. He shrugged in defeat
“Perhaps, Mr. Darcy, the angle of your vision has nothing to do with how long you’ve lived here,
but your general outlook on life.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, those who aren’t afraid of what’s coming at them don’t stare at the cracks in the
sidewalk.”
“I’m not afraid of what’s coming at me. But I am afraid of the crazies in this city.”
“There are plenty of normal people, too.”
William chuckled, a trace of bitterness creeping into his tone. “Ah, to be young and naive again.
Eh, Charles?”
Charles could only smile uncomfortably, hesitant to be dragged into the middle of the spat. He
wondered at his friend, who never even spoke with corps members much less held private
rehearsals with them. Charles suspected that William may have been attracted to Elizabeth, but
his manner of speaking to her could be described as nothing less than disdainful. Charles knew
that when William pursued a woman, he usually turned on the charm. This was not typical
behavior for William Darcy.
“Well, here we are,” Charles said eagerly, hoping to ease the tension.
Chapter Six
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(2). 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 Seven
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. Golddiggers, 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 Eight
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 warmup.”
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 Nine
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 Ten
“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.
Chapter Eleven
For the last time, Elizabeth stood alone in the center of Studio B as William Darcy frowned into
his notebook. She knew it was the last time because he only had twenty seconds left of the music
to choreograph.
“Let’s begin,” William said, dropping the notebook down on the chair and walking towards her.
“I need to get this thing finished today.”
He stopped in front of her and half-smiled. “I’ll bet you’re happy.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow in an ambiguous reply. She was happy. After Charlotte’s comment
yesterday, Elizabeth just wanted these rehearsals to end and to distance herself from William
before she became universally hated by all in the company.
William began explaining the final steps of the piece, which crescendoed in contrast to the sedate
fade of violins. The phrase began with en dedans piqué turn into his arms that stretched out into
an arabesque, before a final jump and supported lift. The problem was that all of these steps
were done on one leg only- the leg that had been bothering Elizabeth for some weeks.
She executed the turn stiffly, and couldn’t bend her knee before the jump without wincing.
“Plié more before the jump,” William told her.
Elizabeth tried, and grimaced. Letting go of her, William stared down at her ankle, his face
grave.
“How long has that been bothering you?”
“What?”
“Don’t be coy. Your ankle.”
“My ankle is fine.”
“Okay, then plié more before the jump.”
Glaring at him, she tried the step again. She didn’t wince this time, but William caught her jaw
stiffen as she tried to suppress the bite of pain to her Achilles. Again, he let her go. William let a
long moment pass between them, frowning into her face. Elizabeth merely stared unemotionally
at the wall.
“Go stretch it out,” he said, before returning to the chair at the front and opening his notebook.
Elizabeth remained still. Then, she sunk to the floor, kicked out her leg, grabbed her toes, and
stretched the aching tendon. Her face grew hot. Refusing to look up, she studied the stitching of
her tights. She felt his eyes on her.
“So, you’re going to the Gala with Colin what’s-his-name?” he asked suddenly.
Elizabeth looked up and frowned, unsure how to answer that question, or whether it was even
appropriate.
“I’m not,” she replied in a guarded tone.
William broke into a sardonic smile. “Ah, but he was so confident that you would go with him.”
“I have no clue what would lead him to believe that. Would you, Mr. Darcy?”
“Knowing you, I’m sure there’s some double meaning behind that statement. But, no, I don’t
know why he would think that.”
Elizabeth yanked harder at her toes, relishing the burn in her calves and thighs. Knowing you, she
thought bitterly.
“You’re not going with anyone then?” he asked casually.
Elizabeth smiled. “I am going with someone, in fact. Greg Wickham.”
His face fell perceptibly. It was the revenge she’d wanted, and Elizabeth looked back down at
her tights to conceal the smirk on her lips. She kept stretching, but the silence continued.
Glancing up, Elizabeth caught William staring over to the windows, his forehead creased in
anxiety. Her revenge lost its sweetness.
Elizabeth kept her gaze on his, hoping he would look back at her with challenge flashing in his
eyes. William just rubbed his mouth, and continued to frown at nothing. He stood sharply.
Following his back with her eyes, Elizabeth felt her stomach sink.
“From the beginning,” he mumbled, his back towards her as he cued the music. “Be careful with
your ankle.”
Standing, Elizabeth looked down to the tips of her pointe shoes and muttered a curse under her
breath. She closed her eyes, trying to suppress the guilt bubbling inside of her. Somehow, it was
easier when he struck back. Elizabeth wondered whether she should apologize, but laughed at the
thought. Apologize for what? For going to the Gala with Greg? Just because the two men held a
grudge against each other, didn’t mean it had to affect her. Besides, William was in the wrong,
not Greg. There was nothing to apologize for.
William pointedly avoided eye contact as he made his way back to the center of the room. Once
the music began, Elizabeth tried to focus on the steps. However, she found it difficult when
William refused to respond to her. His touch was hesitant, his eyes vacant. The steps felt dead.
To compensate, Elizabeth exaggerated hers even more. She became someone else, the temptress
of William’s pas de deux and not just some unsophisticated corps girl. Elizabeth looked at him
with eyes not her own. She was sultry and provocative.
It seemed to work. About a minute into the pas de deux his eyes rested on hers. They still seemed
troubled and aloof, but at least they engaged with hers now. Despite her feelings for the man,
Elizabeth needed him with her when they danced. How could she perform a pas de deux
otherwise?
The sudden role-reversal upset Elizabeth. William had always been the one coaxing the dance
from her. It felt odd to take the lead, to know how the pas de deux should have been danced, and
to have to tease it from him. She furrowed her brow, feeling her insides tremble with insecurity
and frustration.
“No,” she whispered, “I need you to hold me tighter.”
William started, her criticism slapping his crisply. Then, Elizabeth felt his grasp steady under her
fingers. His eyes wandered over her face, and they cleared of their disquiet. He frowned in that
same severe, disapproving manner. However, the look now filled Elizabeth with relief. The
William Darcy she knew had returned. They danced the remaining minutes of the piece as they
always did.
Coming to the final seconds of the piece, William suddenly spoke. “Scratch that ending. After
the last turn, echappé front then sousous and put your hands here.” He patted his neck.
Elizabeth complied as best as she could with the impromptu instructions. Raised up on the tips of
her pointe shoes, her eyes were even with his, her arms wrapped around his neck. Now that her
gaze was at his level, she started at him firmly. In the hard lines of his face, only his eyes yielded
– as gray and churning as tornado clouds. The final phrases of the music filled the room, but
William did nothing. He only scanned her face with those tornado-eyes.
Amidst the last trill of the violins, William edged his face to hers. Elizabeth’s eyes widened in
shock as his lips fell suddenly but softly down on her mouth. It was so unexpected, yet so tender.
His lips moved languid and assured. As the music died, William’s hands came up to cradle her
face. Elizabeth’s eyes were still open and she saw that his were not. Never, not in any late-night
fantasy, had she anticipated such an ending. Never had she dreamt that a man’s mouth could feel
like that.
The CD changed to the darker Fugue in G. Pulling away, William looked at her briefly, an
inexplicable color across his face, and brushed past her to stop the music. His movements were
perfunctory and cold.
“That’s it,” he said, returning to her. “Just echappé , sousous, and the kiss.”
It was as she thought – just dancing and nothing more. Elizabeth ran her tongue across her lips,
her eyes still round. Nodding, she felt her throat become as dry as paper.
“You did the lift fine, so I think I’ll finish here today. Thanks for your help.”
Nodding, Elizabeth backed out of the studio slowly, then nearly tripped on herself as she turned
and strode up the hall. She stumbled down the first flight of steps, her knees wobbling. In the
landing, she clutched onto the rail and stared at her trembling fingers.
“What the hell?” she whispered, just to hear her voice, just to make sure what had happened had
not been a hallucination.
Trace-like and rewinding through rehearsal again, she continued back to the dressing room, the
final bars of Bach swirling over and over in her head, the impression of his lips seared onto her
own. Elizabeth would never forget their taste or their softness. She didn’t know what to think.
Even if it had been his choreography, he could have warned her. A dance step and a kiss were in
two different leagues, after all. Something told her she should have been livid.
Nevertheless, in spite of all rational thought, Elizabeth could barely suppress the gasping urge to
fly back up the stairs and have him do it again.
Before she could act on those feelings, she threw her clothes on, not even bothering to strip off
her dance-wear, and ran out of the building, up the block, and down into the depths of the
subway entrance on Columbus Circle.
That evening, Jane wondered at the thudding and crinkling noises coming from her sister’s room.
Even over the blare of Everybody Loves Raymond, she could hear Elizabeth tearing things apart.
During the commercial break, Jane rose from the sofa and went to her sister’s closed bedroom
door. She knocked softly and let herself in.
Elizabeth sat in the middle of several boxes, their contents – from papers to old trophies and
stuffed animals – sprawled across her bedroom floor. Jane raised an eyebrow.
“Should I even ask?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Jane, I promise I’ll explain all of this tomorrow. Right now, I just
need you to leave me alone, okay?”
Jane sensed desperation in her sister’s tone. Nodding, Jane made no reply and closed the door.
After nearly an hour of going through two boxes of old stuff, Elizabeth finally hit upon the thin
manila folder she had been looking for. Her frenzy died, and she pulled it from the large
cardboard box in front of her, with as much reverence and anticipation as an archeologist digging
up buried treasure. Opening it, she gingerly went through a stack of magazine clippings: Mikhail
Baryshnikov, Darci Kistler of New York City Ballet, some nameless dancer in a gorgeous leap,
the Bolshoi ballerinas lined up perfectly in the second act of Swan Lake, and then what she was
looking for - Perfection, by Hermes.
It was a black and white photo of William Darcy, naked and taut, his leg straightened behind him
in a rigid tendu. Half of his body was lost in shadows. His muscles rippled everywhere. A hard,
sculpted calf rose to a bulge of thigh muscles rising even further to his hard gluteus. One half of
his abdominals hid in darkness. The Grecian arms. His head thrown back, eyes closed in either a
look of fierce concentration or of lust. His body glistening. The man was perfection. Just like the
name of Hermes’ cologne.
Elizabeth’s heart exploded. She hadn’t seen the photograph in years. She was only a girl of ten
when she had first seen it, but now she could appreciate the picture through the eyes of a woman.
Her breathing stopped. Finally, Elizabeth understood the commotion it had caused. Suddenly,
she understood why flocks of teenage girls had, at the time, swarmed to Ballet Theater
performances like groupies at a boy-band concert. William Darcy, Principal Dancer, Ballet
Theater of New York, said the fine print running up the left edge of the advertisement.
Elizabeth’s breathing grew ragged and she touched her lips.
For a minute, for an hour, Elizabeth couldn’t be sure which, she stared at the photograph. A
cacophony of emotions careened through her. Such a beautiful, rotten man. But sometimes
funny, sometimes tender. Oh, but so obnoxious, so arrogant. But those lips….those lips…
Elizabeth ran her tongue over her mouth, primal impulses lapping at her insides.
“No!” she whispered sharply to herself, “Are you going crazy? And now you’re talking to
yourself. Dammit.”
Elizabeth chuckled and closed the manila folder. Setting the Hermes ad aside, she cleaned up the
mess, shoving papers and memorabilia back into the boxes. She reappeared in the living room,
just in time to catch Big Brother with Jane. Her older sister made no mention of the prior scene.
The two girls argued over who would get kicked out of the house that night. In the end, it was the
person whom neither had expected.
The next day, Jane went to retrieve a leotard that Elizabeth had borrowed the week before.
Unfolded on Elizabeth’s dresser was the photo of William Darcy that her sister had taped to her
bedroom wall years ago. Jane picked it up and stared at it for a moment. So William Darcy had
been the source of last night’s commotion. A smile curved across Jane’s lips, and she left the
room quietly, replacing the photo in the exact place it had been before she found it.
On an unseasonably warm, Sunday afternoon, when Jane had gone out to brunch with Charles
and his parents, Elizabeth decided to take the subway down to the East Village as she often did.
She stepped up at St. Marks Place, into a world entirely more colorful and loud than to which she
was accustomed. She sauntered through the streets and avenues, window-shopping. Stopping at
Veniero’s, Elizabeth purchased a cannoli to-go and a coffee from a wagon set up along 1st
Avenue, and ate her snack on the stoop of a red-brick building.
A belt displayed in the window of a vintage clothing boutique caught her eye, and she stopped
in. The price ended up being far too high for a mere belt. About to leave, Elizabeth paused when
a sparkling strap grabbed her attention. She reached her hand into the rack and pushed aside the
clothes, revealing a long, black ball gown with beaded straps and neckline.
“That’s a great piece,” the shop lady offered. “Just came in a couple days ago. Authentic
1940’s.”
Elizabeth plucked it from the rack and sighed. The immaculate wool did not reveal the dress’
age; it looked as if it had never been worn.
“It’s gorgeous,” she sighed, fingering the glimmering, black beads at the collar. Her fingers
edged inside the dress, and plucked out the price tag: $275. Sighing again, this time in
resignation, Elizabeth tucked the tag back in. Sensing her customer’s interest, the saleslady
emerged from behind the register.
“This dress was handmade. All of the beads were stitched on by hand. They don’t make dresses
like this anymore. Really, for this price, the dress is a steal.”
Elizabeth frowned good-naturedly. “I wish I could agree with you. It’s a bit out of my price
range.”
Shaking her head, the saleslady smiled. “You won’t say that once you try it on.” She took the
dress from Elizabeth’s hand and whisked her to a small dressing room in the back of the store.
“Let me know if you need any help.”
Once alone, Elizabeth shrugged. Trying on didn’t cost anything, after all. She slipped out of her
coat and clothes, and zipped up the gown. Her eyes widened. The dress fit her like a dream. It
was definitely a piece of clothing from yesteryear. Meant to be worn with a corset, it cinched in
at the waist, with a gracefully scooped neckline. It hugged her hips and thighs, flaring out under
her knees. Granted, because of her height, the dress trailed on the floor more than it should, but it
was nothing a pair of four-inch heels wouldn’t fix. Elizabeth twirled in the mirror, imagining the
look on Greg’s face when he saw her in a dress like this. A corset and four-inch heels. She
smiled wickedly, imaging Greg’s face once he got her out of the dress. The woman had been
right; for $275, a dress that fit her like this was a bargain.
“How’s it going in there?” the saleslady called.
Elizabeth opened the door to the dressing room, beaming. “Do you take MasterCard?”
Caroline Bingley’s eyes radiated anger like a spotlight. William had just demonstrated the last
steps of the pas de deux and she did not like what she saw. The choreography itself did not
bother her. Rather, how and with whom the steps had been choreographed incensed the prima
ballerina.
“And after the kiss, the lights fade,” William said nonchalantly.
The entire pas de deux was five minutes of foreplay set to classical music, on which, Caroline
was positive, Elizabeth Bennet had wielded a heavy influence. William was partial to her. That
was obvious. It was also obvious he was attracted to her. The burning, vitriolic question was:
How had Elizabeth Bennet done it?
Caroline had been trying to win over William for years. More than a few dancers had. However,
when it came to his choreography, William staunchly rejected any temptation that would
“question the integrity of his work,” as he had once told her. Yet, here they were, being told they
would have to make out on stage like some kind of avant-garde, East Village freak show. So
much for integrity.
Caroline crossed her arms over her chest, pouting. Louisa Hurst gawked wide-eyed at the
choreographer.
“We really have to...kiss?” she asked with contempt.
Her partner, Jacob, laughed. “Don’t worry, hun. I won’t be thinking about you.”
William’s face stiffened. “The kiss is part of the choreography.”
“William, this is hardly proper,” Caroline interjected.
He glared at her. “I’ll be the judge of what’s proper for my choreography.”
Caroline glanced over to Louisa. Marc also seemed uncomfortable with the kiss, but for other
reasons, namely his irate partner. Jacob tore a hangnail off of his pinky with his teeth.
“Oh, it’s your decision after all. I would just hate to see all of our artistic integrity compromised
just because you and Elizabeth Bennet went a little overboard in one of your private rehearsals.
That’s all.” Caroline’s tone turned bitter.
William swallowed hard. The other dancers looked away awkwardly. Mirroring Caroline’s
stance, the choreographer folded his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow. “Ms. Bingley,
let me make you an offer. Since you’re so worried about your artistic integrity, I invite you to get
the hell out of my rehearsal until you feel you’re ready to work like a paid professional.”
Caroline’s nostrils flared. Slowly, she unfolded her arms and straightened her posture. “You have
no right to tell me who’s a paid professional. Fucking some little corps girl!”
“There’s the door.” William nodded to the opposite end of the room with his chin.
The prima ballerina paused, looking from Louisa, who refused to meet her gaze, back to
William. Seconds later, she huffed and whirled on the ball of her toe, storming from the room.
William pursed his lips, concern flashing momentarily in his eyes. It faded a second later. He
looked to his dancers, his lips twisting into a half-smile. “Let’s try that section from the
beginning.”
That day, William had let out all of the corps dancers early to work on the pas de deux with the
four principals. When he dismissed all of them, Elizabeth included, a sinking sensation pulled at
her. She had hated those rehearsals. She had hated their forced intimacy. She thought she had
hated the unwanted attention, but as she trudged out of the studio, once again a nameless face in
the crowd of corps dancers, Elizabeth felt betrayed.
Elizabeth changed clothes slowly, her mind pulled back to rehearsal last week. To the warm
pressure of William’s lips on hers and his hands on her cheeks. The skin on her arms tingled. No
doubt that kiss, too, would end up in the piece. The entire company, an entire theater of
spectators were to be unwitting voyeurs into something that should have been between only the
two of them.
She shook her head sharply. No, Elizabeth reminded herself, it wasn’t a kiss. It was a dance step.
Yet, that thought offered no consolation. It unsettled her further. Elizabeth wondered what she
was to him. He treated her with indifference at best, disdain at worst. He flagrantly took
advantage of her rank, or lack of it, in the company for his own benefit. William was known for
his erotic choreography; it was nonsense to think he held any special regard or feelings for her.
She resented him. He infuriated her. And yet, a small part of her wanted his approval.
Today, however, proved Elizabeth’s dark suspicions- she was nothing to him, replaceable, just
some body he toyed with for a couple of minutes, three times a week.
Sighing, Elizabeth looked around her despondently. Her eyes settled on the clock. It was only
4:30. The bank would still be open. She could grab a leisurely cup of coffee before dinner, or go
home early and wash the tights that had been piling up in her laundry basket. But she didn’t want
to.
Before she let the weight pressing on her chest grow any heavier, Elizabeth closed her locker
sharply and strode from the room.
Chapter Twelve
“I’m sorry, what?” Elizabeth said, her mouth halfway to her Starbucks cup.
“Colin is picking me up at 7:30,” Charlotte repeated, unable to meet her friend’s severe gaze.
“Colin? Colin Williams?”
“Yes.” Charlotte stirred a third packet of sugar into her coffee.
Elizabeth blinked twice and looked across the table at her friend. Then, she laughed. “Okay,
Charlotte. Good one.”
Charlotte didn’t smile. “No, Liz. I’m not kidding. He asked me the other day and...we’re going
together.”
“Okay...” Elizabeth began gingerly, furrowing her eyebrows. “Are you into him?”
“No, not really. But it’s not a requirement to like a guy before you go out on a date, is it?”
“Alright, let me ask you this. Can you stand the guy?”
Charlotte exhaled sharply and looked past her friend’s shoulder. “Why is it so hard for you to
believe I’d want to give him a chance? Just because you can’t stand him...He’s not a bad guy,
Liz.”
Elizabeth shrugged, making no reply. She was sure Charlotte wasn’t going to the Gala with
Colin Williams so she could get to know him better. Rather, it had more to do with getting to
know the people Colin knew. The person, rather. Charlotte was mildly obsessed with the grande
dame of New York City’s art world, Catherine Boroughs. She was convinced that knowing her
would get her better parts, maybe even promotions. Charlotte talked about Boroughs constantly;
some of the girls in the company had even started calling her Little C behind her back.
Elizabeth was relieved she had a date like Greg. Not only would she be the object of envy of
every single, sex-starved corps girl in the room, but his down-to-earth and easy-going nature
would be exactly what Elizabeth needed in a room full of Manhattan art snobs. Although he had
been out of town for the past week filming a hip-hop video in Jamaica, he’d still called twice,
professing each time how much he missed Elizabeth and how excited he was to see her “hot
body” in her dress (and hopefully out of it). Comments like that made her laugh. He would be
away until Saturday and take a morning red-eye back to New York just to go to the Gala with
her.
“So...what do you say?” Charlotte asked again, “Do you want to split the cost of renting a limo?”
Elizabeth downed a long sip of cappuccino. “How much did you say it was?”
“Colin knows someone. He got us a great price. Eighty bucks an hour, so that’s twenty each.”
Pursing her lips, Elizabeth thought about it. “I don’t know. That’s almost twice as much as a
cab.”
“But only twenty dollars. Come on, Liz. It’ll be like prom all over again.”
Elizabeth smiled sheepishly. “I never went to my prom. We had a dance performance that night.”
Charlotte clapped her hands together. “Even better. Now you’ll get to see what it’s like.”
Perhaps it would be easier to ignore Colin Williams while sipping on champagne in their own
limousine, Elizabeth reasoned. Plus, Greg would be there. “Okay, I’m in.”
Charlotte beamed and told her they would swing by her place around eight.
Elizabeth let herself into the apartment. “Jane?”
“In my room!” her sister called.
Grinning, Elizabeth checked her reflection in the hallway mirror and then tiptoed to Jane’s room.
Sitting on her bed, she was thumbing through that month’s Cosmo.
“Hey, where’ve you been? You’re- Holy crap!” she said, looking up to her younger sister in the
doorway. Elizabeth burst into giggles and bound into her sister’s room.
“Do you like it?”
“I haven’t seen your hair that color in years!” Jane cried, touching the now chocolate strands
falling over her sister’s shoulders.
“I’ve decided to go au natural,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “I think it looks good.”
Jane beamed in awe. During Elizabeth’s freshman year at college, she had dyed her hair light
brown, in the most drastic act of rebellion a dancer could get away with.
“You look amazing,” Jane smiled. “What made you do it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was time for a change, and I thought I’d make a terrible redhead. You think
Greg will like it?”
“He’d be a fool not to.”
“And look,” Elizabeth said, opening her purse and picking out a small, flat parcel. “I went
downtown to Loehmanns and found these on sale.” Opening the bag, Elizabeth dumped a pair of
dangly silver and marcasite earrings and matching bracelet onto the bed.
“Very nice,” Jane said, picking up the bracelet and trying it on. “And how much did all of this
cost?”
“A trim, the dye job, and the jewelry cost exactly $185.95. Plus the $360 for the dress, shoes, and
corset. I’ll be eating ramen for the rest of the month.”
Jane smiled. “But it will be worth it once Greg sees you tomorrow. He’ll drop dead. Especially
with that dress.”
“I can’t wait! I feel like I’m in middle school,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Okay, Jane. No more time
to talk. I still need to shave and paint my nails.”
“I’ll let you to it then.”
Elizabeth bounded off of her sister’s bed and headed for the shower, wishing there weren’t
twenty-four endless hours separating her, Greg, and the Netherfield Gala.
With only thirty minutes left separating her, Greg, and the Netherfield Gala, Elizabeth began to
panic. She paced the length of her living room, the wool swishing over her legs. While Greg had
told her he would call when his flight got in at seven that morning, she had still received no
phone call. Elizabeth had tried his home and cell three times each. Finally, she called the airlines
to confirm that his flight had not been cancelled. A chipper operator informed her that it had
actually landed fourteen minutes early.
Saturday had inched along, with Elizabeth’s stomach dissolving to butterflies as the day passed.
She meant to dress leisurely, but found she was so nervous that the whole hair, makeup, and
dressing process had taken her less than an hour. Jane was still in her room, pinning up her hair
while singing along to a Backstreet Boys song.
Succumbing to her anxiety, Elizabeth called Greg’s cell phone again. This time, it actually rang.
Elizabeth’s heart leapt, feeling instantly relieved. But it sunk with each successive ring, finally
thudding at her feet when the voice mail picked up. She tried again. Same thing. Just as Elizabeth
slammed the phone down on the cradle, Jane breezed out of her room.
“Oh, Lizzy,” she gasped, “You look spectacular.”
“It’s not going to matter since Greg isn’t picking up his phone!” she hollered, stalking across the
room
Jane frowned. Turning, Elizabeth’s face softened into a smile. “Sorry. Hey, you look great, too.
But you always look great.”
“He’ll come, don’t worry. Want to join me in a pre-Gala drink? It’ll calm your nerves,” Jane
offered.
Elizabeth nodded and Jane disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later, she reappeared with two
mugs of white Carlo Rossi.
“It’s better than nothing,” she said, handing Elizabeth a mug. Elizabeth downed the entire thing
in minutes, while Jane sipped gingerly.
“Want a refill?” Elizabeth asked, hopping up.
“I still have some left, thanks.”
Elizabeth poured more wine from the jug and drank half the glass in the kitchen. The cheap stuff
did nothing for her nervousness.
At 7:30 exactly, the buzzer sounded. Both girls leapt up, but it was Elizabeth who strode to the
intercom.
“Hello?” she asked, her voice cracking hopefully.
“Hey, Liz,” came a male voice. Elizabeth’s heart sunk. It was Charles.
“Tell him to come up,” Jane called out. “We’ll wait with you until Greg gets here.”
Elizabeth nodded weakly and buzzed him up. Coming in the apartment, Charles’ eyes smoldered
with such obvious pleasure upon seeing Jane that it made Elizabeth miserable. She retreated to
her room, pretending to look for something, while the two lovers cooed on the sofa in the living
room. Her clock read 7:42. Instinctively, Elizabeth knew he wasn’t coming. Her chin trembled.
Over $500 wasted. Plus $40 for a limo ride with the Catherine Boroughs fan club.
“Mascara,” she said, fanning her eyes, willing herself not to cry. Clearing her throat, she put on a
calm face and reappeared in the living room to find Charles sucking at her sister’s neck. Jane
immediately pushed him away, colored, and then smiled guiltily. Elizabeth nearly laughed at the
looks on their faces.
“Okay, you two lovebirds. You can go. I’ll wait by myself.”
Jane frowned. “Lizzy, are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah, I’m sure he’s stuck in traffic. Or something like that. You go ahead. Charlotte will be
here at eight.”
Nodding, Jane and Charles stood. Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand and said she’d see her at the
Gala. Then, they left. Elizabeth sighed and flopped onto the couch, feeling a hopeless peace
wash over her. She had been stood up, a first for her. Why had it happened on a night when she’d
spent all that money? The thought of being dateless in a limo with Colin Williams suddenly
resurrected her panic.
Elizabeth bee-lined for the kitchen and finished off the rest of the Carlo Rossi.
Charlotte arrived twenty minutes later and glanced at Elizabeth suspiciously. She was Greg-less
and reeking of alcohol.
“Did Colin stand you up too?” Elizabeth spat bitterly, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Charlotte swallowed. “No, he’s just circling the block in the limo. Did Greg...?”
“Yes. Bastard.”
Sighing, Charlotte rubbed Elizabeth’s back. “He missed out, Liz. You look amazing. Your
hair...”
Elizabeth smiled pathetically. “Okay, okay. Let’s not leave Prince Charming waiting.”
Both women made it downstairs in time for the limo to pull around the corner. Elizabeth almost
choked. Gaudy and white, it looked like a relic from the 1970s. A long scratch marred the left
side of the car. The interior was decorated in tacky burgundy velour with a crystal chandelier
hanging from the roof of the car. Cigarette burns appeared here and there on one seat. A curtain
was missing from the purple-tinted windows. And there was no alcohol.
“Okay, let’s go!” Colin cheered as the limo lurched forward, sending Charlotte sprawling into
Elizabeth’s lap.
The limo ride was a tense affair. Colin glared at Elizabeth until they reached the Upper West
Side. She glared back only long enough for her friend not to notice. Beyond the Upper West Side
however, Colin changed tactics, deciding to make Elizabeth jealous by whispering sweet
nothings into Charlotte’s ear. He must have spit on her face instead, because Elizabeth saw her
friend discreetly wipe her cheek and ear every so often.
Elizabeth ignored them. Gazing out of the window, her mind settled on only one thought:
Wouldn’t Mr. Darcy love this? Her face burned with humiliation. She hated Greg, not so much
for standing her up, but for placing her in a position where she was dateless at the same function
as a with-date William Darcy.
The limo pulled into the driveway of the Netherfield Hotel. Fortunately, no one arrived along
with them to witness their horrible carriage. Elizabeth scrambled out of the beat-up limo.
Charlotte and Colin soon followed, her friend casting her a resigned look.
“Elizabeth, you can give me the forty dollars on Monday,” Colin said gently, as if doing
Elizabeth a favor.
Biting down on the inside of her lip, she merely nodded and strode up the steps, figuring
acquiescence was a small price to pay to get the hell out of Colin Williams’ company.
By 8:30, the Netherfield Gala was in full swing, with couples moving across the dance floor to
snappy renditions of Sinatra songs. The din of the crowd surprised Elizabeth when she walked
in; there were far more guests than she had imagined. It was a sea of black tuxedoes and gowns.
Old women dripped with diamonds. Men wore Armani. Elizabeth recognized a few company
members, who smiled at her in greeting. Before she did anything, Elizabeth zipped towards the
bar and ordered a champagne.
William stood off to the side of the huddle, sipping a glass of ginger ale with disinterest. Next to
him, Anne remained silent, her gaze intent on the opposite side of the room. They had barely
spoken the entire evening, but he didn’t mind her silence. Anne didn’t want to be with him as
much as he didn’t want to be with her. She was distracted by the sparkling bleach-blonde in the
sequined peach gown on the far side of the ballroom. Mariah Lucia, Anne’s long-term girlfriend
of three years.
An hour into the Gala, Elizabeth still hadn’t arrived. Her sister was here, stunning in a strapless
white number that offset her bronze skin and light hair. Jane looked like a typical California girl
even though she hailed from Suburbia, Michigan, and William smirked when he saw the selfsatisfied smile plastered across Charles’ face. A pang of envy shot through William. To have a
woman like that love you! He caught Charles’ eyes and motioned for him to come over.
“Having fun?” William asked dryly, when his friend reached him
“I am. Hello, Anne,” Charles said, nodding to the mousy woman at William’s left.
She smiled weakly and then shirked away.
“You don’t seem to be having fun,” Charles said, frowning.
“Compared to you, no.”
Beaming, Charles glanced back to Jane. “I’m so drop-dead in love, Will. I’m tempted to kidnap
her, take her to Vegas, and just get married right now.”
“And what would Mr. and Mrs. Bingley say about that?” William replied.
“They love Jane.”
“But I’m sure they wouldn’t love a drive-thru wedding,” William laughed.
Charles rolled his eyes, but smiled.
“Where’s Elizabeth?” William asked casually.
Scanning the room, Charles shrugged. “When we left, she was still waiting for Greg.” Charles’
face grew serious, “Jane said Elizabeth couldn’t reach him all day. She thinks he stood Elizabeth
up.”
William took a long sip of ginger ale. “Typical. Asshole.”
Anne then returned with a plate of caviar-laden crackers and began to crunch on them. Charles
looked at her and smiled, and then turned to William.
“I’d better get back to Jane before my parents discover her.”
“I thought you said they liked her.”
“They do. I’m afraid my dad will start giving her stock market tips, and once you get him started,
he never shuts up,” Charles joked before waving and then walking away.
William smiled and then looked back down to Anne.
“Cracker?” she offered.
William held up his hand. “No thanks. You don’t have to stick around on my account.”
Anne shrugged and licked a stray fish egg off of her finger. “It’s not like I can talk to her
anyway. Mother’s here. We have to pretend like we don’t know each other.”
Shaking his head, William took another sip of ginger ale, looked over to where Anne’s gaze fell,
and smiled at her. And then he did a double take.
He wouldn’t have recognized Elizabeth if she hadn’t made a beeline for Jane Bennet. Her hair
was no longer a sun-kissed straw color. Now the color of milk chocolate, it fell down her back
and shoulders in lush waves. She wore a simple black dress that did amazing things for the
natural curves of her body. She was classic and sophisticated and mesmerizingly beautiful.
“Huh?” Anne whispered, eyeing him queerly.
“Huh?” he replied, unable to peel his eyes away from Elizabeth at the far end of the ballroom.
“You said ‘Christ,’” said Anne, her eyes following the same line of William’s gaze.
“Oh,” he said, downing the last of his drink, “I’ll be back.”
Anne watched him go, casually swerving through the bejeweled throng, accepting words of
congratulations, and yet never taking his eyes off of the woman standing next to Jane Bennet.
Anne squinted. It was Elizabeth Bennet, with dyed hair. Her face relaxed. So that’s who William
had been scanning the room for all night. Relieved that he had finally left, Anne faded back
against the wall where she was most comfortable.
It felt like an eternity before William had crossed the room. His heart thumped in his ears the
closer he came to Elizabeth. She whispered furiously with Jane, her forehead creased in anger.
William swallowed, feeling jittery and thrilled at the same time. He approached close enough to
hear Jane say “-much have you drank already?” before the words died on the older sister’s lips.
Both Bennets looked up to him, with equally surprised and expectant faces.
They could not have looked any different. Jane was luminescent with her blonde hair, bronzed
skin, and white gown. He briefly complimented her, but then turned towards the darker sister,
and lost all ability to speak. Jane smiled knowingly, and then slipped away.
Elizabeth’s face flushed, and she reached for a ringlet, slowly twirling it in her fingers. In that
gown, with her lips painted burgundy, her dark hair curled in soft waves, and her bright eyes bare
except for heavy mascara, she looked like someone straight out of a George Hurrell(1)
photograph. Dark, sensuous, and luscious. Elizabeth parted her lips, but William spoke first.
“Your hair.”
She paused and then colored. “I dyed it back to its natural color.”
“So you’re not a blonde?”
“No.”
He paused to consider her new face. “I like you better this way.”
Elizabeth smirked softly, the apples of her cheeks plumping and her eyes narrowing seductively.
“I appreciate the compliment, but I didn’t do it for you.” Her voice was heady and sweet, like
finely aged brandy.
William arched an eyebrow. “For Wickham then?”
He saw the flame in her eyes waver.
“No, for myself.”
A darkly sadistic urge seized him. “Nevertheless. Greg’s a lucky guy. He’s with the most
beautiful woman in the room. Where is he? I didn’t see him come in.”
He watched as the fire in her eyes died, leaving only embers of melancholy in its place. Elizabeth
struggled to retrieve her pride. Licking her lips nervously, she opened her mouth to reply. She
began, but quickly closed her mouth. Averting her eyes, she murmured to the floor, “I, um, have
to…” Elizabeth pointed to nothing and then brushed past him, unable to meet his eyes with her
own.
William suddenly hated Greg only a little more than he hated himself. He sighed and rubbed his
mouth. Cursing under his breath, he turned and headed back to the same wall where Anne
Boroughs sat nursing the same glass of champagne she had when he left.
Elizabeth watched Charles sway softly with her sister on the dance floor, his eyes closed
blissfully. She snorted when Colin plunked his foot down on Charlotte’s toes, causing her to
limp off the dance floor. Downing her fourth glass of bubbly, Elizabeth contemplated checking
her voice mail again at the pay phone in the hotel lobby. She had run out of quarters, though.
A waiter with slicked-back hair came by with a tray of champagne flukes. He stopped in front of
her and Elizabeth picked up another one. With each successive glass, her misery lightened, the
room grew dimmer, the music more melodious. She scanned the room. The collective worth of
all the guests probably exceeded an oil-rich country.
She dragged her eyes over to William Darcy, standing in a throng of old women, dripping with
sequins and jewels. He smiled politely and nodded at something one old biddy said.
“Asshole,” she muttered, scanning the room for Anne Boroughs. At least Greg had the courtesy
not to show up. William was completely ignoring his date. Elizabeth slowly prowled the
perimeter of the room, unable to take her eyes off of William’s tuxedoed back.
Approaching Sir William Lucas deep in conversation with a tall, regal-looking woman, she
darted further into the crowd, not wanting to be spotted. The woman looked about sixty, with a
thin face and proud, upturned nose. She had on a heavy Harry Winston choker with a simple
black gown. Classy, but for the haughty arch of her fine eyebrows.
“…didn’t like his piece, William,” the woman said, the faint traces of an upper-class Manhattan
accent in her speech. “She’s not even in it.”
“I can talk to him about that,” Lucas said, in the most deferential tone Elizabeth had ever heard
him use. The woman folded her arms across her chest.
“I don’t like seeing my money wasted on abstract nonsense,” she continued, her tone harsh.
“Catherine, some concessions must be made. We did promote Anne…”
Elizabeth swallowed, positive she was privy to a conversation she shouldn’t be listening to. She
saw the woman crane her neck and eye Sir William, a look of pure disgust on her face.
“I have it on good authority that Charles didn’t want to promote her.”
Sir William tittered uncomfortably. “Well, his girlfriend was a candidate for promotion as well,
you know…”
Despite the alcohol, Elizabeth’s head suddenly zeroed into focus. She straightened her spine and
turned away, her breathing growing ragged.
“Well, I’m glad to know there’s someone with some sense in your company, William. I’ve
always liked Ballet Theater and really didn’t want to withhold my donation. But you understand
how these things are.”
He chuckled nervously again.
“It’s a good thing that Anne’s fiancé looks out for her,” Catherine continued, nodding her bony
chin towards the group where William stood. “If it weren’t for William Darcy, she’d be going on
her eighth year as some silly corps girl…”
Catherine kept talking, but Elizabeth could no longer hear anything but the building pulse in her
ears. She broke away from where she was standing, and strode to a deserted corner of the
ballroom, where several waiters ambled around. Her mind raced, but the excessive champagne
weighed down her rational thoughts like mud. Something about that conversation hadn’t been
right. Something about Catherine Boroughs, her daughter, a donation, Charles Bingley, and
William Darcy. Had she said fiancé? Elizabeth tried to recall the peculiars again, trying to piece
together the situation. The waltz in the background didn’t help.
“Ms. Bennet,” came a voice interrupting her thoughts. She jerked her head up, startled. William
stood before her, his face taut. He raised his eyebrows arrogantly.
“Well, will you?” he asked.
Elizabeth glowered. “Will I what?”
He sighed and looked away momentarily. “Will you dance with me?”
Confusion flickered across Elizabeth’s face. She stared at him blankly, her head light and her
legs woozy. Prudence screamed at her to refuse. He had insulted her, scared off her date,
and…and was engaged to Anne Boroughs! Plus, he had been involved in some way with Jane’s
promotion, how or why, Elizabeth hadn’t figured out yet. She needed to work through her
thoughts, not mess around on a dance floor. Certainly not with Enemy Number One. She opened
her mouth, a refusal on her tongue, when William’s eyes turned back to hers.
Elizabeth faltered. His metallic eyes looked at her from under those thick and expressive
eyebrows. His lips were parted ever so slightly, waiting for her reply. She saw his Adam’s apple
move in a hard swallow.
“Fine,” she resigned.
William’s face relaxed. He did not smile, but he extended his arm to her. Elizabeth eyed it before
weaving her hand through, resting her palm against the soft wool of his jacket. As they
approached the dance floor, the upbeat waltz ended and the crooning notes of a “Music of the
Night” rendition began.
Unthinkingly, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around William. From somewhere beyond her
lightheaded buzz, she knew half the room was watching her and the man of the hour dance. Yet,
she had been here, dancing in his arms, too many times to be nervous. She swayed in annoyed
silence, resentful of William’s intrusion and now his reticence. Casting her eyes up from his
lapel, Elizabeth caught him staring down at her. His placid countenance further soured her mood.
“Is my company that unbearable?” she spat.
He blinked, coming out of his trance. “Your company?”
“You said you found the company unbearable at parties like this, remember?”
He stared blankly at her for a second, and then raised the corner of his lip in a lopsided smirk.
“Your memory is too accurate for your own good.”
“Although I probably shouldn’t be too offended, since you can’t even tolerate your fiancé’s
presence.”
“My what?”
“Your fiancé. Anne. You do remember her, don’t you?”
William chuckled once. “Anne is most decidedly not my fiancé.”
“Not according to her mother.”
“Let her mother think what she pleases.”
“You don’t have to lie to me, Mr. Darcy. You’ve been with her for the entire evening.”
William frowned, but amusement twinkled in his eyes. “We did come together. You’re not
jealous are you?”
He’s expected a wry roll of the eyes to his quip. Instead, she blushed deeply and turned her face
away. “N-no! How much have you had to drink?”
William pursed his lips, feeling a quiet excitement grow inside of him. Looking down at
Elizabeth, who could not meet his eyes she was that disconcerted, he nearly laughed. Could she
really be jealous? Was she wishing she were with him tonight?
“I’m perfectly sober,” he said, arching an eyebrow playfully. “Rest assured, first impressions are
not always what they seem to be. You’re judging my relationship with Anne much too quickly.”
Elizabeth snorted and laughed. “Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, then?”
Oh, this is rich, thought William, she’s jealous! Satisfaction melted over him like warm butter.
He smiled at Elizabeth with his eyes. “You see that woman over there? Blonde, peach dress.”
Elizabeth craned her head to the right, wondering why William was suddenly pointing out the
unknown woman in the loud gown. She nodded.
“That’s Mariah Lucia. She’s a painter. Have you ever seen her work?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“She does mostly abstract stuff. Had a few shows in some galleries downtown. Anne dragged me
to one three years ago. That’s where they met. They’ve been seeing each other ever since, but
Anne’s never told her mother since the old bitch wouldn’t approve.”
It took a few moments for understanding to flicker through Elizabeth’s eyes. When it did, she
lowered them, only the crown of her head visible to William. “Oh,” was her reply.
“I trust that you won’t say anything. I’m one of the only people who Anne’s told.”
“Of course. I won’t say anything.”
The conversation died. Content with the silence, William let the Music of the Night be the only
sound between them. He looked down at the woman in his arms. He had held her enough times
for him to sense her unease. Had he really discomfited her that much? Her eyes gleamed like
amber under the dim lights of the ballroom’s chandelier, but she refused to look at him. A
troubled frown marred her face. Every so often, her eyebrows flinched, reflecting the storm of
thoughts brewing in her head. He desperately wanted to know what she was thinking, what
insecurities about himself and Anne were running through her head. He wanted to tell her that
Anne and Caroline and any other woman meant as much to him as his doorman, that it was
Elizabeth who had ravaged his sanity over the past weeks. He allowed the hand on the small of
her back to pull her into him protectively. Elizabeth looked up then, and he saw confusion and
something else entirely flashing in her eyes.
She inhaled softly and again looked away.
William had seen Phantom of the Opera enough to know that the last notes of the song were
upon them. He didn’t want it to end. He needed to figure her out. He wanted to iron out the
wrinkle in her brow. He wanted to obliterate any reflection on Anne or Greg that may have
stained her thoughts. He wanted to bring back the communion they shared in the dance studio.
Suddenly, she looked up at him, the fire in her eyes raging out of control. “Why was Anne
Boroughs promoted?”
William flinched in shock. Just then, the music ended and the orchestra received their applause
from the room. Sir William Lucas’ voice then boomed from the speakers: “Ladies and
gentlemen-” The screech of the microphone cut him off and made the room cringe.
William glanced down to Elizabeth.
“For the same reason you got Greg Wickham fired?” she snapped, trying to pull out of his
embrace. He started. Wickham? Scanning her face in bewilderment, he grabbed her elbow and
led her to the edge of the dance floor.
“What are you doing?” Elizabeth hissed.
“Thank you for coming tonight and supporting Ballet Theater of New York. I hope you’re all
having a wonderful time at our annual Netherfield Gala. The party’s just getting started so I
invite you to eat, drink, dance, and of course, donate, to your heart’s content-”
“What did Wickham tell you?” His eyes were fierce. Elizabeth instinctively shirked back, but
then caught herself. He was to blame. He had ruined Greg’s career, and judging by the look of
fear on his face, he probably also knew Elizabeth had caught him pulling the same tricks with
Jane.
“There are three company members here tonight who I would like to call to your attention. They
represent the very best and very brightest of our company’s future. If they could come up here
when I call their names. The first is Melissa Dawson, who has just been promoted from soloist to
principal dancer…”
As the room politely applauded, William froze. He looked up to the stage, realization dawning
over his face.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“Anne Boroughs, who has just been promoted from the corps de ballet to soloist…”
“Don’t go away,” he commanded, before straightening his tie and righting his posture.
“-and of course, the fabulous William Darcy, who has come back home to be our Choreographer
in Residence this year.”
He turned and cast Elizabeth a meaningful look before plastering on a fake smile and heading
towards the stage. Applause thundered through the ballroom, the noise making Elizabeth’s head
spin. She suddenly felt exhausted. She was so tired of William Darcy. He infuriated and
disoriented her. His conceit, his self-righteousness, and his manipulations. She hated him. She
hated Anne and Catherine Boroughs. And Charles Bingley. And Sir William Lucas. And while
she was at it, Greg Wickham and Colin Williams
Elizabeth swallowed. The champagne had caught up to her. She needed to use the bathroom and
then she needed to leave.
Backing
into the crowd,
Elizabeth strode along the edge of the ballroom, making for the door. She burst into the empty
hallway and stumbled on the carpet. Righting herself, she scolded her fuzzy head and then made
her way to the restroom. A few corps girls were returning from that direction. They
complimented Elizabeth on her hair as they passed her. Smiling in reply, she walked into the
restroom and first ran her hands under the cold water. Elizabeth pressed her cool fingers onto her
face, reigning in the fire on her cheeks.
She stared at her reflection. Rotating her head from one side to the other, she smiled sadly.
“What a waste,” she muttered, turning away from herself and into one of the stalls.
Her reflection remerged when she opened the door once again. She looked so unlike herself, with
her hair now its natural color. Funny that she would feel more comfortable with it dyed.
Propping both hands onto the counter, she leaned into the mirror and stared hard at her reflection.
She opened her bag and went to take out her lipstick, but decided against reapplying.
Snapping the bag shut, she decided she’d had enough of the Netherfield Gala. She would stop off
at the deli on the way home, grab a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, and still make it back in time to
watch Saturday Night Live. With the decision made, Elizabeth felt a resigned calm wash over
her. This disaster of a night was finally over. She strode from the powder room and headed back
to say goodbye to Jane.
As she neared the ballroom, she almost plowed into William, who had just stridden cat-like from
the entrance. Elizabeth started and stared, her reflexes dulled by the alcohol.
“Why did you leave?” he asked brusquely.
“I went to the restroom. Or did I need your permission for that?”
His features softened. “I thought you’d left for good.”
“Well, I’m about to. Excuse me, I’m going to say goodbye to my sister.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, she would worry if I just disappeared.” Elizabeth again tried to brush past him, but
he grabbed her upper arms to stop her.
“Why are you leaving?”
“Why do you care?”
William said nothing, but his features morphed into a look Elizabeth could only describe as
helplessness. She felt the bile rise in her throat. Before she allowed it to overwhelm her, she
attempted to wrest her arms from him.
“You need to tell me what Wickham told you.” His voice was as rigid as ice.
“Listen,” she growled, shoving her pointer finger at William’s nose, “I don’t need to do
anything. You can boss me around in the studio, but don’t try that shit here.”
Elizabeth’s heartbeat had skyrocketed. She felt dizzy and hot. Rubbing her eyes, she lowered her
face and tried to reign in her fury. William still stood in front of her, his breathing deep, but
labored. She looked up at him.
“I’m leaving,” she repeated, but with less determination than before.
His face was twisted into a look of confusion and anger. His eyes were so intense that Elizabeth
couldn’t move. She stared at him, feeling her heart race out of control. William was a Medusa
and his horrible stare had turned her to stone. The music and ruckus of the ballroom filtered out
into the deserted hallway. Laughter and the clinking of plates in the background contrasted with
William’s ragged breath. She could only stare at him, watching the metal of his irises dart across
her face. Her breath hitched. She felt an awful pressure at her throat. She could only stare,
hypnotized. Her mind rippled with one, abrupt thought: My God, he’s beautiful.
Who moved first, Elizabeth could not be sure. It was immediate and reactive. Suddenly,
however, her mouth and William’s were moving frantically over the other’s, battling for
domination. He clasped her face in between his hands. She tangled her fingers into the hair at the
nape of his neck. They kissed, frenzied against each other.
Elizabeth’s shoulder blades suddenly scraped against the rough wallpaper. Letting her weight fall
back on the wall, she pulled William down and opened her lips to him. Elizabeth’s head swam
with the soft purposefulness of his mouth, the spicy musk of his cologne, the roughness of his
jacket on her bare arms. He pressed himself down on her, kissing her jaw and neck. Closing her
eyes, Elizabeth allowed herself to drown in him. He nibbled on her earlobe, his breath tickling
her ear. A small cry escaped from the back of her throat.
The sound made him stop and pull away.
Opening her eyes, Elizabeth gazed up at him, her vision swimming. She blinked twice. William’s
face was taut and his jaw rigid, but his eyes darted up the length of her chest and face. After a
few seconds, he grabbed her wrist.
“Let’s go,” he said hoarsely, pulling her down the hall.
“But...Jane,” Elizabeth protested feebly.
“Call her when we get home.”
They stopped only at the cloakroom to retrieve their coats, before bursting into the frigid March
night, and stepping into the first taxi waiting in the driveway of the hotel.
Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth groaned, arched her back, and stretched her arms over her head. Opening her eyes, she
experienced a moment of confusion before the events of the night before came crashing back to
her. She sighed and groaned again. Her mouth felt cottony and dry, and her head throbbed.
Sitting up in bed, Elizabeth looked to her left, finding herself alone in a king-sized bed. Light
peeked in through the gap in the curtains.
She looked around the bedroom. White sheets, beige carpet, mahogany furnishings.
Her stomach lurched. She hung her head and held it in her hands, murmuring a choice four-letter
word. Elizabeth stayed in that position for several minutes, contemplating how to proceed, how
last night had happened. Her gown had been removed from the floor, along with her corset,
pantyhose, and underwear. They now rested on a plush chair in the corner.
How in the world had last night happened? She had been furious with him, but couldn’t recall
why. The more she tried to remember, the further reality receded. She could only recall the night
in flashes – like photographs in a slide show…Banging her knee against a bar stool as they
scurried, mid-kiss, back into the bedroom, the feel of warm hands undoing the zipper down the
back of her dress, his lips hovering over her nipple. She didn’t even recall what he looked like
naked. Or how the first time proceeded or ended.
She remembered afterwards they’d tripped into the bathroom, the sting of cold tile under her bare
feet. Things grew clearer under the stream of the shower. She had yelled at him when his hands
slinked across her hips as she had been trying to remove her mascara. She recalled taking him in
her soapy hands, his groans reverberating in the small, tiled shower. Her own cries and gasps
punctuated the steady sound of the water beating down. Her hand splayed before her on the navy
tiles, bracing herself against the shower wall as he sunk into her from behind. The chilling cold
of the tiles brushing against her swollen nipples. His bronze fingers kneading the whiter flesh of
her breast. She also remembered climaxing so hard that she banged her head on the wall.
Elizabeth touched her forehead. A piece of skin was gone. Rubbing her eyes, she swallowed
down the urge to cry. It got worse.
Sometime in the middle of the night, she remembered awaking. She lay on her side, her legs
curled into a loose fetal position. Her head ached a bit then, but her thoughts were clear. William
was awake. He lay facing her, propped up on an elbow, his torso naked, his lower half outlined
by the graceful fall of the sheets. He ran his hand lightly over the swell of her hipbone. Elizabeth
had stared at him, until her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Both gazed at each other for a small eternity. She recalled the look in his eyes: profound
tenderness bottoming out to an unspoken question. Then, Elizabeth had smiled sleepily and
reached up for his face, bringing it down to hers for a deep, deliberate kiss.
“Elizabeth,” he had whispered into the flesh under her ear, “you screamed ‘Mr. Darcy’ when you
came in the shower.”
Elizabeth only chuckled.
“You might want to fix that,” he said.
“Are you ordering me around again?”
William answered with an unhurried kiss.
The third and last time they made love had been languid and exploring. His movements over her
had been rocking and slow. She’d felt like a small boat tossed gently in a vast lake. William had
murmured things to her, words that now sent her face burning. The back of his fingers grazing
her neck, her throat, her cheek. Elizabeth was tugged back to their rehearsals, marveling at how
very similar his hands felt on her naked skin. The sex was a dance, almost choreographed in its
perfection.
She had closed her eyes, felt him, heard him undulating over her. For the first time, Elizabeth felt
what it was to be adored by a man and his body.
And in that final climax, she buried her face into the warm crook of his neck and gasped the
word he wanted to hear - William.
“William?” she called. The word felt strange on her lips. There was no reply.
Elizabeth swung her legs off the bed, pulling the sheet with her. Her head pounded as the blood
rushed up to it. Wrapping the sheet around her body, she tiptoed to the bathroom. No William.
She swallowed down a quake of annoyance. A small aftershock of despair followed in its wake.
The bedroom door was cracked open. Pulling it back, she stepped into the hallway. Several doors
lined both sides of the cream-carpeted hall. At the far end was a staircase. Elizabeth pattered to it
and got halfway down before her jaw dropped.
Under her sprawled a massive, high-ceilinged living room, the far wall lined by glass windows
that ran up the entire length. The hardwood floors gleamed. She saw a marble fireplace on
another wall. Elizabeth didn’t even know apartments in New York could have more than one
floor.
Being careful not to trip over the sheet, she made it down the stairs and then called out
“William” again. This time she received a sweet mew in reply. An orange cat appeared from
around the staircase, its tail swaying behind it.
“Hello there,” Elizabeth cooed, kneeling down to stroke it. The feline purred. “Where’s your
master?”
The cat only rubbed the top of its head against Elizabeth’s hand.
“You know, the big, scary guy with the bad temper?”
Elizabeth again received a loud purr. Sighing, she stood and gazed around the enormous living
room. Two hallways led off to either side of the room. Looking right, she saw the breakfast bar
and the stool she had run into the night before. She chose left. She passed a smaller, more
intimate living room, complete with a black baby grand. Then another hallway appeared off of
the left of that room. She heard the soft strains of classical music and followed the sound.
A door at the end of the hallway was ajar. Elizabeth approached silently and peeked into a
miniature dance studio. She saw William in the center, clad in sweatpants. He was shirtless, his
chest glistening with sweat. Elizabeth swallowed hard, staring at his abdominals moving in and
out as he panted from exertion. In the light of day, she admired what she could not in the
previous night’s drunken, dark haze: the muscles of his shoulders rippling down to unyielding
triceps. Forearms flexed gracefully. And, oh Lord, Elizabeth closed her eyes momentarily, the
ridges of muscle that flanked his hipbones.
The moment of unspoiled voyeurism provided a luscious respite from the self-loathing and
William-loathing that had pounded at her temples seconds before. But it was only a moment
before more raw feelings shook her.
She retreated from the door and stood in contemplation. The rush of desire was slowly thinned
by a seeping irritation. William was playing the role of ungracious lover immaculately. Never
had Elizabeth been abandoned in the bedroom the morning after. Sighing, she rubbed the corners
of her eyes with her fingers. She was humiliated. Backing away from the door, she tiptoed down
the hall and back into the palatial living room.
Treading to the huge windows, Elizabeth leaned her forehead onto the cool glass and gazed out
at Central Park beneath her. She began absentmindedly chewing on a fingernail. For a few long
seconds, she watched taxis whiz by on the street. The sky was a muted, cloudless blue. Elizabeth
cursed herself. Closing her eyes, she winced in a simple remembrance of the previous night.
She was so absorbed in her remonstrations that she didn’t hear William’s soft footsteps on the
carpet. He paused, watching her, a slow smile warming his face. His heart thudded. He couldn’t
believe it. Elizabeth was here. They had spent an entire night having the best sex William had
had in years. He didn’t understand it, but he trusted it, just like he trusted gravity to keep him
from falling into outer space.
Still, the transformation had astounded him. How could one woman go from snarling at him,
shoving her finger in his face, to then hurling herself into his arms and overpowering him with
the warmest, softest lips he had ever tasted? She was supposed to have come with Greg, and she
had gone home with him. Her mouth had tasted faintly of alcohol, but her speech had not been
slurred, and her eyes had been daggers. She was lucid. It had to have been some mighty powerful
jealousy. Women, he thought.
William amazed himself. After that ghastly Gala, three lovemaking sessions, and then a sleepless
night thereafter, he had the energy to sneak out of bed sometime around six in the morning and
choreograph for two hours straight. He grinned like a milk-satiated cat. How could he help but
choreograph at that moment? Every nerve in his body had been humming. In his bed slept a
gorgeous, brilliant, and eager twenty-three-year-old. Not only that, but a gorgeous, brilliant, and
eager twenty-three-year-old, who he had made love to three times and probably given twice as
many orgasms. He still had it! He felt invincible. That morning, he had choreographed the third
movement of his piece.
He gazed at her silently, as she stood in the far end of his living room, draped in his sheet. Her
stunning, chocolate hair tumbled over the white linen and her elegant shoulders. Elizabeth
sighed, the sound reminiscent of her soft gasps in his ear the night before. William’s desire began
to simmer slowly. He cleared his throat, making her jump.
“Sorry,” he said, approaching her.
Her lips fell open, a momentary rebelliousness bubbling up in her irises, before a pink flush
spread across her cheeks. He saw her eyes trail down his torso briefly before she forced them
back to his face.
“Have you been awake long?” he asked.
“No.”
William brushed a ringlet of hair off of her shoulder and grinned lopsidedly. “That’s a very
expensive sheet you’re using for a toga.”
The flush on Elizabeth’s face deepened. “I didn’t…” her voice trailed off.
He looked at her forehead, a small pink wound marring the skin next to her hairline. Elizabeth
flinched when he ran his thumb across it.
“We have to be more careful next time,” he murmured, brushing the hair off of her shoulders and
exposing her neck. William grasped the nape, and brought his lips down to nibble at the skin
under her jawbone. She stiffened and inhaled sharply. Moments later, a stifled moan escaped
from her throat.
His lips moved to her mouth, and he kissed her slowly. Elizabeth hesitated. Believing her
embarrassed, William pressed her against him and deepened the movements of his mouth to
encourage her. She responded, but without the same intensity as the night before. After a few
more moments, however, Elizabeth began to melt. William trailed his hands lower, to cup and
knead her breasts. He moved to undo the dastardly sheet, when Elizabeth groaned into his mouth
and then shoved him away.
She stood several feet from him, panting, her lips swollen. Suspicion swam in her eyes. Then,
she averted them and once again a slow, crimson flush stained her face. Elizabeth could not meet
his gaze, she was so ashamed and angry with herself. As he breathed irregularly, she wondered
what was going through his mind. Was he angry? Did he think her a complete tease? She risked
a glance; he looked…puzzled. Hurt?
Staring up at him, Elizabeth bit her lower lip. Suddenly, her hungry stomach piped in with a
protest of its own. William heard it growl, and the expression on his face changed. Elizabeth
went even redder, and he chuckled with a lopsided smile.
“Okay then, what do you want to eat?” he asked.
“Um…really that’s okay. I can get something after I go.”
William frowned.
“I-I just want to take a shower.” She saw his eyes smolder and so she added, “Alone.”
The frown deepened. Reluctantly, he turned and motioned for her to follow him upstairs. As she
trailed behind him, Elizabeth gawked at a bead of sweat running down the rivulet of William’s
spine. Cords of muscles ran parallel to it, rising up to two ridges under his shoulder blades. She
was shaken, ashamed, and angry, yet all she wanted to do was reach out and caress that powerful
back.
They climbed up the stairs, William pausing at the top.
“You can use the shower in my bathroom. Call me if you need anything.”
Nodding, Elizabeth lowered her eyes as she swept past him through the master bedroom and into
his enormous bathroom. Closing the door, Elizabeth sighed, her shoulders slumping. She stared
at herself in the mirror, fingering her now dark brown hair. She didn’t look like herself. Hell, she
didn’t feel like herself. Removing the sheet, she flushed when she saw a deep, berry-colored
mark on her right breast. Undeniable proof that last night had been no dream. She approached the
mirror and examined the cut on her forehead.
“Elizabeth,” came a muffled voice from the bedroom, “I need the sheet to make the bed.”
Before she could react, the bathroom door opened and Elizabeth yelped. “What the hell are you
doing? Don’t you knock?”
William started and gazed at her in irritation. Elizabeth recoiled when she saw the annoyance in
his eyes change to a much deeper emotion as he stared at her nude body.
“Hey! I’m naked here!” she yelled again, crossing her arms over her chest.
A wickedly lopsided grin curved over William’s lips. “You didn’t seem to mind last night.”
Elizabeth’s nostrils flared. “Get out,” she commanded dangerously.
William raised an eyebrow and scooped the sheet off of the floor. He turned to retreat, but not
before he swept his eyes up Elizabeth’s trembling body one last time.
Once he had gone, she quickly stepped into the shower stall and turned the water on. She rubbed
her face, hoping the soothing stream of hot water would settle her frazzled senses. It had the
opposite effect. The navy blue tiles on the wall only reminded her of Sex Romp Number Two.
Despite the sickening churnings of her stomach, Elizabeth felt her core grow warm as the images
flashed through her mind again. She immediately picked up a bottle of shampoo and began to
wash her hair.
Elizabeth wondered what would happen now that they had shattered the border of
professionalism. How would rehearsals proceed tomorrow? How would they proceed tomorrow?
Could they be civil? She figured not. After one-night stands, people usually weren’t. Plus,
William and she had never had a record of cordiality towards one another. Staring vacantly into
the middle distance, she shivered. Stupid, stupid move, Elizabeth cursed.
Turning off the water, she stepped from the shower and dried herself off with a lush white towel.
She looked around the bathroom, elegantly decorated with navy tiles and white touches all
around. She felt like she was staying at the Ritz-Carlton, or what she imagined staying at the
Ritz-Carlton would feel like. Just then, she realized she had nothing to change into.
Elizabeth tentatively opened the bathroom door and stepped out onto the soft beige carpet of
William’s bedroom. He wasn’t there. She plucked her gown up from the chair and then cursed,
remembering that in their enthusiasm last night, William had broken the zipper.
“William?” she called out. No reply, again. Elizabeth groaned in irritation at the cat and mouse
game they were playing. Ready to expel a string of four-letter words, she whizzed around and
then caught sight of a note on the bed.
Hope these fit. I’ll be back in five.
Under the note was a pink sweater from Banana Republic with the tags still on, and a pair of
gray, pinstriped wool pants. She checked the label – Marc Jacobs – and whistled. Elizabeth
briefly wondered why William would be in possession of women’s clothing, in her size no less.
An uncomfortable thought flashed through her head, but she quickly suppressed that.
Elizabeth dressed. The clothes fit fine, except for the pants, which were too long. Glancing over
to the dresser, she spied a sleek cordless phone. She picked up it up and punched in the number
to her apartment.
“Hello?” answered a groggy voice.
“Jane?”
“Liz?”
“Yes.”
“Oh God. Elizabeth Bennet! Where the hell did you go last night? I was frantic.”
“Sorry,” Elizabeth whispered.
“Sorry! That’s it? Sorry? Where are you? Why are you whispering?”
“I was a bit drunk last night.”
“Oh my God. Are you in jail? What did you do, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “No, Jane! I’m fine. I’ll be home later this afternoon.”
“Where are you?”
Elizabeth paused, wondering whether to lie or not. The lying option was against her. She could
say Charlotte’s apartment, but knowing Jane, Charlotte was probably the first person she would
go to in a panic if Elizabeth were missing. Elizabeth swallowed.
“I’m at...William Darcy’s place.”
No reply came from the other end of the line.
“Hello?” Elizabeth asked.
“William Darcy’s?”
This time, Elizabeth did not reply. Jane chuckled low on the other end. “Oh, do you have things
to tell me when you get home.”
“Jane, you have to promise me not to say anything to Charles.”
“Okay, fine. But you’re telling me everything.”
Elizabeth heard a door slam shut downstairs.
“Fine. Gotta go. Bye.” She slammed the phone on the cradle before Jane could reply.
Elizabeth’s heart began pounding wildly, and she didn’t know why. She was having another outof-body experience, still unable to believe that she was in William’s apartment. Taking several
deep breaths, she walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
“William?”
“In the kitchen!”
Elizabeth steadied herself with another breath and walked into the kitchen where William had
just set down a bowl of cat food. Sucking in her breath, she tried hard not to stare at him, but
thought it extremely cruel of him to look so damn good. His hair was mussed, his chin dusted
with stubble. The clothes he wore – loose jeans, and a hooded zip-up sweatshirt – gave him an
edgy urban look. William caught the look in her eyes, and smirked.
“Good, the clothes fit,” he said, with a slice of mischief in his tone.
“The pants are a little long,” replied Elizabeth, kicking her feet out.
“My sister’s a few inches taller than you.”
“Sister?” Suddenly, she remembered Greg had mentioned a sister.
“Why else would I have women’s clothing in the house?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Old girlfriend. I don’t know.”
Again, William smirked that annoyingly self-satisfied smirk. “It would be extremely tacky of me
to give another woman an old girlfriend’s clothes.”
Elizabeth made no response.
Suddenly, William turned around a grabbed a plastic bag off the granite countertop and produced
two palm-sized bundles from it. “Roasted vegetables with goat cheese or smoked ham and
swiss?”
“Huh?”
“I picked up some sandwiches from the deli around the corner. Which one do you want?”
Elizabeth stared at him. “You didn’t have to do that. I told you I could pick something up on my
way home.”
William’s smile soured. “What kind of man do you think I am? First, I give you an old
girlfriend’s clothes, and then I send you home on an empty stomach? I try to be a little more
gentlemanly than that. Veggies or ham?”
Pursing her lips, Elizabeth looked away. “Veggies, please.”
She accepted the sandwich from William and unwrapped it, salivating. Pulling a plastic bottle of
orange juice from the bag, William then got two glasses down from a cabinet and poured her
some. Elizabeth accepted one glass with a polite smile and took a light sip.
“Mm, fresh squeezed,” she said.
William only smiled in response and walked around the kitchen counter to join Elizabeth on the
high stools by the breakfast bar. They ate in awkward silence for a few minutes. Elizabeth
complimented the sandwiches, and they chatted about the deli around the corner. That
conversation soon sputtered to an end.
William ate with his eyes riveted on her, which made Elizabeth nervous. A roasted pepper fell
out of her sandwich and landed on her borrowed pants. Cursing, she picked it up quickly and
apologized to William. He just shrugged.
“My sister never wears them anyway.”
Sensing an opportunity for conversation, Elizabeth picked up the cue. “Is your sister home?”
“No,” he answered curtly. Then, softening his tone, he added, “She’s away at school.”
Elizabeth dropped the subject and the conversation once again lapsed into silence. She chewed
monotonously, not tasting a thing. Placing her sandwich down, she glanced around the
apartment, desperate to hit upon a topic of conversation, until she could flee.
“This is a really nice apartment,” she said.
William smiled. “Thanks. I spent a lot of time and money getting it to look like this.”
“It’s beautiful. It could be in Architectural Digest.”
“It was. September of last year.”
Elizabeth paused to let that one sink in. “It’s so clean.”
“One man living in an apartment this big doesn’t really do much damage.”
“Yes. How does one man live in an apartment this big? How does one man afford an apartment
this big?”
William smiled, the mischief returning to his lips as he popped the last piece of focaccia in them.
“I don’t pay anything for it.”
“And they say there’s no such thing as a free lunch in this city. How’d you manage that deal?”
“Simple,” William replied, balling the paper wrapper, “I own the building.”
Elizabeth gave up all conversation attempts after that. Finishing her sandwich in silence, she did
her best to ignore the eyes she knew were fixed upon her. She didn’t want any more altercations.
She just wanted to go home, take two Advil, talk to Jane, and attempt to forget this entire
mistake. William probably wanted the same. Swallowing the last bite of bread and washing it
down with the orange juice, she turned to him and smiled weakly.
“Thanks for breakfast.”
“Like I said, it was the least I could do.”
“So,” Elizabeth said nervously.
“So.”
“So, I’d better get going then.”
William’s face darkened. “Why? It’s not even nine-thirty.”
“Well, I’m sure you want your Sunday back.”
“I have no plans today.”
Elizabeth licked her lips and pursed them nervously. “I-I should get ready for tomorrow. There’s
laundry and...cleaning. You know.”
William continued to glare with a look that microwaved her insides. He made no immediate
reply to her excuse. Instead, he reached across the counter for her sandwich wrapper and glass,
making Elizabeth jump in surprise. Still ignoring her, he dumped the wrappers in the garbage, set
the glasses in the sink, and with one hand, leaned against the kitchen counter, facing her.
“And what do we do tomorrow?” he asked.
Unable to meet his eyes, Elizabeth looked to her hands on the counter. She shrugged. “Nothing I
guess. Now that we…uh, got that out of our systems, I don’t see any reason to behave differently
to each other.”
William’s face flinched. “Hm.”
They stared at each other for an awkward minute. “Let me get my things,” Elizabeth said finally.
William watched in silence as she collected her purse and coat from the crumpled pile in the
living room
“Oh, my gown,” she said, pointing to the stairs.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take it to a seamstress for you.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, you don’t have to-”
“Elizabeth,” William interrupted in a warning tone, “just let me. I broke it, I’ll fix it.”
Reddening, she opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly spun around and walked in the
direction of the foyer. Fearing she would get lost if she didn’t follow, Elizabeth skirted after him.
He stood next to the front door, his hand already on the handle. Elizabeth recognized the
customary coldness in his eyes. William Darcy, the relentless choreographer, had returned.
Elizabeth buttoned up her coat quickly, feeling his eyes on her the entire time. When she
fastened the last button at her neck, she glanced up at him. He sighed softly and crossed his arms
over his chest.
“Be careful getting home.” His voice was wooden.
“It’s broad daylight. I think I’ll be okay.”
He shrugged and then opened the door for Elizabeth. In the doorway, she turned to him.
“See you tomorrow.”
He nodded perfunctorily. She thought she detected wistfulness in his eyes, but she breezed by
him so fast she could not be sure. She pressed the elevator button. His door was the only one in
the hall. The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival. Still, William waited in the doorway. The
doors slid open.
“Bye,” Elizabeth said, turning her head slightly to look at him. He made no reply, instead
retreating silently into the confines of his apartment, and closing the door with a sharp,
resounding thud. Elizabeth frowned.
“Asshole,” she muttered, before stepping into the elevator’s blissful emptiness
Chapter Fourteen
The next day, both William and Elizabeth met in rehearsal with forced indifference. For two
hours they struggled to reign in blushes, nervous habits, significant looks, or looks of any kind,
really. Not that it was easy. Several times, Elizabeth, in her attempt to appear cool and
composed, snapped her head away from his gaze too quickly, drawing strange looks from Jane
and Lydia. Knowing his own vulnerability, William wore loose pants to rehearsal that day, and
for the ten minutes prior to three o’clock, thought of the leaky faucet in the guest bathroom, his
long-dead grandmother, the meeting with his stockbroker - anything that would keep his mind
off of Elizabeth and Saturday night.
Thus, they were able to pass the two-hour rehearsal with nothing more than several casual
glances exchanged between them. Afterwards, however, Elizabeth grabbed her things and bolted.
She ensured that she left the building protected by a large group of corps de ballet members.
Monday passed without a word spoken between the two of them.
Caroline Bingley had not been at that rehearsal or the prior two, but not much was made of it.
She often skipped rehearsals, casually strolling in after a week’s absence with no credible
excuse. Some were surprised that she would try a stunt like that with Mr. Darcy, but no one put it
beyond her.
On Tuesday, before company class, Elizabeth went to check her mailbox. She found a memo
about the floors being waxed, a flyer for an upcoming Alvin Ailey performance, and a blue
envelope, sealed, with nothing written on the front or back. Glancing into the other dancers’
mailboxes, she noticed no other such envelope in any of them. Her heart began racing.
Ripping it open, she pulled out a sheet of lined paper, folded in precise thirds. Her fingers
trembled when she read the small, neat cursive.
Wait for me downstairs after rehearsal today. -WD
Swallowing, Elizabeth felt the ire begin bubbling. No “please?” And what if she had plans?
Balling up the note, she shoved it deep in her bag and headed downstairs to change.
That day in company class, she got a verbal lashing by the ballet mistress for forgetting a step in
the waltz and nearly crashing into another dancer. In the adagio, the teacher once again yelled at
her about her hip alignment. Elizabeth repressed a scowl, but once the exercise was over, rushed
off to the back of the room to lick her wounds. Stretching out her calves over the barre, she
caught Caroline Bingley’s eyes fixed on her. They narrowed and the prima turned away with a
prickly smile on her face. Elizabeth’s stomach flopped. She scanned the room, feeling as though
everyone’s eyes were on her. Caroline’s certainly were. From across the room, Louisa seemed to
be glowering, too. And Robert, and Laurie, and Anne, and even Katherine.
Moving towards her sister, Elizabeth muttered, “Why is everyone looking at me?”
Jane frowned. “No one’s looking at you.”
Elizabeth bit her lip and watched the rest of the exercise feeling unbearably scrutinized.
William rapped on Sir William Lucas’ door and stepped in without being invited. The artistic
director was perusing sketches for costumes, leaning back in a large, leather chair completely out
of place against the spartan linoleum tile and utilitarian desk. He looked up when the
choreographer entered, a blank expression on his face.
“I see you received the sketches,” William began, sitting.
“Hm,” Sir William said, his normally jovial manner absent.
“What do you think about them? I hate the color.”
“Darcy,” Sir William sighed, throwing the costume sketches on his desk, “do you know why I’m
angry?”
“No. But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“I’m livid at you.”
“At me?” William said with a hint of amusement in his voice. “And what did I do now?”
Sir William threw his hands up. “What did you do? You should know well enough! You ruined
the Gala!”
William folded his hands across his stomach and leaned back in the chair. “Charles said the
company pulled in the most donations it has in ten years.”
“It did!”
“And so I ruined the Gala, how?”
Sir William leaned forward in his chair and glared at William. “What happened to you after ten
o’clock, Darcy? I couldn’t find you. No one knew where you went.”
“I left.”
“You left. You left! Inexcusable! Do you know how many people were itching to hand their
check to you personally? Do you know how many people asked about you? At least ten. Ten!
Including Catherine Boroughs. Anne had to have some woman acquaintance take her home!”
Sighing again, William attempted to reign in his annoyance. “Last time I checked, I was a grown
man, who didn’t have to ask permission before I left a social function.”
The artistic director glared harder. “Don’t get fresh with me, Darcy. You cost us a lot of money.”
“We pulled in $15,000 more than last year.”
Only then did Sir William crack. “But we could have pulled in so much more,” he whined. “Big
C said she wouldn’t write her check until she talked to you personally about your piece.”
William scowled. “I have nothing to say to her.”
“Darcy, darling, she’s your godmother. Surely you can convince her to add on a few more
zeros.”
“If my piece does, then fine. Otherwise, you know my policy on groveling.”
“Oh, Darcy! For such a young man, you have entirely too many policies,” Sir William whined,
his bad mood dissipating.
Standing, William grinned. “And for such an old man, you have so little faith. Don’t worry.
We’ll get her at the preview.” He turned to leave. “Oh, and we’re changing the color of those
unitards.”
“You know Big C hates contemporary pieces!” Sir William called out.
William waved him off and walked out of the office. He had other things to worry about. The
preview was Saturday and Caroline hadn’t shown up to two rehearsals. William didn’t tolerate
absences, especially from the principal dancers, especially before a performance, and most
especially during Gala Week. Three multi-millionaire donors had sat in on William’s rehearsal
for fifteen minutes the day before, and he had had to justify the superstar prima’s absence to
them. That laxness may have been acceptable with Lucas, but with William, she was out.
The next problem was that Louisa Hurst had already been scheduled to dance in a Raymonda
excerpt for the preview. It was a grueling role that, coupled with his piece, would be exhausting
for her. She would never be able to perform his choreography properly after dancing Raymonda.
Besides, Lucas would never approve such an imprudent cast change.
Any other choreographer in such a predicament might have panicked, begging his prima
ballerina to come back and perform. William Darcy was not any other choreographer. He did not
bow before conceited principals who broke rules without a thought, and he always had a
contingency plan.
William was hardly surprised when Caroline again skipped Tuesday’s rehearsal. Sighing, he
placed his hands on his hips and scanned the room. Corps de ballet members rested on the sides,
in various stretching positions, some simply watching, some whispering quietly. He zeroed in on
the person he wanted.
“Ms. Bennet.” Her face flinched momentarily, but other than that, she revealed nothing in her
expression. “We’re missing a principal dancer again. I need you to work with Marc on the pas.”
Elizabeth hesitantly approached. He noticed timidity in her eyes, a beautiful, unsure look.
William promptly looked away, feeling the fluttering of his heart already doing things to his
sanity. When he willed himself not to think of her in that sense, his body surprisingly complied.
There was something to be said for years of self-control and discipline.
Thereafter, rehearsal proceeded uneventfully. Without Caroline, the principals learned their roles
in twice the speed it normally took them. William was pleased. He avoided giving any
corrections to Elizabeth. He didn’t yet trust her – or himself – to remain composed in the face of
one-on-one interaction. Although he caught her eyeing him, he refused to give her any pointed
looks. He would leave all of that for tonight.
After dismissing rehearsal, he headed downstairs to shower and change.
Elizabeth sat on the stoop of the building, resting her arms across her knees. So many convergent
thoughts raced around in her head that she found they nicely cancelled each other out, leaving
only a gray anxiety muddling her brain. She didn’t know why she was waiting for William. She
had no desire to be alone with him, and given their parting on Sunday morning, she doubted he
wanted to be alone with her, either. Yet, the thought of going home, spending another night
silent, troubled, probably alone, waiting for Greg to call with an explanation, held little appeal.
For two days, her every thought had been of Saturday night. Elizabeth had gone over every
word, every touch, every movement so often, that she felt as though she were remembering a
movie and not actual events. But it was a movie on mute, being viewed from the middle. Despite
her best efforts, a hefty chunk of her memory from Saturday night had been swept away in the
aftermath of too much champagne.
The door swooshed open behind her, putting an end to her contemplation. Elizabeth looked up to
see William towering over her. She stood abruptly. He descended the steps and waited before
her, a small smile curving his lips.
“Ready?”
It took a moment before Elizabeth trusted her voice to reply. “Um, ready for what?”
“Dinner,” he said abruptly.
“You didn’t even ask me if I had plans. I might have plans, you know.” Elizabeth felt her resolve
returning.
“Okay. Do you have plans?”
“No.”
William looked at her curiously. “Then let’s go.” Without waiting for her, he turned and began
walking uptown. Elizabeth’s chest heaved in anger. Running to catch up with him, she strode to
keep his pace. She glared up at him.
“What?” he snapped, when he caught a glimpse of her face.
“Where are we going?”
“An Italian place a few blocks away.”
Nothing else was said until they reached the restaurant. Once inside, William removed his heavy
pea coat, revealing a gray cashmere sweater and perfectly tailored wool pants that were far nicer
than the jeans and sneakers she had on. Elizabeth swore she saw the hostess wrinkle her nose.
“You could have warned me,” Elizabeth whispered sharply once they were seated across a
candle-lit table.
“Of?”
She gestured to her sweatshirt. William shrugged. “You look fine.”
“The hostess doesn’t seem to think so.”
“The hostess makes eight dollars an hour. Don’t worry about her.”
Elizabeth bristled and snapped her eyes down to the drink menu. Skimming the list, her eyes
widened at the prices. Six dollars for a Coke? A sharply dressed waiter came to take their drink
order.
“Iced tea,” William ordered.
“Just water, please,” Elizabeth said.
“San Pellegrino or Boario?”
“Uh…just tap water will be fine.”
The waiter paused, then nodded and headed back to the kitchen. Elizabeth let a small sigh escape
her lungs, which went unnoticed by William as he scanned the menu.
“The gnocchi here is outstanding. But so is the roast pork loin,” he commented.
Elizabeth opened up her menu. Linguine marinara, the cheapest entrée on the menu, was
nineteen dollars. She sat in silence, running her eyes up the page, desperation wracking at her
chest. Swallowing, she closed the menu and tried to smile.
“I’ll let you recommend something.”
Glancing up at her, William considered her offer and then went back to his menu. The waiter
returned with their drinks and took their order. Tomatoes and fresh mozzarella, leek soup,
gnocchi in a four-cheese sauce, and roast pork loin. Maybe dessert later. Elizabeth shifted in her
chair, making a mental tally, and then realized she wasn’t hungry at all. After the waiter
departed, William stirred his tea casually with the straw and smiled at her. Elizabeth felt her
heartbeat trip in anxiety.
“So,” she said, “What’s up?”
William smiled lopsidedly. “Nothing’s up.”
“Okay…then why did you want to talk to me?”
“I didn’t want to talk to you. I mean, I do. Want to talk to you. But I had nothing specific in
mind.”
Elizabeth frowned and adjusted the napkin in her lap. “I just thought…because of the note and
all…that you needed to tell me something.”
“No.”
“All right, then is there a reason you asked me here tonight?”
William chuckled. “Why do you think, Elizabeth?”
The way he said “Elizabeth” made the hairs on her arm stand on end. She shifted again “To talk
about Saturday night.”
“Do you want to talk about Saturday night?”
Elizabeth shrugged, feeling her face warm. If he had no particular agenda, why had he brought
her here? It had all of the trappings of a date - a man and a woman, a candlelit table, an Italian
restaurant. But, the idea of a date with William was so ludicrous and farfetched. She knew she
must have had a deer-in-the-headlights look on her face. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to
regain her composure. Elizabeth looked up and smiled nervously. Then, looking away, she made
a trite comment on the décor of the restaurant.
William propped up his cheek with his hand and smiled. Light from the small candle on their
table flickered over Elizabeth’s face, deepening the color of her skin and lips. He saw the flame’s
reflection bouncing in her bright eyes, and felt a deep satisfaction warm him. It felt good to
finally be with her like this. He had wrestled with his emotions for so long, dreamed of her body
on his in so many ways, been haunted by her in the studio and in his bed before sleep. Now, he
was simply relieved. At Saturday’s Gala, she had made the decision for him with her sudden,
zealous kiss. That was the hard part, wasn’t it? Acting. And he hadn’t even had to. Now, he
simply needed to proceed as usual. The hard part was over.
He didn’t mind the lapses in their conversation. It gave him the opportunity to observe her – her
adorably freckled nose, her small, heart-shaped lips, her bright eyes, and that mane of hair,
straight and glossy and aching for his fingers. William felt his body respond and pushed those
thoughts away until he could satiate himself in her again tonight.
The soup arrived, and William smiled smugly as Elizabeth blathered her way through it, making
nervous comments about the texture of the broth and the designs on the bowls. He was struck by
how young she was, so tense in the company of a man. William found it a welcome change from
the urbanity of the women he normally dated. She was twenty-three, beautiful, bright, a miracle
lover, and nearly blubbering with girlish nervousness in his presence. William leaned back in his
chair and smiled. Yes, he still had it.
Elizabeth had nearly had it. For twenty minutes, she had sustained a monologue about the
goddamned tablecloths, soup broth, filigree on the bowls, Florence, and Leonardo da-fuckingVinci, and she was through. If William wanted to keep smiling his patronizing, little smiles, then
he could do it in silence. She didn’t know why he had brought her here if he simply meant to
stare condescendingly the entire evening. Elizabeth wondered what Jane was doing, and
inwardly scowled when she imagined her sister with her perfect, un-patronizing boyfriend.
The pasta came. Elizabeth hated cream sauces. She hated sharing a plate of pasta with William
Darcy even more. If he liked the gnocchi so goddamn much, she would let him to it.
“You’re not going to eat anymore?” he asked.
She raised her palms and offered him the rest. Tapping her foot against the floor, she cringed
when she made contact with William’s leg. “Sorry.”
“Are you nervous?” he asked her, his voice dropping to a silky burr.
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “Yes.”
“Because of me?”
“Good guess, Sherlock.” She smiled archly. He returned the smile, more mysterious than the
Mona Lisa. Looking away, Elizabeth felt like she would explode with ire. How could such a
man, so smooth and handsome, be such a schmuck?
The evening crawled along. Little meaningful conversation was to be had. They talked haltingly
about New York City springs, the Yankees, about Elizabeth’s father’s obsession with hockey,
and then the tiramisu was brought and inhaled, mostly by Elizabeth. She nearly cried with
happiness when the check came. William tossed his platinum Amex down carelessly into the
leather folder and handed it back to the waiter. Although Elizabeth offered to pay, he waved her
off.
Throughout dinner, the look in his eyes had grown increasingly unreadable. Once outside, she
felt as if she were staring into the eyes of some kind of animal, they were that dark and
indecipherable. She was confused. Dinner had all of the trappings of a date, yet what a bizarre,
horrid date it had been - stilted conversation, belittling stares, long silences. What was the
meaning of it all? Elizabeth didn’t know, and she didn’t particularly care. She just wanted to get
home, see if Greg had called, change into her PJs, and join Jane on the sofa for Friends reruns.
William hailed a cab, which jerked to a halt at the curb. He opened the door and left it that way.
“Well, ladies first,” he said.
Elizabeth pointed in the opposite direction. “No, that’s okay. I’ll take the subway.”
William smiled. “We can take a cab back to my place, Elizabeth. It won’t cost more than five
dollars.”
“I’m going home.”
The smile on William’s face instantly faded. “What?”
“There’s class tomorrow at nine o’clock. I have to go home.”
“You can go to class from my place.”
Biting the inside of her cheek, Elizabeth suddenly understood. She glowered. The expensive
meal had been just an overture to a badly wanted encore of Saturday night. She backed away,
unable to control the anger in her voice.
“No,” she growled, “I’m going home. Goodnight, William. I’ll see you on Friday.”
Before he had the chance to reply, she spun on her heel and began walking in the direction of the
subway station. Several long moments later, she heard a car door slam and a taxi speed off
uptown.
William had lived in his apartment for thirty-five years, in the master bedroom for a little over
three, since his father had died. Yet, Elizabeth had been there for only a night, several hours
really, and suddenly the whole place reminded him of her. His body groaned for her. William
glanced over to the bathroom door. A shower, ice cold, might give him a moment of relief.
Stripping and tossing his clothes in an uncharacteristic clump on the floor, he marched to the
shower and turned the cold water all the way up.
William stood under the freezing jet spray, his whole body shivering and goose-fleshed. The
water did everything to cool off his body, but nothing for his thoughts. There had been poison in
her voice. Why? William didn’t understand. He had taken her to an expensive, Italian meal at
one of his favorite restaurants. He had admired her the whole night. He hadn’t been brusque.
He’d smiled. That was more than he could say for any other first date he’d had in a long time.
Then, why?
Turning off the water, William quickly reached for a towel and patted himself dry. He wrapped
the towel around his waist and stepped out of the shower, padding over to the bathroom counter.
Leaning into it, he inspected himself in the mirror. Sure, there were a few tiny wrinkles, but he
looked better than most men his age who were stuck in some nine-to-five desk job. He stepped
back, rubbed his biceps. Rotating to profile, he flexed his triceps and nodded in approval. He
looked good. He’d always known it. Women thought so. It just made him all the more frustrated.
He paced back into his bedroom. While his body at least was not burning with need anymore, his
chest was still wracked with anxiety. William stopped, looked around, and grew livid. She hadn’t
even thanked him for dinner. Here he was banging his head against the wall over some
ungrateful girl. It was absurd. A girl. A corps girl. He dated lawyers, socialites, wannabe
actresses, women. Not silly, ungrateful corps girls. William laughed hollowly, hearing the strain
in his voice. Resuming his pacing, he glanced at his bed, neatly made, but, he could only
remember how pleasantly disheveled and sheet-less it had been a few mornings ago. His anger
crumpled.
God, he had been happy on Saturday night. Happy like he hadn’t felt in months, maybe years.
Light, giddy, satisfied. Like good things stretched before him for miles, finally. Like years of
gray had ended on Saturday night. And now he felt like they were back with a vengeance. All
because of some ungrateful, disrespectful, simple corps de ballet dancer.
Could he doubt it anymore? She had ensnared him. He loved her. And now he would have to
suffer fools to relish that love. William laughed bitterly again, imagining himself spending the
night in her Harlem apartment, probably being dragged downtown to the movies or clubs or to
Herald Square to shop or whatever normal twenty-three-year-old girls did for fun. No wonder
she’d felt so awkward tonight; Elizabeth had probably never been to a restaurant that fancy.
William threw his hands up and sighed.
“Well, I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it now,” he grumbled. Maybe he had been an ass
that night. Maybe he should have asked Elizabeth what she wanted to do, rather than presume
she liked posh Italian meals. Maybe she preferred fluorescent-lit pizza parlors. In any case, he
would have to apologize to her on Friday, and learn how to stoop to her lifestyle if he wanted this
to work. That was what love was about, right? Flushing your pride down the toilet, adapting to
the other, blah blah blah. William grumbled to himself and sighed, shuffling downstairs to the
kitchen to satisy a recently insatiable craving for homemade garlic bread.
Chapter Fifteen
Rehearsals during Gala Week proceeded more efficiently than they did under usual
circumstances. The pressure to perform, both on the dancers’, choreographers’, and artistic
directors’ parts, grew heavier when several multi-millionaires sat at the front of the studio,
contemplating how many figures to tack onto their check. William Darcy’s Monday and Tuesday
rehearsals were productive; the principals had completely learned the pas de deux, and he had
just begun to clean it. While it was not ready for the New York City stage, it would suffice at the
Spring Season Preview. The audiences wanted to see William’s piece, which meant to Sir
William Lucas, that they were also willing to pay generously for the privilege. Had it been any
other choreographer, Lucas would have refused to show an inferior work of dance. However, he
couldn’t pass up the opportunity to rake in several thousand dollars more for the company.
No benefactors, no matter how wealthy, were permitted in Friday’s rehearsal. The
choreographers needed time alone with their dancers before the Preview. Looking back, William
had never felt more grateful for that stipulation than he did that year.
Elizabeth’s face flushed completely red. She waited with her head thrown back for Marc to
receive his correction from William. Although he knew he could never have the entire pas de
deux cleaned by the next day, William had his pride, too, and strived to have at least the first
minutes perfect and glittering.
“Right. The other arm at a ninety-degree angle with your…”
The back door creaked open, cutting him off. Caroline slinked in the room, smiling broadly. Half
of the dancers turned to gawk at her, the other half at Mr. Darcy, whose face broke into a scowl.
“Sorry,” Caroline sang, as she strode towards the center of the room, “what did I miss?”
Her eyes alighted on Elizabeth, and she narrowed them. Crossing his arms over his chest,
William pursed his lips in annoyance.
“Oh, only three rehearsals. Nothing minor,” he snapped.
Caroline tittered jovially. “You know how nervous I get during Gala Week.”
If there was one thing everyone knew, it was that Caroline Bingley never got nervous, especially
during Gala Week when she had a daily opportunity to strut in front of New York’s wealthiest.
William clenched his jaw and said nothing. Still smiling, Caroline sashayed to the center of the
room.
“Well, where did we last leave off? Thanks, Elizabeth, I can take it from here.”
Elizabeth stumbled out of Marc’s grasp.
“Ms. Bingley, there have been some cast changes since you’ve last been here,” William said
brusquely.
“Oh? I’ve heard nothing about any cast changes.”
“They were last minute. You’ve been cut.”
Caroline’s face went white with anger. She began sputtering, “W-what!? Does William Lucas
know about this?”
Several of the dancers murmured on the sides.
“You walked out of rehearsal last week and have missed three rehearsals since. Please shut the
door on your way out.” William turned back to his dancers, and plastered on a stiff smile. “Let’s
go from that section again.”
Caroline was seething. “You can’t just kick me out! Or, have you forgotten who’s dancing the
lead role in the Preview tomorrow?”
William smirked at her. “I haven’t forgotten at all. Thank you, Ms. Bingley. As I said, please
close the door on your way out.”
Laughing, Caroline turned her sharp nose from William to Elizabeth. The corps girl inhaled
slowly, squaring her shoulders against Caroline’s bared canines. “Oh no, William. Have you
gone mad? A corps de ballet member? Oh, my God. This is too hysterical. Wait until I tell
Lucas.”
Elizabeth’s face paled. Mouth ajar, she stared up at William.
“Elizabeth is dancing the pas de deux tomorrow,” the choreographer replied calmly, “in spite of
what you or Lucas want.”
Everyone in the room now gaped at Elizabeth. Looking up at him in bewilderment, she muttered,
“Mr. Darcy, stop” under her breath. He glared at her briefly and then turned back to Caroline,
raising his eyebrows in a haughty invitation for her to once again defy him.
“Oh, no,” she chuckled, “I’m dancing the pas de deux tomorrow, William. And I’m sure both
Charles and Lucas will back me up on this one.”
William breathed deeply. Looking at his dancers, he snapped, “From that section again.”
Caroline’s nostrils flared. Stamping her foot on the floor, she whirled around and stormed out of
the studio. As she left, she screamed, “And there’s your fucking door!” before slamming it so
hard that the windows on the opposite side of the studio rattled. All of the dancers were wideeyed, including Elizabeth, who stood mute and trembling in the center of the room.
“Ms. Bennet, let’s go,” William seethed.
Elizabeth glared up at him, her hands shaking in rage. Her throat constricted painfully as she
willed herself not to cry. With barely a day of preparation, there was no way she would be able
to dance this role tomorrow. Her chest heaved shakily. Then, she felt Marc’s comforting hand on
her waist.
“Come on, Liz,” he whispered. It took a few deep breaths for Elizabeth to compose herself
sufficiently to dance. Once she began, William growled at her about her hip. She bit her lip so
hard she tasted blood. They got halfway through the sequence before the door once again
creaked open.
This time, all heads snapped towards the noise. Charles appeared in the doorway, and looked
right at William. Nothing was spoken between the two men. The resigned look on Charles’ face
said enough. Sighing, William massaged his eyes and then walked towards the door. Charles
opened it wider, allowing his friend to breeze past him wordlessly.
“Elizabeth,” he said quietly, “you too, please.”
She lowered her head and reddened in humiliation as she crossed the studio and left. Charles
dismissed rehearsal and thanked the dancers. Even from the stairwell, she could hear Sir William
Lucas’ voice booming in anger a floor above her. Elizabeth stopped on the landing, gasping for
air. Charles caught up with her and squeezed her shoulder.
“Calm down. You did nothing wrong. Lucas will probably send you home in a few minutes. This
is all just a misunderstanding.”
Feeling like she would hyperventilate, Elizabeth took two deep, shaky breaths. “I knew nothing
about this. He just- all of a sudden- back there...Dammit!”
“Liz, relax. This is between Will and Caroline. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Come on.”
Charles rubbed her back and smiled at her. Forcing a smile, Elizabeth nodded and willed her legs
to finish the trek to William Lucas’ office.
“…even tell me! We already have the programs printed up! You can’t just go and change casting
the day before the show, William!”
Charles cleared his throat and ushered Elizabeth into William Lucas’ office. Caroline glowered
at her and muttered a string of nasty comments under her breath. William wore an expression of
stone, refusing to make eye contact with Elizabeth.
“Close the door, please, Charles,” Sir William ordered. The artistic director smiled at Elizabeth.
“I’m sorry about this, honey. Don’t worry, I just need to hear your side of the story.”
“My side?”
Sir William nodded, and Elizabeth took a deep breath. “I don’t really have one. Mr. Darcy just
suddenly announced today that I would be dancing the pas de deux. I knew nothing about it.”
Elizabeth was surprised by how even her words came out, when her insides had turned to
blubber.
“I see. Caroline claims you had been learning the part all along.”
“She wasn’t…” interjected William.
“When I ask for your opinion, you’ll give it to me, Darcy,” the artistic director snapped. Looking
away, William paced to the window and looked down at the street below.
“I hadn’t been learning the part necessarily. I- I helped Mr. Darcy choreograph it. I was his
guinea pig, so to speak.” Elizabeth looked to the back of William’s head. He made no reply.
“So, you weren’t understudying it?” William Lucas asked.
“No, sir. At least, if I were, I didn’t know about it.”
Caroline suddenly took a step towards Elizabeth, her eyes ablaze. “You left out the part about
fucking him! How convenient.”
William snapped his head around, a snarl on his lips. Charles broke in first. “Caroline, out!” He
flung open the door and gestured for her to leave. The prima glared at Elizabeth before walking
out in a huff.
Recovering himself, Sir William managed to smile weakly at Elizabeth. “I’m so sorry about this,
love. Why don’t you wait outside for a few moments while I talk to Darcy?”
Nodding mutely, Elizabeth scurried out of the room. Once in the hall, she threw her back against
the wall by Sir William Lucas’ now-closed door and, shutting her eyes, sighed heavily.
Fortunately, the hallway was empty and silent. Her hands still trembled uncontrollably. Rubbing
her eyes with them, she contemplated her fate. She didn’t know if a sexual relationship with a
co-worker was against company rules. Would she be fired? No, she reasoned. After all, Sir
William knew about Jane and Charles. The artistic director hadn’t seemed angry with her at all.
He had just called her in to more fairly assess the situation. Feeling her heartbeat begin to calm,
her fear turned to fury towards William.
“Presumptuous, selfish asshole,” she muttered, before groaning in aggravation. Sudden, muffled
shouts filtered out from behind the door. She recognized William and Mr. Lucas’ voices.
Elizabeth felt no pity for the choreographer. What in God’s name had he been thinking? He had
never once mentioned that he’d wanted her to dance the pas de deux. Then, to drop the news so
unceremoniously in the middle of rehearsal, the day before the performance no less! Was he
insane?
Elizabeth had never felt so used, like a pawn in his skirmishes with Caroline Bingley, an
excellent checkmate. Elizabeth’s temper began to simmer. It was typical of him. Ever the selfserving egomaniac, William couldn’t possibly understand what it was to be used as human
fodder for a person like Caroline. The venom in the prima’s eyes. Simply remembering it, the
skin on her arms puckered and her heart thudded.
Then, suddenly, the woman herself appeared. Stopping when she spied Elizabeth, Caroline
smiled dangerously, paced towards her, and leaned her bony shoulder against the wall. Elizabeth
turned and ignored her. She heard more muffled shouts from the office. Caroline snickered.
“Would you like to know the irony of this whole situation?” she hissed.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, not bothering to respond.
“Well, I’ll tell you anyway. The irony is that William gives you a better part because you put out,
but told Charles not to promote Jane because they were dating. A bit hypocritical, don’t you
think?”
Caroline knew she had hit bull’s-eye from the stunned expression on the young dancer’s face.
“William didn’t tell you? My brother wanted to promote Jane. William wanted Anne. And well,”
Caroline inspected her fingernails casually, “we all know how it turned out. Ironic, no?
Especially since Jane’s a far better dancer than you, Elizabeth. Frankly, I don’t know what
William was thinking. Unless...you do great things in bed. Maybe you could give me a few
pointers after this whole mess is resolved.”
Too shocked and insulted to reply, Elizabeth simply stared at the prima ballerina. The night of
the Netherfield Gala came crashing back to her and more specifically, the conversation between
Catherine Boroughs and William Lucas that she’d overheard. She felt as though she should say
something and heard herself stuttering a reply, but the only thing she was cognizant of was
Caroline’s smug expression.
Suddenly, the door swung open and William charged out with a black expression on his face. He
paused, glaring at Caroline, before storming wordlessly down the hall and into his office. The
door slammed sharply, making Elizabeth jump. Caroline grinned and slithered back into Sir
William’s office. Elizabeth heard her sing, “I knew he’d come around.” She received no reply.
Charles came outside. Smiling sadly to Elizabeth, he shrugged. “Liz...”
She held her hand up. “You don’t have to apologize. It was wrong of him to do that. I-I’m
actually relieved. I wasn’t ready to dance the pas de deux.”
Charles sighed, half in relief, half in resignation. “Then let me apologize for...” He nodded
towards Sir William’s office. Caroline’s words, her expressions rushed back to Elizabeth,
crashing over her like a tsunami. She made no reply.
“Why don’t you go get changed? There’s no more rehearsal today.”
Elizabeth glanced at William’s door.
“And don’t worry about him,” Charles continued. “He just needs to cool off.”
Nodding, Elizabeth felt her insides churning with anger, with fear, and with leaden
disappointment. She smiled at Charles, thanked him, and then slowly made her way down to the
locker room.
When she swung open the door, all activity and noise ceased. Everyone eyed her. Inhaling,
Elizabeth quickly skirted to her locker and concentrated hard on ignoring the stares. Charlotte,
who was neatly winding the ribbons around her pointe shoes, put them down and touched her
friend’s arm.
“Are you okay?”
Elizabeth nodded and smiled at Charlotte.
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later,” whispered Elizabeth, not really wanting to say anything at all. Jane
approached and hugged her sister’s shoulders. Knowing Elizabeth, she asked nothing, simply
kissing her sister on the cheek, and walking back to her locker. Inwardly, Elizabeth cringed.
Whatever Jane imagined must have happened to Elizabeth, she would never know that she was
the real victim. Jane had been so close to promotion, and William Darcy had denied her that.
Elizabeth slammed her locker shut, making Charlotte jump.
Elizabeth showered and changed without speaking to anyone. She felt the inquisitive stares on
her back, but fortunately, the dancers saved the gossip for when she wouldn’t be around. She
didn’t care what they thought, anyway. What did their opinions matter, when the Almighty
Darcy lorded over them all?
Elizabeth stuffed her leotard, tights, and warmers into her duffel bag. She swore under her
breath. Her water bottle and towel were upstairs in the studio. Letting out a string of curses any
truck driver would be proud of, she knew she was more aggravated than the situation warranted.
Elizabeth slung her bag over her shoulder, and wordlessly strode from the locker room, knowing
the room would burst into gossip the moment she left.
Bounding up the two flights of steps, she marched straight to the studio. Elizabeth entered, her
sneakers screeching on the floor as she stopped dead. William stood at the opposite end of the
room, leaning his elbows against the wooden stereo cart. He propped up his forehead on balled
fists. It was a posture of despair. Realizing he had company, he quickly straightened his back and
looked up. His face visibly tensed, and then relaxed when he saw his visitor was Elizabeth.
Both stood at opposite sides of the room, staring at the other. Elizabeth felt ire lap at her chest.
Caroline’s words echoed in her head: “Ironic, no? Especially since Jane’s a far better dancer
than you, Elizabeth. Frankly, I don’t know what William was thinking. Unless...you do great
things in bed.”
Elizabeth quickly strode to get her water bottle, on the other side of the room. The distance
between them diminished sharply when William began pacing towards her. Once she had
snatched her bottle and towel, Elizabeth spun around and marched away from William.
“I know you’re upset,” he said, violating the silence.
Elizabeth stopped again, her sneakers squeaking. “I am.” Her voice was acid.
“I fought for you, but Lucas can see nothing but dollar signs in his head.”
When Elizabeth’s expression remained stony, he sighed, looked down to the floor, and smiled
weakly. Then he passed her, crossing the room, and shut the door. He turned and leaned back
against the closed door.
“I wanted you in the pas de deux. It doesn’t look right without you. It’s come to the point where
you’re the only person I see when I choreograph.” He shrugged. “Looks like I’m stuck between a
rock and a hard place, huh?”
Elizabeth’s face flinched, and she frowned. Unsure of the meaning behind his words, she could
find no appropriate reply. Folding her arms, Elizabeth felt her anger simmering.
“Look, I’m just as upset as you,” William continued, “and now I’m stuck with Caroline, who
doesn’t even know half of the pas de deux and who couldn’t dance it right even if she did.”
William threw up his hands in frustration.
“No, I don’t think you could possibly be as upset as me.”
William stared at her and then scowled. He pushed himself off of the door and made his way to
Elizabeth. Thinking he would begin a tirade against her, Elizabeth frowned when he brushed her
cheek gently with his fingers.
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I really thought the pas de deux could work with you in it. I let my feelings
get the best of me. I guess love turns even rational men into idiots.”
Elizabeth’s heart began to beat faster. He continued stroking her jaw line with his thumb.
Glancing over to his hand, she frowned and then slapped it away. William started and stepped
back. Elizabeth glared at him, her face turning red.
“Love?” she spat. “Love! With who?”
William’s eyes darkened as they did when he choreographed. His eyes darted across her face,
down her torso, and back up to her eyes. Shaking her head, Elizabeth looked away.
“Bullshit,” she whispered, “that’s such bullshit. With me?”
His face flinched. “Of course, with you. You’d have to be an idiot not to know that.”
Her eyes widened and then she laughed. “That’s such bullshit.”
William blinked.
“Do you expect me to believe that? After the way you’ve treated me today? After the way you
always treat me?”
William’s breathing quickened. He pursed his lips. “Well, yes. I brought you back to my house, I
was about to cast you in my pas de deux…”
“You look down on me, you treat me like I’m a piece of gum stuck on your shoe, you treat me
like some kind of Barbie doll and not a person with feelings.”
“I don’t do those things, and you know it, Elizabeth.”
“No,” she replied, her voice trembling with anger, “you do. You treat everyone like that. Me,
Charles, even Caroline, whose face I so badly want to mangle right now, but who deserves better
than your cold contempt! You’re not in love with me, William. You’re in love with yourself. Or
rather, with your choreography.”
“I’ve never given you anything but preferential treatment,” he protested, his voice wooden.
“Yes, and I never asked for it! Why couldn’t you have bestowed that same generosity on my
sister when you advised Charles not to promote her?”
Paling, William opened his mouth to reply, but then quickly shut it. He looked stunned.
“Caroline told me everything,” spat Elizabeth. Placing his hands on his hips, William turned
from her and began pacing slowly. His face was twisted in agitation.
William inhaled. “Your sister is a fine dancer, but there were other, more important reasons why
she couldn’t be promoted this season.”
“Charles wanted to promote her.”
“Charles wasn’t thinking straight! It would have been a huge mistake to promote your sister this
season, and I told him so. I’ve used more rationality with him, than I have with myself.”
Elizabeth bristled. “And what’s your justification for Greg Wickham?”
“Greg Wickham?! That shit stood you up and you’re still defending him?”
“I’m interested in Greg Wickham only as he relates to Jane. You got him fired. Just like you
screwed my-”
“Got him fired! Yes, I’ve wanted to hear you explain that gem since the Gala. Exactly how did I
get Greg Wickham fired?” The veins on William’s neck bulged in anger. At the outburst,
Elizabeth stepped back, feeling momentarily intimidated by his rage.
“He…he didn’t say.”
William snorted. “Yes, of course. Of course he didn’t say! But you believed him anyway.
Because it’s so easy to believe someone who simpers and flatters and lies as easily as most
people breathe. Maybe if I did the same, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. But,
I’m sorry. I’m not made like that. I don’t go around spouting poems to every woman I meet.”
Elizabeth clenched her fists. “No, you just get off on humiliating us! You think you’re hot shit
and you treat us accordingly.”
“What should I have said to you, Elizabeth? Great extensions? Nice jumps? Should I have
brought you a dozen roses at every rehearsal? Taken you on dates to the mall? Or, would you
like a sonnet? I’m not a poet, but I can probably think up bullshit that’s just as good as Greg
Wickham’s.”
Elizabeth inhaled slowly and shakily. Closing her eyes briefly, she shook her head. “There,” she
said quietly. “Right there. Proof that you’re an arrogant, self-centered, insensitive ass. I almost
feel insulted that a man like you would fall in love with me.”
Nostrils flaring, William answered her with a deadly calm. “Hold on. You slept with me.”
“That was a drunken mistake.”
“You weren’t drunk.”
“You’ve never fucked someone just for the hell of it?”
Opening his mouth, William tried to respond, but shut it suddenly. He reminded Elizabeth of a
fish gasping for its last breath, but she couldn’t savor her victory. William’s words stung too
much. Rehearsal had bruised her. Caroline’s confession had broken bones. She felt knockeddown, bloody, and exhausted. So she simply stood there, her eyes distant, waiting for William to
say something.
“All right…I see. I’ve misunderstood what we were. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. Good luck
tomorrow. I’ll see you at the theater,” he said. He cast her a look she couldn’t read, and then
swept past her, his footsteps resounding on the wooden floors, leaving Elizabeth alone with only
the sounds of Manhattan’s streets in the background.
Chapter Sixteen
Jane watched her sister listlessly push a piece of fried tofu around the Styrofoam tray with a
chopstick. Elizabeth turned the cube on its side, then pushed it back over. More suspicious yet,
she had only eaten a bite of her egg roll before tossing it back into its wax paper bag. Elizabeth
loved the egg rolls and always begged Jane for hers.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Jane asked again.
Elizabeth looked up with dead eyes, shook her head, and went back to skewering the piece of
tofu.
“I know you’re embarrassed about what happened today, but no one blames you. Everyone
thinks it was Caroline’s fault.”
Making no reply, Elizabeth set her chopstick down and looked to her sister. Elizabeth’s heart
lurched, and she felt another peal of anger and hurt rip at her insides. Jane had no clue how
William had ruined her chance at promotion. She wouldn’t be this placid if she did. Elizabeth
scrunched her face up, and then covered it with her palms.
“Elizabeth, what?”
“I can’t talk about it! I’m so goddamned angry at him, I can’t even think straight.”
“Why? Elizabeth, just tell me!”
Standing from the sofa, Elizabeth dropped her Styrofoam box of Chinese food onto the coffee
table. “I’m sorry, Jane. I need some time to calm down.”
She walked into her room and shut the door with a cold thud. Jane sighed and closed the lid of
Elizabeth’s wholly uneaten food. Elizabeth had barely spoken the entire evening. She was sullen
and troubled. Jane knew from Charles that Caroline had wrangled back the pas de deux. She had
seen her sister in the throws of rejection before. This was not the weepy, dejected Elizabeth who
had been denied a role she deserved. This was another beast entirely. Biting her lip, Jane was
tempted to call Charles and ask what specifically had happened in William Lucas’ office. He
would never say, though.
Jane stood and collected the garbage from that night’s dinner. She decided to give Elizabeth a
night to work through her feelings before she pressed the issue any further.
In her room, Elizabeth collapsed onto her bed, burying her face in the pillow. She could not cry.
Her mind was still too troubled for that kind of release. Rewinding over that afternoon, Elizabeth
heard William’s voice, its haughty baritone tinged with scorn. Her skin tingled again at all of the
ways he had insulted her.
In love with her? Impossible. It was unfathomable. William had done nothing but criticize her,
patronize her, look down on her, taken advantage of her. His disgust with himself had been so
apparent when he’d confessed it. He had called himself an idiot, and her vain, fickle, and worst
of all, narrow-minded. He had insulted her, and all in the name of what he thought was love.
He loved her, but he hated himself for it. What an awful thing to say to someone.
And all of the other things he had said. His guiltless admission about Jane’s promotion, Greg and
poetry, all the other bullshit. He loved her? It was so unbelievable. She had thought he’d shared
her feelings – intense physical attraction hampered by an overpowering dislike of the other’s
character and behavior. William had certainly betrayed lust, but never admiration. Elizabeth
could only think his confession another means of manipulation, a way to get himself out of the
hole he had dug that day in rehearsal, and keep her on his side.
Sitting up, Elizabeth picked up her pillow and threw it across the room, feeling a bit better when
it made contact with her vanity mirror, taking down with it a magazine cutout of Perfection by
Hermes.
“But seriously, why? I mean, she’s like only in the corps. Like, she’s good and all, but, like, I
just don’t…”
The words died on the dancer’s lips as Elizabeth and Jane shuffled into the dressing room with
their dance bags. Elizabeth glanced over to the huddle in the corner suspiciously. They had been
gabbing enthusiastically until the moment she and Jane had come in. Now, they glared at her.
Lowering her eyes, Elizabeth chose a place on the counter far away from their stares. Charlotte
approached Elizabeth and Jane and leaned on a chair. Rolling her eyes silently, she then smiled
at Elizabeth.
“Warm up starts in ten minutes.”
Nodding, Elizabeth grabbed a pair of leg warmers from her bag. “I’m heading up there now.”
She smiled weakly at her sister and Charlotte, and then left the dressing room.
“Well,” Charlotte sighed, “any better since last night?”
Jane shook her head. “I don’t think talk like that makes it any better.” She nodded to the opposite
corner.
Glancing over, Charlotte lowered her voice to a whisper, “They’ve been at it for almost twenty
minutes before you came. Did Lizzy have some kind of fight with Mr. Darcy yesterday?”
Jane shrugged. “She won’t talk.”
“Not that I trust their gossip, but Donna said she heard Mr. Darcy and Liz screaming at each
other in the studio.”
Frowning, Jane took Charlotte’s arm. “Come on, let’s go grab a place at the barre.”
The two women linked arms, and whispered quietly as they trekked through the bowels of City
Center to company class.
Elizabeth tapped the corner of her eyelid, setting the false eyelash in place. Frowning, she turned
to Jane and asked, “Are these even?”
Jane studied her sister’s eyes and replied that it was close enough. Then, she reached into her
sister’s makeup bag to borrow an eyebrow pencil.
“These costumes are god-awful,” Charlotte whined, gazing at her butt in the mirror. “Unitards?
What was the man thinking? I look like a pole.”
Cracking a weak smile, Elizabeth looked at Charlotte. “You look fine.”
“Dancers in William Darcy’s piece. You have ten minutes,” the stage manager announced over
the intercom.
Jane and Charlotte stood. “Lizzy, hurry up and get your shoes on,” Jane said.
“Yup, I got it. It’ll take me two minutes.” Rummaging through her bag, Elizabeth pulled out a
brand new pointe shoe, the pink satin shimmering under the bright dressing room lights. She
pushed aside leg warmers trying to find the other one.
“Jane, do you have my other shoe?”
Jane inspected the inside of her bag. “Nope, not in here.”
Furrowing her eyebrows, Elizabeth went through her bag again, opening every zipper and
looking through every pocket. She turned the bag over and dumped the contents out on the floor.
“It’s not here,” she cried. Jane’s eyes widened, and she began searching through the mess of
makeup and legwarmers on the counter.
“Has anyone here seen my pointe shoe?” Elizabeth asked the dressing room. A few dancers
shook their heads, looking at her with concern.
“Charlotte, go tell Roger we’ll be up,” Jane said. Charlotte nodded, and jogged out of the
dressing room.
“Are you sure you put it in your bag?” Jane asked.
“Yes!” Elizabeth exclaimed, unable to suppress her panic. “You saw me. I picked them up from
Mindy before we came down here. They were wrapped up in each other. I put them both in my
bag!”
“Did you take them out?”
“Jane, you saw me. I put my bag down, got out my warmers, and then went to class.”
Jane chewed on her lip.
“Dancers in William Darcy’s piece must come backstage. You’re on in five.”
“Fuck!” Elizabeth cried, throwing her hands up in frustration.
“Liz, just wear the shoes you wore in class.”
“They’re filthy!”
“At this point, it doesn’t matter. Come on, get them on, and let’s go.”
Elizabeth pulled the dirty, worn shoes from her bag and threw them on in record speed. She
laced the ribbons, tucking them in securely, and then jumped up and ran backstage. She and Jane
made it just as the light applause from the last piece was finishing.
Elizabeth was so shaken that she didn’t have time to notice William standing in the right, upstage
wing. The music began, and she jumped out into formation. But, her heart was racing, her mind
tripping over itself. She panicked and blanked on the upcoming phrase. Luckily, she copied
Lydia, who danced in front of her. Willing herself to concentrate, Elizabeth made it through the
opening sequence and ran offstage, her chest heaving harder than it should have been for only
one minute of dancing.
She felt tears well in her eyes. Fanning her face, Elizabeth commanded herself to stop the
histrionics. She knew William would explode if she made a careless mistake, and frankly, she
wanted nothing more to do with the man. Taking three deep breaths, she let the music take her,
and she calmly waltzed back on stage.
The audience was tiny, but enormous in importance. Only the first three rows in the Orchestra
section were full, but their occupants were millionaires and billionaires who had given heaps of
money to the company. If they liked what they saw tonight, they would give more. Elizabeth
knew that Catherine Boroughs was one amongst them, but the lights prevented her from picking
out the woman’s face.
The music ended. Elizabeth posed. Then, to her surprise, the curtain fell.
“Just bow,” William yelled onto the stage. The confused dancers lined up. When the curtain rose
again, they curtseyed gracefully and received peppered applause. The curtain fell, and they ran
off stage muttering to each other.
“What happened to the pas?” Lydia asked, approaching Elizabeth.
“Don’t know.”
“Wasn’t Caroline going to dance it?”
Elizabeth only shrugged. She looked to the wings, trying to catch a glimpse of William, but he
had disappeared. Walking back downstairs to the corps de ballet dressing room, Elizabeth tried
to recall what she had done with her new pair of pointe shoes after she had picked them up from
the costume mistress. She had definitely placed them in her bag, and hadn’t removed them at all.
There had been two, of that she was positive. Swallowing, Elizabeth thought back to the gaggle
of dancers who had been gossiping about her. No, impossible, she thought.
When she returned, Elizabeth checked her bag again. The shoe was not there. She morosely
removed her makeup and costume, took down her hair and brushed it out. Then, she pulled her
hair back into a messy ponytail and headed towards the costume mistress.
“Mindy, you gave me both pointe shoes, right?” she asked, handing over the deep blue unitard.
The costume mistress nodded. “I’m nearly certain. What happened? I noticed you had on old
shoes out there.”
Elizabeth shook her head and smiled plastically. “I…I must have misplaced one of the shoes. I
couldn’t find it.”
Mindy frowned. “Be careful next time. You know if this were a real performance, Lucas would
have docked your pay.”
Elizabeth nodded mutely and left the costume room. As she walked down the hall, William
emerged from the stage and strode intently in her direction. She froze. The look in his eyes
changed when he recognized her, and his pace slowed.
“Ms. Bennet,” he said in a clipped tone, “what happened out there?”
Her heartbeat raced. Coloring, she could not maintain eye contact. “What do you mean?”
“Your shoes. Didn’t you get new ones before the performance?”
Elizabeth exhaled loudly. He must have thought that she was truly stupid. “Of course, I did. I…I
couldn’t find one of them. I came back from warm up, and it was just…gone. I had to use my old
ones.”
She expected him to bark a reprimand. Instead, he remained silent. Looking up at him, Elizabeth
was surprised to see him frowning. “What do you mean ‘you couldn’t find one?’ Did you lose
it?”
“I got them from Mindy, put them in my bag before warm up, and didn’t touch them afterwards.
I don’t know, maybe one fell out.”
William looked away, his forehead creased in a frown. He rubbed his mouth, nodded at
Elizabeth, and then strode past her. Standing alone in the hall, Elizabeth sunk against the wall.
She stared at the pattern in the linoleum tile, everything in her heavy and gray. It had been a
terrible performance, a terrible day, and Elizabeth finally felt like her mind and body were ready
for that cry. Trudging back down the stairs, Elizabeth quickly gathered her things and hurried
home, so she could do just that.
“Paige,” William said, finding the old ballet mistress backstage. She turned and looked up at him
suspiciously. She had never liked the man when he was a conceited principal dancer, and now, as
a conceited choreographer, she hated him even more.
“Were all of the dancers in warm up today?”
The old woman looked him up and down before replying. “Why?”
“Just were they?”
Folding her arms over her chest, she glared up at William. “They were.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. I gave my attendance sheet to Charles.”
“Did any of them leave early? Or come in late?”
“Caroline Bingley came in after frappés. But she’s always late.”
William froze and stared at the dozens of ropes and pulleys lining the opposite wall. Swallowing,
he nodded and brushed past the ballet mistress without thanking her. She muttered something
under her breath, which he ignored.
William stalked through the backstage halls, his thoughts racing. A few technicians stared at him
oddly as he rummaged through garbage cans. Finding nothing, William strode to the emergency
exit that led into the back alley of the theater. His heart pumped crazily in his chest. Deactivating
the alarm, he pushed open the door and wrinkled his nose at the awful smells coming from the
alley. There was a rusting dumpster there. William eyed it for a long moment, wondering if it
were the same one from all those years ago. Holding his breath, he finally lifted up the metal
cover and peered in.
There it was. On top of a heap of garbage bags laid a brand new pointe shoe, its satin striking
against the black plastic, its ribbons twisting down into the darkness.
Chapter Seventeen
Elizabeth’s mood remained gray the following week. Not that she dwelled on William or
Saturday’s performance every conscious moment, but somehow, she smiled less. New York
annoyed her more, with its frigidity, its somberness, its indifference. On Tuesday, a taxi nearly
turned into her as she crossed the street. Cursing loudly, she flicked an indignant middle finger at
its taillights as it sped off. The check-out girl at the supermarket, the same one who never smiled,
who never said hello, pissed off Elizabeth even more, to the point where, as she grabbed her
shopping bags to leave, she spat, “Thanks for the friendly service, as always.” The woman
simply cracked her gum.
Saturday offered a brief moment of respite when Elizabeth went out with several corps girls to a
bar downtown. There she downed several cocktails, flirted incessantly with a yuppie investment
banker who bought her several more, and went home drunk off of rum and Cokes and Elysian
unconcern. The next day, she woke up with a hangover.
Elizabeth spent Sunday at home quietly. She and Jane rented eighties movies and made popcorn.
They ordered Chinese take-out for dinner and afterwards decided to give themselves manicures.
Just as Elizabeth had finished her left hand, the phone rang.
“Hello?” she answered, as Jane sat next to her drying her fingernail polish.
“Liz?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, sweetie. It’s me.”
Elizabeth paused. “Greg?”
“Yeah, long time, no speak. How’s everything?”
Jane straightened her posture, glancing up in concern. Elizabeth’s face had gone rigid.
“Fine,” she clipped.
“Is now a bad time?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes into the receiver.
“Hello?”
“No, now’s great. Where were you last Saturday?”
“Oh…right. The Gala. Listen, Liz. I’m sorry. I meant to call you earlier, but this week has been
crazy. We got stuck in Jamaica for two extras days, then I had to race back here for another
audition, and you know how it is.”
“I called your cell phone on Saturday. It rang.”
Greg paused, then began stammering. “Oh, well, I…I didn’t take it with me. I lent it to a friend
here.”
Elizabeth sighed into the receiver. “Uh huh. Well, it was nice talking to you. Good luck on your
auditions.”
“Hey, we weren’t exclusive, all right? So don’t start acting all offended when I’m not at your
beck and call every moment of the day.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Good bye, Greg.” She hung up the phone, sat back down, and opened up the
bottle of nail polish. Jane studied her.
“So that was Greg.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded again. “Yup.”
“Are you sure?”
Slicking another coat of red onto her thumb, Elizabeth smiled at Jane. “I’m okay. Really. He was
a pretty face. Probably would have been great sex. That’s it. I wasn’t into him.”
Jane smiled and shrugged. “If you say so.”
Elizabeth moved on to her index finger and then grew hot with anger, but not over Greg. What
she’d told Jane had been the truth. After thinking it over for a week, she decided it had been
hormones, rather than any real connection that had kept her interested in him. No, it was not
Greg, but rather who Greg made her remember...I’m not a poet, but I can probably think up
bullshit that’s just as good as Greg Wickham’s.
Subconsciously, Elizabeth dug her nails into the flesh of her thumb, ruining her nail polish.
“Fuck!” she cried. “Fuck this!”
Elizabeth grabbed the nail polish remover off of the coffee table, ignoring her sister’s look of
surprise and proceeded to violently rub off what remained of her spoiled nail polish.
On Monday in rehearsal, Elizabeth slipped in red-faced, more than ten minutes late.
“Sorry,” she whispered to the floor before rushing across the room to stand in formation.
William ignored her, turning decidedly away and walking to another dancer to correct her hand
placement. There had been nothing really wrong with the step; he simply could not bear to look
or speak directly to Elizabeth. Not yet.
Glimpsing at her in between run-throughs, William saw that she was panting. Her eyes looked
troubled, and she nibbled at the nail on her thumb. Off at the sides, Jane approached her. He saw
them speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Jane frowned and shrugged.
The next day, Elizabeth came in on time, but her nose and eyes were red. William noticed her
friend, the tall one, rubbing her back off at the side. Every so often, Elizabeth would turn away,
pretending to stretch, but when she turned back, he noticed her eyes and nose were once again
freshly pink.
Suspicion gnawed at his insides. He thought of the pointe shoe still hidden in the bottom drawer
of his desk. Yesterday, he had confirmed with wardrobe that it was Elizabeth’s maker(3). Of
course, William could prove nothing unless he got the shoe fingerprinted, but he had enough
experience at Ballet Theater to know what was going on.
Rehearsal finished. Without as much as glancing at William, Elizabeth ducked out quickly. It
was just as well. He, too, had absolutely no desire to be with her, knowing how vehemently she
hated him.
William passed Charles’ office on the way to his and glimpsed inside. Elizabeth sat at the edge
of a chair, her foot bouncing nervously, her arms crossed over her chest. Quickly skirting past
the door, William shut himself in his office and made for the window, trying to control his wildly
beating heart. Now a prisoner of his office, he was trapped until he could be sure Elizabeth was
no longer on the floor. He felt ridiculous.
Rejection and the aftershocks of humiliation were, for William, a first. Of course, in his thirty-
five years, women had turned down his advances, but their rejection had always been
circumstantial: they had husbands, they were moving to Delhi in two days, they didn’t date men.
Single women – especially young, attractive, intelligent corps de ballet dancers – never turned
him down. Some may have taken longer to acquiesce, but they always did. And they never told
him things like, “I almost feel insulted that a man like you would fall in love with me.”
Shaking his head, William banished those words from his head. He needed to wait until he got
home. Not now, not here. It would be pointless to fall into despair here when he could do so in
the comforts of his Central Park West penthouse in an hour or so. He picked up the phone and
dialed Charles’ extension.
“Charles Bingley.”
“Are you done with your meeting?”
“Will?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“In my office.”
Charles laughed. “Getting lazy in your old age, huh, Gramps? Why don’t you just come over
instead of calling?”
“Is your meeting over?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“Will, what’s wrong with you?”
“Can you just answer the question?”
“It ended like a minute ago.”
“I’ll be over in five. Bye.”
William spent the next five minutes pacing, pressing his ear to the door every so often to hear if a
rich, feminine voice was coming from outside. After seven minutes, William decided it would be
safe to leave. He yanked open his door and strode quickly to Charles’. Closing the door behind
him, William turned to face his friend, who raised his eyebrows in greeting.
“What’s wrong?” asked William.
“How do you know something’s wrong?”
“You’re not smiling.”
Charles sighed. “I’m ready to quit.”
“Why? What happened?”
Charles hesitated, not knowing whether to reveal the issue to William.
“Charles.”
“Someone’s being a prankster again.”
William frowned.
“You remember Stephanie de Lilo, from two years before you retired?” Charles asked.
Nodding slowly, William responded, “The one who quit out of the blue and went to New York
City Ballet?”
“Yeah, her. I didn’t know this at the time, Lucas just told me, but do you know why she quit?”
“She was being harassed.”
“Wait. How do you know that?”
William shrugged and looked out of the window disinterestedly. “Word gets around.”
“Well, it’s happening again.”
Snapping his head to Charles, William looked at him in bewilderment. His eyes widened. “Is that
why Elizabeth was in here just now?”
Charles nodded.
“What happened?”
“I really can’t say anything, this is an administrative-”
“Charles, what happened?”
Sighing, Charles looked at his friend and frowned. “She had her locker broken in to. Some of her
stuff was…tampered with.”
“What does that mean?”
“She couldn’t get her locker open yesterday. She had to come up here to get the master key.
Today, she went back to her locker and found that the ribbons on her pointe shoes had been cut
off.”
William rubbed his mouth. “Anything else?”
“She claims a few people have been acting strangely in class. Bumping into her, etcetera.”
“And you’re looking into this?”
“Of course we are! But, do you realize that Lucas and I have been here until nine every night,
trying to get ready for the season? I don’t have time to run around playing Sherlock Holmes.”
William knew Charles must have been upset. His friend rarely raised his voice. “Then let me
look in to it.”
Eyeing William, Charles shook his head. “No.”
“Why not? You just said you were in over your head with preparations for the season.”
“No, Will. This isn’t something that I can let you do.”
“So you’re just going to let Elizabeth get beat up on until she quits?”
“No, we’re going to try to solve this as quickly as possible.”
“It’s not going to be fast enough.”
Charles glared at William, who returned the look with equal severity. “Will, I know you care
about her, but there’s-”
“That’s not the issue!” William sat forward on his chair and glowered at Charles.
Furrowing his eyebrows, Charles swallowed and sighed. His features softened. “I’ll sit in on
company class tomorrow, okay? Just to see if anything’s not right.”
William nodded and stood. Charles noticed a tortured look pass across his friend’s face before it
was blanketed by its usual stony visage. “Thanks.”
The choreographer said nothing else. He stood sharply then and without a word of goodbye,
stormed from Charles’ office. Shaking his head, Charles sighed and wondered again why he had
taken this job.
William awoke at five the next morning, unable to fall back asleep. He stared up at the ceiling,
rewinding through his argument with Elizabeth for what felt like the thousandth time. With each
successive remembrance, the hurt grew more acute until his chest physically ached. “Why?” he
asked himself again. Why did she so thoroughly detest him, when he felt this way about her?
How could such a thing happen? He had singled her out countless times – in the studio, at the
Gala - he had brought her back to his apartment, taken her to his favorite restaurant. How could
there be any misunderstanding on his part or hers? Why had she been so incredulous?
No, he forced himself to stop asking the same questions over and over. It was done. She hated
him. I almost feel insulted that a man like you would fall in love with me. A man like you? What
kind of man had Greg Wickham made him out to be? What lies had that shit spouted this time?
William knew he was fooling himself. It had not been solely Greg’s lies. She had mentioned
Jane’s promotion, too. Of course, Elizabeth would be furious about that, but there was so much
that she didn’t understand. She was young; she thought the world revolved around people’s
goodwill and hard work. She didn’t realize that Catherine Boroughs had nearly bankrupted the
Brooklyn Orchestra when she withdrew her funding six years ago. Ballet Theater had been
around for nearly seventy years, but that didn’t mean it would always be around. Better that Jane
not be promoted now, if it meant that one, two, five years down the line, she would still be
receiving a paycheck. Elizabeth didn’t understand that.
Sitting up in bed, William pushed off the sheets and ceased those thoughts. He was sick of
thinking of her. Pattering to the kitchen, he turned on the coffee maker, and fed Austin. Once that
had been done, he poured himself a mug of coffee and leaned on the breakfast bar, sipping it
absentmindedly. Charles would observe class today. While his friend was a competent
administrator, William knew his own weaknesses whenever he got in a studio with Elizabeth. He
could look at no one else. If it were the same with Charles, then he would spend the entire class
admiring Jane and ignoring the other dancers.
William checked the time. Company class would begin in a little under two hours. Plenty of time
to shower, dress, and arrive in time to watch the class from behind the one-way mirror to the side
of the studio.
When William arrived, the halls were silent except for muffled piano music coming from Studio
A. He approached the window and looked in. The dancers were in the middle of tendu exercises.
Scanning the room, he finally spied Elizabeth at the back along the wall. His heart stung, but he
could not look away. She danced nonchalantly – it was only tendus, after all – and the painful
beating of his heart was relieved by a wave of annoyance. For one, she was forcing the turnout of
her fifth position, a problem intricately related to the troubles with her arabesque, and one that
would take a toll on her knees and hips years later. Two, she was hiding. Back there, folded away
in a corner, she would never be noticed by the ballet mistress. It was a mistake corps dancers
often made; out of modesty or fear, they deferred to the older dancers, allowing them prime spots
at the front of the room. A dancer like Elizabeth needed to show off. That she hadn’t, was the
reason no one – not even Charles, and himself initially – had recognized her talent.
Barre exercises passed as they always did. William found that if he concentrated on critiquing
Elizabeth’s dancing, he spared himself the agony of remembering. The barres were removed.
William saw Charles stiffen in his chair at the front, his eyes flickering around the room. If
anything happened, it would be during center exercises. William straightened and narrowed his
eyes. Caroline stood at the back of the room, leaning against a row of barres, whispering with a
soloist. Her eyes were zeroed on Elizabeth.
Nothing happened throughout tendus, adagio, or petit allegro. During waltz, however, the same
soloist, who had been whispering with Caroline, danced a balancé too close to Elizabeth, forcing
her to stop in the middle of the exercise to take two steps back so she wouldn’t get whipped in
the leg during the upcoming en dedans turn. William saw Elizabeth’s expression flinch and her
concentration waver. Catching up with the next steps, she continued to dance, but the power in
her movements had disappeared.
The exercise finished, and Elizabeth trudged off to the side with a worried, resigned look
marring her face. William watched her gaze out of the window and release a sigh that dragged
down her shoulders. Looking back, she saw Caroline smirking at her. Elizabeth quickly looked
away.
William grew incensed. If Caroline needed a punching bag to relieve her insecurities, she should
have used William. Elizabeth had nothing to do with what happened in his piece. How could
Caroline expect a corps girl to pull the strings? He cursed into the empty hallway and began
pacing. This wasn’t good. Once Caroline bared her fangs at someone, she bit until she drew
blood. Marina Rodriquez, Stephanie de Lilo, Sheryl Polenski. Now, it seemed Caroline had made
Elizabeth another one of her targets.
Too angry to watch the rest of class, William stalked to the stairway, resolved. He would tell
Charles everything about his sister and get him to take action. Then, William winced. Charles
would be devastated. Naïve, trusting, glass half-full Charles. Pausing in the stairwell, William
sighed. Charles would have to discipline his own sister, maybe even fire her. Canning Caroline
Bingley would damage the company’s reputation and, by extension, Charles’ family’s, too. The
Bingley’s, while a tad bourgeois, were otherwise nice people, especially Charles’ mother, who
often called William just to say hello.
Forcing himself to calm down, William decided he would return to his office to think about this
rationally. There had to be a way to get Caroline to quit her pranks without revealing anything to
Charles. Once on the administrative floor, William strode decisively to his office. Just as he was
about to open the door, he heard his name called.
“Why, William Darcy.”
He looked over his shoulder and then smiled.
“For a super-star, you’re here early.” A short, middle-aged brunette grinned as she paced down
the hall to meet him.
“Morning, Maddy.”
“How’ve you been, William? I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Our paths don’t cross much, do they?”
“Not enough, no.” Madeleine Gardiner, Ballet Theater’s tour director, smiled up at him and
pushed back the front of her sharply edged bob. “And how are your rehearsals coming? I hear the
piece is really shaping up.”
“Good. They’re good. I’ve got a great group of dancers.” William repressed his agitation under a
smile. He had a long history with Maddy, not always good, but in the past few months, she had
been a warm, cheerful colleague.
“What about yours?” he asked.
Maddy sighed heavily. “Fine except for a piece of bad news that Charles just sprang on me. I
shouldn’t say bad…it’s bad timing. Davinia’s pregnant.”
William had a blank look on his face.
“Davinia’s in the corps, William.”
“Ah.”
“She’s going on tour, or she was supposed to, but her doctor’s advised her not to go. Now I’ve
got to tweak all of my casting, and this is going to throw everything off, since she was
understudying some of the soloist roles, too. Ugh. It has not been a good morning.”
Smiling sympathetically, William replied, “I know the feeling.”
“And why are you here so early?”
The smile dropped from William’s face. “I have an issue of my own to solve.”
“It’s always something, huh? All right, I should run. I have a meeting with Lucas in ten minutes
to discuss this whole mess.”
“Hope everything gets resolved.”
“Yeah, me too.” Madeleine patted him on the bicep and then disappeared into the office. William
opened the door to his and quickly shut it. Sighing heavily, he sank into his chair, leaned back,
and stared at the ceiling.
How to get Caroline Bingley to quit her persecution? The direct approach would never work.
Caroline would deny everything. Or, she would find sick pleasure at the attention in the same
way that serial killers got their thrills in seeing themselves on the evening news. William had
ruled out telling Charles. He admired the Bingleys and his friend too much to do that. Then,
how?
Closing his eyes, William let his mind wander. His thoughts rambled over class this morning,
Caroline Bingley’s smug look of satisfaction, and Elizabeth’s quiet despair. William wondered if
he should discuss the matter in general terms with Sir William, and wondered how long his
meeting with Maddy Gardiner would…William’s eyes popped open. His heart began to beat
faster. There was a solution. But, he couldn’t suggest that. It would be the proverbial cutting off
his nose to spite his face. Could he do that? Did he want to? William dismissed it and desperately
tried to think of another alternative.
The idea was just too perfect, however. It would guard Elizabeth, sever any opportunity Caroline
had to carry out her revenge, and spare Charles the heartache of knowing about his sister.
Checking the time, William bolted from his chair, flung open the door to his office, and charged
down the hallway into the administrative office. He strode past William Lucas’ personal
secretary, who opened her mouth to protest the choreographer’s intrusion, and walked straight
into the artistic director’s office without knocking. Inside, sat a surprised William Lucas and
Madeleine Gardiner.
William closed the door, folded his arms across his chest, and spoke.
“I have a solution that could make everyone happy.”
Charles shifted in his seat and smiled nervously at Elizabeth, who sat opposite him in his office.
She wore a look of strained congeniality. The events of this week had mentally drained her; bags
under her eyes let Charles know that Elizabeth had probably lost hours of sleep worrying. While
he had observed class for two days in a row, he had not seen any evidence of a vendetta against
her. The whole issue kept getting stranger when William had barged into his office last night,
demanding to remove Elizabeth from his piece.
The assistant artistic director sighed and plastered on a fake grin. “How’s it going, Liz?”
“I’ve been better.”
“I know. I’m looking in to it. I am. You have the company’s support one hundred percent.”
She nodded, but could not smile.
“I’ve called you in here actually, not to talk about…that, but to tell you about a few cast changes
we’ve made.” Charles swallowed hard and felt a drop of sweat run down his back. He hated
announcements like this and especially dreaded this one, knowing how it would affect someone
close to him. Elizabeth simply nodded for Charles to continue.
“Actually, we’ve decided not to keep you in New York this spring. We’d like you to go on tour.”
Expecting a blow-up from Jane’s younger, more temperamental sister, Charles felt relieved and
guilty at the same time upon witnessing her reaction. Her face crumpled.
“What?” she asked in a whisper. “W-why?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard about Davinia, and we needed a replacement.”
“No, but you can’t. I-I…what about Jane? And I’m in Mr. Darcy’s piece. No, Charles, you can’t
send me on tour, please.”
Charles straightened in his chair, his heart trapped in a vice of guilt. Elizabeth looked shocked
and scared.
“Don’t worry about William’s piece, Liz. He’ll be fine.”
“Have you told him? He wouldn’t want me to go.” Her voice shook in desperation.
Shifting again, Charles felt his mouth go dry. “William knows.”
“And…and what’d he say?”
Charles shut his eyes briefly and braced himself. “Liz, he suggested the cast change.”
Elizabeth’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. Looking away, her chest heaved as she desperately
tried to control the emotions churning in her. It was happening as she had predicted; he was
exiling her, as he had done to Greg. Suddenly, everything from the past two weeks – the
Netherfield Gala, the sex with William, their argument, the preview, the harassment – crashed
together like a barrage of cymbals. No longer able to contain herself, Elizabeth covered her eyes
with her hands and felt her fingers grow wet and warm with tears. Her shoulders shook with
silent sobs.
Charles bit his lip, unable to do anything but watch Elizabeth cry. “Liz, it’s not that bad,” he said
gently, “it’ll be okay.”
That only made her cry harder. “But…but Jane. What will she do without me? Three months.
The rent.”
Standing, Charles crossed to the other side of his desk and knelt down beside Elizabeth’s chair.
“Don’t worry about Jane. I’ll look out for her. Liz, look at this as an opportunity. You’ll be
dancing a lot more on the road than you would in City Center.”
Sniffling, Elizabeth wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She gasped for breath, but then,
thinking of everything, began to cry again. Charles watched her pitiably. Rubbing his eyes, he
stood and squeezed her shoulders.
“Do you want me to give you a few moments?”
Elizabeth nodded through her tears.
“Okay,” Charles said, “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
She heard the door open and click shut. Inhaling shakily, Elizabeth slumped in the chair and
tossed her head back. Tears slipped down her cheeks. She wiped them away with her fingers.
William had suggested the cast change? Of course, he had. Step on the lion’s toes, and the lion
will rear up. She had suspected that the pranks from this week had been at his doing. Now, she
had her proof. William wanted her gone, that was perfectly clear. That he would do it at the
expense of his piece just proved his determination. He’d won. She let a last, trembling sigh shake
her chest.
Elizabeth wondered how Jane would react. Even Elizabeth wouldn’t want to live alone in that
apartment for three months. Jane, who screeched upon sight of a baby cockroach, would have to
now. Three months living out of hotels, dancing the same pieces over and over again, far away
from Jane and Charlotte and Lydia, far away from New York City! Elizabeth had so desperately
wanted to experience spring in the city. She’d wanted to go to the cherry blossom festival at the
Brooklyn Botanical Gardens and take rambling strolls through Central Park. Now, she’d have to
wait until next year. That is, if she still had a position in the company when she returned.
Charles’ knock on the door disturbed her thoughts.
“Come in,” she called out weakly.
The door opened. “Charles, the costumes still haven’t-”
It was William standing in the doorway, his face frozen in shock. Bolting upright, Elizabeth
twisted in her chair, her eyes widening, and narrowing just as soon. She felt her chin begin to
tremble again, but quickly snapped together. William said nothing. His face remained unmoving
and glacial.
Elizabeth stood slowly. “It’s done,” she whispered, “I hope you’re happy.” Her face was a
portrait of hatred.
William only shook his head. He opened his jaw and shut it, then opened it again to speak.
“You’ll…you’ll be better off on tour. Trust me on this.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “I’m sure you think so. Who were you to make a decision like that?”
He turned his face away, his expression unmoving.
“William Darcy, the puppet master,” she spat, her voice shaking with anger. “You couldn’t
manipulate me by telling me you loved me, so now you manipulate Charles to get your way.”
He said nothing for a long moment. Finally, he answered perfunctorily, “I’m sorry.”
“No…you’re not. I never asked to be in your pas de deux. I never asked for your good graces.
But you forced them on me, and now I’m paying for them with interest. Thanks.”
She brushed past him, her shoulder skimming his chest. Once out of Charles’ office, she turned
to him, her eyes on fire. Elizabeth waited for him to speak, but he continued to stare past her, at
nothing. Giving up with a frustrated snort, she shook her head. He would give her nothing - not
an explanation, not an apology, not anything. He’d tortured her for the past two weeks - no,
longer, and now he was sending the guillotine through her neck, and he had nothing to say for
himself. She felt her eyes begin to pool again and before they could spill over, she turned
abruptly and strode down the hall, leaving William silent in the doorway to Charles’ office
Chapter Eighteen
Jane stood with Elizabeth outside of the check-in counters at LaGuardia International Airport.
“Do you have everything? Tights? Toothbrush? Deodorant?” Jane asked, in a rare moment of
older-sisterliness.
“Jane, they have all of those things in Boston,” Elizabeth replied, hiking her heavy carry-on
backpack over her shoulders.
Around her, a few corps girls whooped upon discovering that they were sitting next to each other
on the plane. Jane smiled weakly at them, Elizabeth not at all.
It had been a grueling two weeks. In the span of twelve days, Elizabeth had re-learned new
blocking for Giselle and Raymonda, plus choreography for three other pieces she would perform,
in addition to the roles she had been allotted to understudy. There had been so little time, that she
had even gone in on Saturday and Sunday to work privately with Madeleine Gardiner. Despite it
all, she was still shaky on one of the pieces and all of the roles she would be understudying.
Fortunately, because of their opposing rehearsal schedules, she had avoided speaking to William
for the entire period. She had seen him once, striding down the hall away from her into Studio B.
That was all. Jane knew instinctively not to mention his piece, his rehearsals, or the man himself.
It had been two weeks, and Elizabeth still cried in the shower.
“Alright, everyone,” Madeleine Gardiner announced, “you should head over to the gate now. I
need to wait here for two more. I’ll meet you over there before the flight.”
Elizabeth turned to Jane, whose chin was shaking. “Lizzy, I’m going to miss you.”
“Nah,” Elizabeth joked through her own glassy eyes, “you’ll have Charles and forget all about
me.”
“Three months.”
“It’s really just two months and sixteen days.”
“Merde, okay?”
Elizabeth nodded. That’s when Jane started to cry.
“Hey, come on, Janey. I’ll still call.”
Jane nodded, but started crying harder. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her sister’s shoulder
and gave her a tight squeeze. “Come on. We’ll pull through. We Bennets are stronger than we
look.”
Jane laughed then.
Pulling away, Elizabeth smiled. “I’ll call you when I get to Boston.”
“Okay, Lizzy. Have fun. Break a leg.”
“You’re not supposed to say that to dancers.”
“You know what I mean.”
Grinning, Elizabeth kissed Jane’s cheek and then jogged to catch up with the rest of the dancers.
She still smiled through the security check. Before disappearing through the doorway, Elizabeth
turned around and waved one last time to Jane. Once she was in the terminal, however, out of her
sister’s view, she ducked into a bathroom, shut herself in the stall, and cried.
It could only be one thing - God hated Elizabeth Bennet. Not only had a cold-hearted, scheming
choreographer exiled her on tour in an attempt to ruin her career, but Delta Airlines had now
seated her beside Anne Boroughs. Elizabeth glanced down at her boarding pass, up to the row
number, back down to her boarding pass, and then further down to Anne slumped in the seat,
staring intently out of the window at the wing of the plane. She didn’t change positions until they
reached the gate at Boston.
Elizabeth cast a sidewards glance at the mousy soloist. For two weeks, they had rehearsed
together. For two weeks, her resentment towards Anne had boiled over into hatred. If William
Darcy weren’t such an arrogant ass, it would be Jane, not Anne, sitting next to her right now.
Elizabeth had observed her. Anne was a terrible dancer - lifeless, uninspiring, without one shred
of talent. She had no friends. She spoke in a whine. After rehearsal, she scurried out of the
studio, head ducked, shoulders slumped, and spoke to no one in the locker room. She was like an
apparition. Elizabeth had a lengthy list of reasons to hate Anne Boroughs, a list which she
reviewed often and thoroughly.
They arrived in Boston.
God seriously hated Elizabeth Bennet.
The announcement came from Maddy - room assignments for the rest of the tour would be done
by alphabetical order. Boroughs came right after Bennet, so for three months, she would be
rooming with Wednesday Addams! Elizabeth trudged to their room, several steps ahead of Anne.
Flinging her things beside the bed closest to the window, Elizabeth made no effort to speak to the
other woman neatly unpacking her toiletries.
However, God was not at work here. Anne Boroughs was.
A week prior, a note on the bulletin board had grabbed Anne’s attention. William Darcy’s
rehearsal today CANCELLED. William never missed rehearsal. He rehearsed in blizzards, with
101-degree fevers, even while his sister had been going through the worst time in her life.
Something was amiss. And Elizabeth Bennet, the girl he’d been so interested in that night at the
Netherfield Gala, had been suddenly relocated to tour, as well. That Tuesday, Anne had
summoned up all of her resolve, and after rehearsal, had taken a taxi up to Central Park West.
William didn’t answer his buzzer. Luckily, the doorman recognized her, and she still had the
spare key William had given her several years back. She let herself in and steeled her nerves.
“W-William?” she whispered, tiptoeing into his living room. He wasn’t there. She called his
name as she toured the apartment. It was the first time she had been inside in years, and William
had really changed the place since his dad had died. Going upstairs, Anne knocked on each door
and opened it a crack. No William. She frowned and headed back to the first floor. Proceeding
past the staircase, she heard the strains of classical music grow louder as she approached a
hallway. It was the same Bach number from William’s piece.
Relieved, Anne sighed and strode to the sound. She opened the door to what had been Frank
Darcy’s home office, and instead found a dance studio occupied by William Darcy. He sat on the
floor, leaning against the mirror, gazing at nothing. Even when Anne entered, his eyes didn’t
move. She stepped in and looked around the small studio with wonder.
“You redecorated.”
Then, William turned his face to her. He hadn’t shaved. There were dark and heavy bags under
his eyes. His hair was tussled, his clothes wrinkled. He looked worse than after his father had
passed away.
“Did you come here just to point that out?”
“No. You weren’t at rehearsal today. Charles left a note on the board, saying it was cancelled.”
“It was cancelled.” William glared at her with frigid irises. He was palpably irritated at Anne’s
presence. Walking over to where he was, Anne slid her back down the mirror and sat next to
him. She said nothing for a long moment, instead tracing her fingernail over the pattern in the
wood floor.
“Why?” she asked finally.
William sighed heavily. “I think you should leave, Anne.”
Making no reply, Anne simply continued to trace her finger along the floor. And there they sat,
William staring off into the middle distance, sighing every few minutes, Anne silent and
detached and picking lint off of her skirt. Ten minutes passed, and then twenty. Finally, William
turned his head to her.
“This isn’t my fault.”
Anne raised her eyes from her pile of lint. “Whose is it?”
“Don’t be stupid, Anne.”
“Elizabeth Bennet’s, then?”
William sighed, in what Anne took as an affirmative.
“What did Elizabeth Bennet do?”
William snorted. “I’ll tell you what she did. She’s in the corps, okay? I put her in my pas de
deux, and she gets pissed at me. Pissed at me! Then, she says that I’ve ruined her career, I’ve
ruined her sister’s career, and oh, I’ve ruined Greg Wickham’s career, too.”
“Wickham?”
“Yes. She’s dating him.”
Anne frowned. “And what about her sister?”
William groaned and rubbed his face with his hands. “Anne. Please. You already know what
your mother did.”
“Oh. That.”
“I was the one who convinced Charles to take your mom’s money over promoting Jane.”
Anne shrugged. “He would have done it anyway. Lucas would have forced him.”
“Tell that to Elizabeth.”
“And her career?”
“I was the one who sent her on tour.”
“Why?”
William licked his lips nervously. “You can’t repeat a word of this to anyone. Not even Mariah.”
Anne nodded and her fingers traced a cross over her heart. “Caroline’s at it again.”
Sighing, Anne replied, “You would have thought she’d have learned her lesson by now.”
“Caroline can’t learn anything. She’s too dense.”
Anne smiled and then chuckled. “I don’t think it’s anything you have to worry about. Going on
tour will do more for Elizabeth’s career than being in New York would. She’s learning soloist
roles.”
“Tell that to Elizabeth.” Again, he ran his hands down his face and settled his fingertips at his
eye sockets. “She hates me.”
“And you like her.”
Dropping his hands, William cast Anne a serious look. She started and frowned. “You…more
than like her?”
“A lot more.”
Anne considered that. “Whoa. That’s so…unexpected.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.” Frustration was apparent in William’s voice.
“Well, it’s true.”
“And, why is it true?”
“Elizabeth isn’t really your type.”
William glared at Anne. She smirked. “You probably won’t remember this because you were
completely drunk at the time, but I remember this one cast party we were at years ago. I
overheard you. You were talking to Charles, and Dylan, and a few other principals. Do you
remember Gina Thomas?”
William shook his head.
“No, of course, you wouldn’t. Gina Thomas was a corps de ballet girl. She had the biggest crush
on you. You don’t remember what I’m talking about.”
Again, William shook his head.
“She asked you out. On a date. And I remember you were telling those guys at the cast party, ‘I
wouldn’t touch a corps girl with a ten-foot pole.’ Now do you remember?”
William chuckled. “No, but it sounds like something I would have said then.”
“It sounds like something you’d still say.”
The smile on William’s face wilted. He frowned and then grew indignant. “I was a jerk back
then. I wouldn’t say anything like that now.”
“Then why does Elizabeth hate you?”
“Did you come here to twist the knife a little more? Because it’s already deep enough.”
“I don’t think it’s gotten to the core yet, William.”
“Why are you blaming me for this? You don’t even know the half of it.”
Anne nodded. “True. But I know you. I know your pride is up to here, and that you couldn’t bear
to admit to yourself that you’re partial to a corps girl. You’re a good guy, William, but you say
dumb things. Like me. I don’t know Elizabeth well, but from what I’ve seen, I think she’d be just
what you need. She reminds me of Mariah a little bit. Smiling and outgoing. She’d lift you out of
this funk you’ve been in since your father passed away.”
William’s face hardened. He turned his gaze to the opposite wall and made no immediate reply.
“It’s too late now. She hates me. She has all of these misconceptions about me. It’s too much to
overcome.”
“You didn’t try to clear her of those misconceptions?”
Shrugging, William said, “She’s too stubborn. She wouldn’t believe me.”
Anne laughed. “Pot, meet kettle.”
Not one to be laughed at, William threw up his hands and yelled in frustration. “Well, what was I
supposed to do? Throw all of my pride away and get down on my knees and beg?”
Anne arched an eyebrow and pushed herself off of the floor. Standing, she towered over William
and shrugged. “Sounds good to me. If you want a chance with her, that is.”
“Fuck,” sighed William.
“Would you stop being so into yourself, William? That girl, poor thing, hasn’t smiled once in
two weeks of rehearsal.”
William stared blankly to the floor and sighed in response. Anne let several moments pass,
before she sighed, too.
“Anne, will you do me a favor?”
“Yes, what?”
“Do you think you can at least try to say a few words to her? Be friendly?”
“Me? I’m always friendly.”
“Yeah, and so am I,” William said sarcastically.
“Bye, William,” Anne said, turning on her heel and walking to the door. “Get some sleep. And
shave.”
“Fuck off.”
That was how, for the first time ever, the company’s room assignments on tour were changed,
from pairings by rank to alphabetical order. Sometimes, it was good being the daughter of the
company’s top benefactor.
That evening, Elizabeth lay on her bed, staring blankly up to the ceiling. The drumming of water
could be heard from the bathroom where Anne was taking a shower. An entire day had passed
without a word spoken between the two, just as Elizabeth preferred.
A knock at the door interrupted Elizabeth’s contemplation. Rolling off the bed, she walked to the
door and opened it. Madeleine Gardiner stood outside, smiling.
“Evening, Elizabeth. Sorry for bothering you so late.”
“Oh, it’s no problem. Is everything all right?”
From behind her back, Madeleine produced a small package. Elizabeth quickly glanced down at
it. “In all of the commotion today, I completely forgot to give this to you,” said the tour director.
Elizabeth accepted the package in one hand and looked to it quizzically. “What is it?”
“I have no clue. William Darcy asked that I give it to you.”
“William Darcy?” Elizabeth asked, her face blackening.
Maddy frowned momentarily, but then recovered with a smile. “Yeah, well. Who knows? Get
some rest, Elizabeth. We have a long day at the theater tomorrow.”
“Yes. You, too.” Her voice was hazy, her eyes locked on the small package in her hands. She
wished Maddy goodnight before quietly shutting the door.
In the hallway, Maddy turned around and shook her head. A perceptive woman, she knew there
must have been something going on between the two. First, William Darcy barged into her
meeting with Sir William Lucas, demanding that Elizabeth be sent on tour. Then, Maddy
discovered that Elizabeth had been assisting the reclusive choreographer with his pas de deux.
And then this morning she had gotten a desperate phone-call from the man himself, a man with
whom she had never been particularly friendly, asking to deliver a package to Elizabeth as soon
as possible.
Returning to her room, Maddy recalled her few rehearsals with Elizabeth. She seemed friendly
with the other dancers. They all seemed surprised that she would be joining them on tour,
especially understudying a few soloist roles, but none had seemed particularly resentful or
jealous. Elizabeth was well-liked, that was Maddy’s impression, but she couldn’t figure out why.
Throughout rehearsals, Elizabeth had danced well, but not spectacularly. She had potential, but
was uninspired. Maddy tried to put it down to the pressure of having to learn so many new roles
in such a short period of time. Despite that, Elizabeth also seemed unfocused, had a penchant for
staring out of windows, and picking at her fingernails. She had yawned through their two private
weekend rehearsals. If there was a reason that Elizabeth was so well-liked, Maddy couldn’t
figure it out.
Letting herself into her room, Maddy tried not to let her curiosity distract her from all of the
work that still needed to be done that evening. She had lighting cues to approve, cast lists to
confirm, and dressing rooms to arrange. But, Madeleine Gardiner loved an intrigue. In between
okaying the lighting scheme for Act Two of Raymonda, she let her thoughts wander back to
Elizabeth Bennet, William Darcy, and what could have been in the package.
Elizabeth sat on her bed, gawking at one of her pointe shoes. She turned it over in her hand, her
heartbeat rushing through her ears. How, in God’s name, did he get this? Is he stalking me?
Reaching into the torn-open padded envelope, she pulled out a letter, three pages, folded
precisely in half. Several emotions coursed through her: a sudden, primal wave of anger at him,
followed by a lull of confusion, finally peaking in a spike of curiosity. She didn’t know why he
would write to her; there was no reason. And now he had her pointe shoe? Elizabeth opened the
letter and read.
Elizabeth,
I’m sure you’re wondering why I have your shoe. Given our relationship, I’m sure you can only
think the worst. First, let me say that, no, I was not the one who took it at the Preview.
Elizabeth looked up in alarm. This was the pointe shoe she lost at the Preview?
But, I’m returning it to you now, in this manner, because it is the best proof I have for what I’m
about to tell you. I’m writing this letter not to beg for forgiveness or repeat anything I said in our
last conversation, which seemed to make you so (a word was crossed out, making it completely
unreadable) uncomfortable. Rather, I write this to correct a few misconceptions you have about
me and hopefully clear myself of being the most despicable man you know.
You accused me of three things: One, of ruining your sister’s career, two, of ruining Greg
Wickham’s, and three, of ruining yours. I can’t defend myself on the first accusation - that I
convinced Charles to promote Anne and not your sister. I can’t apologize for this. I would have
done it again.
“Asshole!” Elizabeth cried, glad that Anne was in the shower. She nearly ripped up the letter,
just to spite William, but inquisitiveness overpowered her fury, and she read on.
Your sister is a beautiful dancer. She has a grace not rivaled in most principals. She’ll have an
impressive career, and the critics and audiences will love her once she becomes soloist. But
BTNY is a business and the decision to promote Anne Boroughs and not Jane was not motivated
by personal factors at all, but rather professional considerations- Catherine Boroughs
threatened to withdraw her patronage of BTNY if Anne wasn't promoted. It was as simple as
that.
Would it have been more ethical for Charles to make a wrong business decision because of his
personal feelings for your sister? How would she have reacted to knowing the only reason she
was promoted was because she was the assistant artistic director’s lover? Charles is an excellent
man and a great friend of mine, but he isn’t practical. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you again by telling
you this. It was not my intention.
As to your second accusation, Greg Wickham, I believe I can more credibly defend myself on this
point. I can only imagine what he’s told you about me, but let me offer my side of the story.
You’re an intelligent woman. You can decide whose portrayal is closer to the truth.
We met in a dance studio. I was twelve, he was eight. Even then, he was a great dancer and was
automatically placed in a higher level - my class. We were the only two boys in a class of almost
twenty-five girls, so naturally, we bonded. I was like an older brother to him. Our mothers, too,
became fast friends. However, Greg and I led different lives. I went to expensive private schools;
he went to a run-down public school in Brooklyn. But, he loved to dance and his mother did
anything she could to give him that opportunity. His dad died when he was only three.
When I was fifteen and Greg was eleven, Greg’s mother went into the hospital for breast cancer.
My mother visited her almost everyday. They were best friends, like I said. More than anything,
Greg’s mother worried that because of her cancer, Greg would be denied the childhood he
deserved. My mother promised her friend that she would do anything for Greg. That’s when my
mother began paying for his dance lessons.
At eighteen, I left Julliard and began dancing at BTNY as a principal. Greg was still at the
studio. He was terrific, and I expected him to come to BTNY even earlier than I did. However,
when Greg turned sixteen, his interest in ballet waned. The money my mother was giving him to
go to ballet lessons and cover expenses was wasted instead on pot and cocaine. I know this
because Greg invited me to join him several times. I always refused. Not out of moral
indignation (although there was that, too), but from outrage that he could spend my mother’s
money so dishonestly and flagrantly. I never told my mom. It would have crushed her. She had
always been a delicate woman, too trusting, and naïve to know how the world worked. Greg’s
mom had died a year before, and although he lived with his grandparents, in a way, I think my
mother believed she was something of a foster mother to him.
Up until this point, Elizabeth read with increasing suspicion. It was exactly as Greg had said.
They had danced together, they had almost been brothers. William conveniently forgot to leave
out his heated jealousy, but Elizabeth didn’t put the emotion past him. She rolled her eyes at the
letter, as she would have if William had been telling the account to her face.
I was twenty-two when my mother passed away. Greg was eighteen, about to graduate from high
school (barely), and in need of a job. His dancing was rusty, but he begged me to put in a good
word for him at BTNY. I did. It probably helped that my mother had left two million dollars to
the company in her will. Lucas gave Greg a position in the corps.
Elizabeth furrowed her eyebrows and read the paragraph again.
Everything went great for a few years. It was like old times at the studio.
A few years? Greg said he had only been in the company for a few months.
Those years were some of the happiest of my life. I found a great friend in Charles. Greg and I
were dancing together again. It seemed as though he had quit his drug habit. Then, Caroline
Bingley joined the company and everything changed. Caroline and Greg were a match made in
heaven: two very insecure and vicious people. She joined the company, and only weeks later,
they began dating. That’s when everything reverted back. Greg skipped rehearsals. He started
smoking pot again. At this point, Charles and I had become closer. Greg and I drifted apart.
And now to the issue at hand. Why do I have your shoe?
The similarities between then and now are too striking. The February after Caroline entered the
company, there was only one corps-to-soloist promotion, as there was this year. Everyone pinned
a girl named Harriet James for the promotion. She was already dancing soloist roles, like your
sister. Soloist roles that Caroline was understudying. Harriet was promoted.
It was opening night of the spring season. We were performing an all Tchaikovsky program.
Thirty minutes before curtains-up, Harriet couldn’t find her tutu. It was missing from the
costume rack in her dressing room. Harriet was a rather tall girl. It would have been difficult to
find her a replacement costume in such a short period of time. Everyone looked frantically. The
whole company was in a panic. Except me. As you will be the first to attest, I didn’t (and
probably, according to you, still don’t) care about corps de ballet girls. I went to the alley of the
theater to have a cigarette. On my way out, I ran into Greg, who had just come in. He smiled and
laughed. I asked him what he had been up to. He just winked and said, “Mischief.” Greg was
always up to no good, so I didn’t think anything of it. But mid-way through my cigarette, I
noticed a corner of tulle sticking out of a dumpster. Harriet’s tutu. Stolen by Greg, at the bidding
of his girlfriend, Caroline, who was understudying Harriet’s role that night.
Lucas never disclosed who had found the tutu, but Greg knew. How could he not? I was in the
right place, at the right time. Greg was fired the next day. Caroline never said a word about the
issue. At that point, I held so much resentment towards him that I wasn’t sorry to see him go.
The story could end here. It doesn’t. If I stopped at this point, I don’t think you’d understand the
kind of person Greg Wickham really is.
Greg had always been hard-up for money. Drugs will do that to a person. He’d traveled around
the country for years, getting jobs here and there - L.A. and Las Vegas for a few years and
finally Miami. I mentioned to you that my sister lives there. She’s exactly your age, twenty-three,
and similar to you in many ways. We’ve always been close, but given our age difference, I was,
at the same time, an older brother and father figure to her. Being as close as Greg and I had
been, he was also quite fond of her, and she of him.
The next part of this story is difficult for me to write. A year after I retired from BTNY, my father
passed away. Almost a year after that, Greg ran off with my sister, and they got married in Las
Vegas. She was nineteen. To this day, I don’t know why she did it. She knew what kind of man he
was. She knew about his drug habit and philandering. She knew because I had confided
everything to her. But my sister is, in many ways, a carbon copy of my mother. Perhaps she
thought she could change him.
Elizabeth heard the water in the bathroom turn off. But, she couldn’t stop reading. She realized
she had her hand over her mouth in horror, her forehead twisted in confusion.
The marriage was, of course, a horrible one. I was shocked when my sister told me. More than
shocked, I was livid, and I refused to speak to her. Fortunately and unfortunately, our silence
didn’t last very long. Months later, she called me, hysterically crying. Greg was cheating on her.
Greg was out of his mind on cocaine. She wanted a divorce. He refused. He’d already blown a
good part of her savings account on drugs. Why would he cut himself off from the source?
There has only been one time in my life that I’ve thanked God my family has the wealth it does. It
was then. We hired the best divorce lawyer in the city. The case dragged on for almost two years
in secret negotiations. My sister doesn’t know this, but Greg threatened to leak information
about the case to the press. I paid him a disgusting sum of money not to. In the end, Greg got
nothing out of the divorce but his blackmail money, but really, it was my sister who had lost.
During this whole time, I was back and forth between Miami and Austin, Seattle, Santa Barbara,
and San Francisco, choreographing. My sister was completely alone. She dropped out of school.
Of course, I was partially to blame for her loneliness. I was an irresponsible guardian and
brother.
No doubt Greg left all of this out when he told you about me. I don’t think badly of you for
trusting him. My mother did for years. My sister did, as well. He’s a brilliant con man. That he
could ensnare someone like you, too, just proves how good he is at his craft.
Elizabeth swallowed down the feeling of dread in her stomach. Nearly half a page remained. She
continued reading.
And finally, the third issue: how I ruined your career. I hope by now that you understand my
motives for taking you out of my piece and sending you on tour. After the Preview, Paige told me
Caroline Bingley had been missing from company warm-up. You’re not the first dancer who’s
been harassed by Caroline Bingley. I know of four others. Perhaps there have been more. You
may accuse me of self-centeredness or weakness when I tell you why I’ve never said anything to
Lucas. Perhaps several dancers’ careers, or at least their sanities, could have been spared if I’d
divulged what I knew, but I couldn’t do that to Charles or his family. You know Charles. It would
have killed him. My silence was purely selfish, I know. Thus, I made a cast change that affected
you, without your consent to protect a friend. But I did what my conscience knew to be right.
You will have a career when you come back. Caroline will move on to the next person she feels
has insulted her. And I won’t repeat the same mistake twice by singling you out. There was an
excellent reason why I did so. It was not to use you, it was not to prop up my ego, and it certainly
wasn’t to destroy your career. You won’t believe this, but your dancing inspired my
choreography like no one ever has. It was something mythical and special. I haven’t thanked you
for that yet.
This letter may not justify my horrible rudeness to you, but I hope it clears me from being the
villain you thought I was. Good luck on the rest of your tour. I’ll see you back in New York.
WD
P.S. If I still haven’t convinced you of the veracity of my account, ask Maddy about “the tutu
incident.” She was Lucas’ personal secretary at the time and knows everything.
Chapter Nineteen
Elizabeth set the letter down on her lap, feeling the beat of her heart roll unevenly through her
chest. She stared at the opposite wall, completely oblivious when Anne crept from the bathroom
and offered her the shower. Picking up the pointe shoe, Elizabeth turned it over in her hand
distractedly. She knew the letter had to be a lie. Greg had been so earnest in his account of
William. That night at the swanky Italian restaurant, he had given her so many details – names,
places, words spoken, dealings done. He had been so sincere in his anger. No, the letter had to be
a lie.
Elizabeth picked up the three sheets, scanning over the immaculate, tiny handwriting. Without
realizing, she shook her head in defiance. William was harsh, cold, dull. Nothing matched up,
not her experiences with him and then this testimony. Did he take her for an idiot?
She read over the paragraphs concerning Jane, and her temper flared. A business decision! A
bribe was more like it. Elizabeth tsked and threw the letter down again. That was a convenient
excuse, because business decisions were never made based on talent. If anything, Jane’s ability
would pull in more ticket sales and be better for business, than Catherine Boroughs' short-term
investment!
Then a small voice inside her asked, What reason would he have to hold Jane back? In response,
Elizabeth snapped her eyes over to Anne Boroughs - slouched on the other bed, chewing on a
fingernail while mesmerized by C-SPAN. The small voice laughed at Elizabeth. Her? it said. Get
real. William never spoke to her, hadn’t even come to the airport to say good-bye to her. What
reason would he have to hold Jane back? There had to be some reason. Some very good, very
diabolical reason. Elizabeth would have to think more on it.
She thought of the second half of the letter and her temper quieted. Greg, married to William’s
sister? A drug addict, a conspirator, and a thief? It was so far-fetched, beyond anything Elizabeth
tried to imagine. She had figured he was a great schemer. He had stood her up, after all, with a
hokey excuse about Jamaica and his cell phone, but no one could be that good of a liar.
According to William, almost everything Greg had said to her about his time in BTNY was a lie
– the length of time he had danced there, his relationship with William, his reasons for leaving
the company. Thinking more on it, Greg had never offered any concrete details, simply names
and places Elizabeth recognized. He had left out chunks of the story, chunks of his life, which
Elizabeth had simply assumed natural for two relative strangers. He had certainly never offered
her a witness for proof. William had.
Elizabeth showered and went through the motions of preparing for sleep. But sleep came fitfully
that night. Her mind ran over scenes and dialogue, trying to piece together the truth from the web
of half-truths she had known up until now. Sometime around two in the morning, her mind
succumbed to exhaustion. She slept for several gray hours and then awoke, and continued the
same train of analysis from the night before.
During blocking rehearsal, Elizabeth’s body went on autopilot, automatically memorizing the
placement and feel of the stage, while her mind drifted back to the letter. By that time, she had
decided whose version of the story sounded more credible, and it was the man who, one day ago,
she could have never imagined trusting. In dress rehearsal, Elizabeth’s thoughts cleared, thanks
to the pre-performance rush of adrenaline. Her eyes burned under the bright stage lights from her
makeup and the lack of sleep. The company performed Raymonda flawlessly, receiving four
curtain calls. Elizabeth’s somber mood returned once she had taken her make-up off. A group of
corps girls invited her to celebrate in one of Boston’s bars, but she declined the offer.
Once she returned to her quiet hotel room, Elizabeth threw down her bag and went immediately
to her suitcase. She dug underneath layers of leotards and sweatpants, finally producing the
object she sought. Sitting there on the floor, she opened up the letter again and read it twice,
shaking her head in disbelief, this time not at what was written, but at her own stupidity.
Greg was probably the hottest man who had ever noticed her, and she had been flattered. He was
charming, funny, seductive, a great dresser - everything Manhattan Mr. Rights were supposed to
be. She had been so thrilled by his attention, that she hadn’t even bothered questioning his
stories. He had offered exaggerations, with little hard proof. For God’s sake, he was a stranger
she had met on the subway! Elizabeth expected herself to demonstrate a little more sense than
any other suburban innocent. Obviously, she did not. Burying her face in her hands, Elizabeth
groaned in embarrassment.
Then, the letter took on a wholly different meaning. She re-read the part concerning Jane. How
foolish of her to think that a professional dance company didn’t have budgets, people to please,
hierarchies, and rules of engagement. Jane was a remarkable ballerina, yes, but Ballet Theater
wasn’t run by locker room gossip. The administrators would have to make tough, unprincipled
decisions, despite what a bevy of nosy dancers thought.
“Argh!” she groaned sharply, throwing the letter down and standing. Elizabeth began to pace. “I
don't want to think about this anymore!”
Despite her resolution cried into an empty hotel room, Elizabeth continued to think about it. She
stood in the center of the room, nibbling on a hangnail, thinking of all the ways she was an idiot.
The phone caught her eye. Elizabeth stared at it for a long minute and then strode to her bed, sat
down, and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Lizzy Bear?”
“Yup.”
“Hey. What are you doing calling on a Monday? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything's fine.”
“Is Janey okay?”
“I think so. I wouldn't know.”
“Is she at the boyfriend of hers' apartment?”
“No, Dad. I'm in Boston. Remember? I told you our tour would start this week.”
“Oh, that's right. Your old man's getting senile.”
Elizabeth chuckled into the phone, feeling herself calm at the sound of her father's voice.
“So how is Boston? See any parked cars in the yard?” Her father did a terrible Boston accent.
Elizabeth laughed.
“Yes, everywhere.”
“They don't really talk like that there, do they?”
“Some people do. I don't know, we haven't really talked to many locals yet. It's been all
rehearsals and performances so far.”
“Well, just thank your lucky stars that baseball season hasn't started yet. Sox fans are some of the
most obnoxious in the league.”
Smiling, Elizabeth twirled the phone cord in her finger. “So, whatcha been up to lately, Dad? I
haven't talked to you in a while.”
“Yeah, I know. I've been so damn busy with this intro course the Jackass made me teach.” Tim
Bennet taught English Literature at University of Michigan. The Jackass was Peter Gordon,
English department head. “Two hundred meatheads who wouldn't know Jane Austen from Steve
Austin, if he knocked them over the head with a folding chair.”
“Hey,” Elizabeth chided after her giggles had subsided, “I was a freshman once too, you know.”
“Yes, but fortunately I raised you to have more sense than the kids in this class...” The smile on
Elizabeth's face died. More sense...did she really? She remembered everything in William's
letter. “...and this Einstein writes, get this, 'Shakespeare.' Um, hello! This is a 19th century lit
course. Idiot, right?”
Elizabeth tried to laugh, but her father's quip failed to register. The phone cord in between her
fingers had been twisted into a hopeless knot.
“Lizzy?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Yeah, that's...unbelievable. Shakespeare. Ha!”
“But I have to give the kid credit for trying. Most of these goofs don't even bother to write
anything...”
Her father continued his rant against the UM freshman class. Elizabeth stopped listening. Ever
since she was little, Elizabeth had adored her father's sense of humor. Cheesy, at times, cutting,
at others, Tim Bennet would do anything to make his daughter laugh. As a girl, Elizabeth had
dissolved into giggles whenever he did his infamous “Crazy Fanny” impressions, as he called
them. When she was a teenager, her father's dry wit endeared him as the “cool parent,” the one
who didn't rave at her for ten minutes straight about her waistline when she snacked on a few
potato chips. In college, he had been her mentor, advising her on her course load, which
professors to take, and how to sweet-talk Financial Aid into adding on an extra thousand dollars
to her aid packet. Tim was the reason Elizabeth loved books, and the reason she'd majored in
French literature. She adored her father. He could do no wrong.
Still twisting the telephone cord in her hand, Elizabeth listened to her father disapprovingly, for
the first time in her life. As he railed on about a bunch of eighteen-year-old morons and his boss,
the Jackass, Elizabeth realized how petty and mean-spirited, arrogant and prejudiced he sounded.
She swallowed down a leaden suspicion that he sounded like herself.
Tim Bennet ended his harangue and was met on the other end with silence.
“Lizzy, you there?”
“Yeah, I'm still here.”
“Are you sure you're okay? You sound out of spirits today, kiddo.”
“Oh,” she replied, faking a laugh, “I guess I'm just tired. We had a performance tonight.”
“Ah.” Tim had never really gotten in to his daughters' profession. He loved watching them
dance, of course, but knew little about ballet and didn't care to know much more. “That jackass
choreographer isn't giving you problems anymore, is he?”
“No,” she said, her voice cracking, “he...he's not on tour. He's...I'm fine.”
“Good. I knew my Lizzy Bear wouldn't take that shit from anyone. We Bennets are tougher than
we look. Did you tell him what I told you to tell him?”
“Uh...not exactly. Something...similar.” Elizabeth leaned her head back on the headboard and
closed her eyes momentarily, flashing back to the caustic things she'd spat at William that day in
the studio.
“Yeah? Good. And, speaking of wackos, how's your mother? Still seeing the shrink?”
“I think so. You know how Mom gets when she starts talking about...you know.”
“I'm sure. Over-emotional and victimized. Poor me.”
Wincing, Elizabeth wondered if she'd ever sounded as small-minded as her father now seemed.
She chuckled woodenly.
“Listen, Dad. I'm really tired. I'm going to go, okay?”
“Sure thing, Lizzy Bear. You take care. Give me a call when you can.”
The phone call with her father had had the opposite effect of what she had wanted. Hanging her
head, Elizabeth felt a heavy gloom slink through her chest. Why had she never taken her father's
jibes for the bigotry that they were? Because they had never been directed at her? Her father
judged everyone, and poorly. Her mother was hysterical, the freshmen were slavering idiots, his
colleagues had gotten their diplomas from cereal boxes. The only people her father treated
generously were Jane and herself. Everyone else was, in someway, a Neanderthal.
And Elizabeth had believed it. She realized, with the force of a revelation, that she, too, thought
as ungenerously as her father did. Scenes flickered in her memory, and although she was alone,
Elizabeth burned with shame. She thought of her friends and acquaintances: Anne, the bore,
Lydia, the slut, Charlotte, the politician, Collin, the ass-kisser, Caroline, the bimbo, Charles, the
village idiot, Jane, the innocent, and William Darcy, the narcissist, the ogre, the asshole. From
almost the very beginning, Elizabeth had tucked them nicely away into their little boxes where
she could observe their folly from up high, never considering that perhaps they observed her own
narrow-mindedness with the same disdain. She accused others of a lack of sense, when she
behaved no better. She was a hypocrite.
Curling up onto the bed, Elizabeth hugged a pillow and stared at the opposite wall. Twenty-three
years she had lived on this earth, and she felt that she was seeing herself for the first time. She
was mortified at the portrait she made. Everything she had charged William with – vanity,
arrogance, selfishness – she was guilty of herself. Feeling her face grow hot, Elizabeth buried it
into the pillow. What an idiot she had made herself look like! What a…
Elizabeth heard the door unlock and swing open. Anne came in and started upon seeing
Elizabeth.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“No, it's okay.” Elizabeth sat up and swung her legs over the bed. “I'm awake.”
Nodding, Anne averted her eyes and then set her dance bag and purse gingerly down on a chair.
Elizabeth watched her, saying nothing. She felt uncomfortable. Anne probably thought Elizabeth
was insane, her head buried in the pillow as if trying to suffocate herself. Slouching, Elizabeth
supposed insane was only a little better than cold bitch, the role she had played to perfection
these past few days. She looked up at Anne.
“Great performance tonight,” Elizabeth offered.
Anne looked up at being spoken to. With round eyes, she stared at Elizabeth, finally nodding in
agreement. Her small lips twisted in a noncommittal smile, before she quickly grabbed her
pajamas and went into the bathroom. Elizabeth sighed, looked around the room, and then pushed
herself off of the bed. Grabbing the ice bucket, she headed down the hall to get ice for her sore
ankle.
The company left Boston for Philadelphia several days later. Once again, Elizabeth found herself
in an aisle seat beside Anne. This time, however, before the plane took off, Elizabeth made more
of an effort to speak.
“Well, that’s one city down and, what, twenty-eight more to go?”
Anne turned to her and smiled, only nodding in reply. Elizabeth looked away and repressed a
frustrated sigh. Of course, she couldn’t blame Anne for her reticence. Elizabeth had behaved
coldly to her since their first acquaintance, and now she was paying the price for her babyish
behavior.
She made one more effort. “You’ve been on tour before, right?”
Anne nodded. “Yes.”
“And, so what do you think?”
Anne stared blankly.
“I mean, do you like going on tour?”
“Y-yes.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Uh…I don’t know. I like getting away from New York. I like seeing different places.”
“You don’t get lonely?” Elizabeth asked, feeling more encouraged by Anne’s relatively verbose
answer.
“No, not really.”
“You don’t miss your family? Three months is a long time.”
Anne shrugged. “No, I don’t miss my family. I think this year’s a little bit different, though,
Normally, tours aren’t this long.”
“Really? How long do they last?”
“A month or two. There’s usually two tours a year. Maybe three, if we go international.”
“Oh, I see.” Elizabeth nodded vigorously, trying to dispel the aura of disinterest and disdain she
had given off since rehearsals had started. “So why the change?”
Anne lowered her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, really. I think that maybe the past few years haven’t
been so good to the company, you know, money-wise.”
Saying no more, Anne ducked under her seat and pulled out an MP3 player. She stuck the ear
buds in and then stayed that way for the remainder of the flight. Sighing, Elizabeth leaned back
in her seat and stared at the lit-up No Smoking indicator, thinking of Anne’s comment about
BTNY’s finances, and once again keenly feeling just how stupid she was.
Elizabeth stretched out on the floor of her hotel room, a bag of ice melting over her ankle, as she
watched a cooking show on the Food Network. It had become a ritual for her; after every
performance, rehearsal, or class, she iced her foot, hoping the cold would ease the increasing bite
of pain in her ankle. The effects were temporary, but they did offer some kind of relief. Elizabeth
promised herself that if the soreness didn’t ease by the end of the tour, she would see Ms.
Crawford upon her return to New York.
Anne shifted on her bed. Elizabeth heard the sound of a book closing. She felt watched, and then
Anne spoke.
“Does your ankle hurt?”
Elizabeth craned her head back and smiled. “A bit.”
“You do that a lot.”
“It helps ease the pain for a little while.”
Anne frowned. “You don’t put your heels down when you jump. I’ve been watching you.”
The smile slipped from Elizabeth’s face. “Yes, I’ve been told that.”
“That’s why your ankle hurts.”
Turning back to the television, Elizabeth made no reply. She could not help thinking of William.
She swallowed and stared at a bead of condensation slipping down the plastic bag on her ankle.
Anne inched to the edge of the bed and then stepped off. Going to her suitcase, she rummaged
through it and then pulled out a long band of thin rubber.
“Have you ever tried stretching with a Theraband?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“It’s great for stretching out your calves and stuff. Also, you can do foot exercises with it that’ll
strengthen your calves and arches. I use for abdominal exercises, too.”
Anne offered the band to Elizabeth, who accepted it hesitantly. “Thanks.”
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Anne stared at Elizabeth. “I used to have ankle problems, that’s
how I know this.”
“They went away?”
“Eventually. After years of Pilates. A lot of ice massages like you’re doing. And exercises
everyday with the Theraband before class and rehearsal.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I really want to try Pilates, but lessons are so expensive.”
Anne stared at her expressionlessly. Suddenly, Elizabeth remembered she was the daughter of
one of the richest women in New York City and probably thought paying fifty dollars for a fortyfive minute lesson was a bargain.
“It’s your body. You should take care of it, no matter what the cost,” said Anne, her tone colored
with accusation.
Elizabeth bristled. Once again, she was being told by a spoiled, rich kid what she should do with
her money. She turned away and glowered at no one, forcing down the resentment that
threatened to burst from her mouth in a snide remark.
“I’ll see what I can do,” grumbled Elizabeth.
Anne said nothing for a long while. Finally, she said, “You can have that. I have two more with
me anyway. And they’re cheap.”
Elizabeth nodded her thanks and set the Theraband at her side, untouched. She said nothing else
to Anne that night.
Nor, did they speak the day after that. Elizabeth let her resentment fester. Whenever Anne was in
her presence, an endless loop of curses and bitter rants ran through her head. She damned her
luck – first, endless rehearsals with Mr. Positivity, William Darcy, then rooming for three
months with his counterpart, Miss Congeniality. She feared her self-esteem wouldn’t be able to
sustain much more. They remained without a word spoken between them from Philadelphia to
Chicago – one week, three cities. Elizabeth had given up her attempts to befriend Anne. The last
thing she needed was another critic.
An early riser, Elizabeth ate breakfast alone most days. She took solitary morning walks through
downtowns, watching each city come alive in its own way. The suits walked sharply to their desk
jobs, the cabs blared their horns, shop fronts opened, and in another American city - just not the
one where she wanted to be - another day began.
The company usually arrived at the theater at nine. Maddy Gardiner held a ninety-minute
company class, far less formal than those in New York and then blocking began. After blocking
was dress rehearsal, followed by an afternoon break. The dancers were back at the theater by
four for another, shorter warm-up class. Then, make-up, hair, and costumes, and promptly at
eight, the show began.
On their third day in Chicago, Elizabeth spent her afternoon break wandering around. She
snacked on a pretzel as she strolled up some downtown street, gazing at buildings and cars and
people zipping by her on their way to afternoon meetings and department store sales. A display
in the window of a Barnes and Noble caught her eye, and she stopped in front of the glass.
It was a health and exercise display with vegetarian cookbooks, do-it-yourself facial recipes, and
a display of several yoga and Pilates books. She breathed slowly and was overcome by a heavy
melancholy as she read the titles: Pilates for Life, The Ultimate Girl’s Guide to Pilates and Yoga,
Achieve Your Best Body! A Comprehensive Pilates Workbook.
Elizabeth thought of William. She had thought of him a lot lately, each time willing the memory
of his words or deeds to go away. This time, however, she just let herself think. Standing in front
of a Barnes and Nobles shop front, Elizabeth remembered all of the times he had told her to be
careful, that she should do something about her ankle, that she should fix her alignment or it
would lead to injury, and she had always been offended. Why? William had only been trying to
help, as any dance teacher would.
Or wouldn’t. Most dance teachers were so high on their experience, their careers, their
connections, they rarely offered a dancer practical advice. They gave corrections that made
themselves look learned and experienced, or corrections that came from an outdated school of
thought, but nothing that might actually benefit the dancer. As Elizabeth stood thinking in the
middle of the sidewalk, she had to credit William. His corrections had always been sound. He
never pandered or joked at anyone’s expense. He offered advice that was not only backed up by
years of performing experience, but by sage anatomical and pedagogical knowledge. He
expected the best from his dancers, and eventually, they learned to give it to him. Why had
Elizabeth been unable to see that before?
“You should go inside,” a homeless man suddenly said, startling her from her thoughts, “I hear
the books are even better when you actually look in them.”
She chuckled and nodded. Then, pushed the door open. An hour later, she stepped out and saw
the same homeless man on the same corner. Smiling, Elizabeth waved her plastic shopping bag
bearing the face of William Shakespeare.
“I bought one,” she laughed.
“Hey, that’s great. Got any leftover change?”
She did, which she handed over, smiling. With only thirty minutes before warm-up, Elizabeth
then took off jogging up the street and back to the theater, so she wouldn’t be late.
As Anne ran a comb through her long, frizzy hair that evening, Elizabeth lay on the floor staring
up to the pages of her newly purchased Pilates book. She read the words once more, trying to
find some sense in them. Frustrated, she sighed and threw the book down beside her, deciding to
simply try the stupid exercises rather than decipher their meaning.
She began a series of breaths and then lifted her head in a movement resembling a crunch. Anne
looked over at the noise, but Elizabeth ignored her. She went through the exercise – three sets of
ten crunches and then frowned. That didn’t seem too bad. Figuring it was only the first exercise,
Elizabeth picked up the book again and moved onto the second. The next series of crunches
didn’t seem all that strenuous either, and Elizabeth began wondering where all of the hoop-la
over Pilates came from.
Just then, Anne spoke. “You’re doing that wrong.”
Elizabeth tossed her head back and gazed at Anne upside-down.
“You’re going to get injured. You should really get someone to show you how to do them.”
Elizabeth propped herself up on her elbows. “They’re just crunches. How bad can I do them?”
“They’re not crunches, they’re the foundation of Pilates. If you can’t do those right, then you
might as well forget the other stuff.”
Elizabeth inhaled to restrain her agitation. She told herself to be patient, not to get angry at Anne
Boroughs’ self-righteous, pompous, patronizing tone, and to find the larger intention behind her
words.
“I’m not sure I understand the explanations in the book then,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Would you like me to show you?” Anne offered, setting her comb down.
Elizabeth stared at her suspiciously, but found no malice on the other woman’s face. In fact,
when she studied Anne’s expression, Elizabeth found an eagerness in her eyes that she had never
seen before.
“Um…sure. If you don’t mind.”
Anne shook her head and then lay on the floor next to Elizabeth.
“Watch how I breathe. You’re doing this,” Anne inhaled, her chest expanding with the intake of
breath. “That’s wrong. It’s like this.”
She then inhaled again, her chest expanding very little. Rather, Elizabeth noticed, her ribcage
widened. Elizabeth frowned.
“I see the difference, but why does it matter?” There was still a sliver of defiance in her voice.
“With one, your center is engaged. With the other, it’s out of control. What do you know about
Pilates?”
“Madonna and that kind of people really like it. That’s about it,” joked Elizabeth.
“Oh.” Anne didn’t seem to appreciate the joke. “Pilates is actually about strengthening your core.
A normal crunch will only strengthen the upper layer of abdominal muscles. Pilates goes deeper
to the tiny fibers that connect your abs to your spine, to your hips, to your ribs. It will make your
entire body more stable and solid. That’s why it’s so important to get the breathing right. If you
can’t hold your abdominals together during every moment of the exercise, then you can’t do
Pilates.”
Elizabeth stared at Anne, impressed with her for the first time in their acquaintance. She had
always seemed so meek and indifferent. When it came to Pilates, however, Anne spoke with
confidence and passion. Elizabeth nodded wordlessly and then tried the correct way of breathing
for herself. Anne sat next to her, observing and offering guidance. Their Pilates lesson lasted an
hour before Elizabeth ended it in favor of catching The Late Show.
April in Detroit was a cold affair, and Elizabeth concluded her daily morning stroll early before
her nose froze off. She stepped into the hotel lobby and headed for the breakfast bar. Several
business travelers lurked around the coffee machine, but other than that, most Ballet Theater of
New York members were unaccounted for. Elizabeth grabbed a yogurt, slice of wheat toast, and
a styrofoam cup of weak coffee and searched for an empty table. As she looked around, she saw
Maddy Gardiner sitting alone, sipping a cup of tea, and reading the newspaper.
"Mind if I join you?" Elizabeth asked, after she had approached the table. Maddy was also an
early riser, and she and Elizabeth had often shared each other's company in the morning hours
before the other dancers had arisen. Although Maddy ranked high in the company hierarchy, she
had a friendly and easy-going personality that made her a favorite with the dancers.
"Sure," Maddy smiled, gesturing to the empty chair in front of her. She looked down at the
newspaper. "I was just reading what the Times had to say about William Darcy's piece."
Sugar granules scattered over the tabletop as Elizabeth ripped open the packet with too much
force. She dumped the sugar into her coffee unceremoniously, and looked up with a forced smile.
"Oh, right. It premiered last night, didn't it?"
Maddy nodded and frowned. "Unfortunately, Darcy's friend, Miss Mary Louise Benet, didn't find
too many favorable things to say. Then again, she never does."
Elizabeth tried to keep her voice even and disinterested. "Oh, that's too bad. What did she write?"
Handing over the open newspaper, Maddy stood, "You read it, while I get myself another cup of
tea."
Elizabeth nibbled on a fingernail as she began reading.
Dance Review/ Ballet Theater of New York
William Darcy Ponders the Dynamics of Inspiration with "Galatea"
By MARY LOUISE BENET
Over the past five years, William Darcy has traversed the country, creating choreography that
many have likened to the works of ballet genius, George Balanchine. Mr. Darcy's works, like the
iconic Balanchine's, are staunchly classical, complex in their rhythm and dynamics, and infused
with the same contemporary sexuality. With the return of Mr. Darcy to Ballet Theater, where he
danced for his entire career, as its Resident Choreographer, many eagerly anticipated his
ascension to the title of New York's king of ballet. His first endeavor with the company, a piece in
three movements entitled "Galatea," was an ambitious work of dance that explored the
sometimes-nurturing, sometimes-parasitic relationship between artist and muse.
On Friday night, loyal Ballet Theater and William Darcy fans alike packed into a City Center
abuzz with anticipation for Galatea. The atmosphere was charged with an electricity missed
sorely by this company for years, since Mr. Darcy and other ballet greats such as Charles
Bingley, Robyn Vazquez, and Jillian Tay, departed from the company.
The first movement of Galatea did not disappoint. Charging across stage with the frenzied, sharp
dynamics that have come to be known as Mr. Darcy's signature style, the corps de ballet was
flawless. The energy changed mid-way through the movement, slowing into something lush,
rolling, and spatially perfect. The sudden transition in rhythm could have failed miserably had
any other choreographer attempted it. However, Mr. Darcy knows the stage, and the abrupt shift
was perfectly juxtaposed against the soaring solo performed by Marc Le Fay.
Unfortunately, after the first movement, Galatea tripped and stumbled to a disappointing pas de
deux. While the dance oozed so much sexuality that the theater could be felt collectively shifting
in its seats, principal dancers, Caroline Bingley and Mr. le Fay, did not have a smidgen of
chemistry between them. They seemed like two junior high school kids flustered and awkward
after a vigorous session of heavy petting, rather than two adults exploring the intricately related
realms of sexual desire and artistic inspiration.
Ms. Bingley, while a spectacular classical dancer, simply does not possess the range or depth to
triumph in such an expressively demanding role. She danced Galatea as she would Odile - all
seduction with little nuance. Mr. le Fay's portrayal of Pygmalion was heartbreaking, not so
much for the desperation and melancholy with which he brought to his fine portrayal, but rather
because the audience had to endure watching him maneuver through six minutes of a smirking,
slinking Ms. Bingley.
After the disastrous pas de deux, the piece groaned to an end in the lackluster third movement.
The corps de ballet did not shine in the finale as it had in the opening; indeed, the entire
movement seemed completely redundant. One wonders whether Mr. Darcy simply ran out of
time, inspiration, or both.
For a ballet about an artist and his muse, ironically, this work is undoubtedly Mr. Darcy's most
uninspired. Regrettably, the New York ballet world will have to wait a bit longer for its next
Balanchine.
Staring at the accompanying photograph of Caroline leaning against Marc's chest, Elizabeth did
not even realize that Maddy Gardiner had returned.
"Well?" she asked. "Pretty harsh, isn't it?"
Elizabeth frowned and shook her head. "This review is disgusting. The New York Times pays
this woman? 'Uninspired?!' Give me a break. His piece was fabulous."
Smiling, Maddy shrugged. "You win some, you lose some. Mary Louise has never liked William
Darcy that much."
"Why? Because he can dance, and all she can do is write drivel." Elizabeth threw down the
newspaper and huffed.
"Rumor has it, they dated for a bit and had a bad break-up," Maddy replied, laughing.
Elizabeth's eyes widened and she quickly looked back down to the newspaper. When she had
finally gained enough control over herself to sneak a glance back up, she saw Maddy staring at
her, with an eyebrow cocked mischievously.
"William has a knack for making enemies. Don't you think?" There was a teasing lilt to Maddy's
comment.
Shrugging, Elizabeth deferred answering with a long sip of coffee. "I suppose. I only worked
with him for a few months."
"I never liked him myself, you know.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in response.
"Oh, we get along fine now, but when I was working for Lucas and he was still dancing...Wooh!
I hated that man. I thought he was the biggest jerk."
Elizabeth listened, struggling to maintain a cool demeanor, which made Maddy smile even more.
"He rubs people the wrong way sometimes. He comes off as snobby and arrogant, but he's a
good guy. We've come to an understanding, I suppose. The more I know him, the more I respect
him."
"Why?" The disbelief was palpable in Elizabeth’s voice.
"Oh, I don't know. His dedication to the art form, his commitment to doing what's right. I've
never met anyone more staunchly honest than him. It's a rare trait in this profession.
Unfortunately, it doesn't make him many friends."
Elizabeth looked away and murmured, "No, I imagine not."
"But," continued Maddy, while stacking her dirty dishes, "he's been in the dance world for a long
time, and has weathered worse reviews. And Miss Benet seemed to hate Caroline's dancing more
than she did William’s choreography. Maybe it was her time of the month."
Elizabeth chuckled and then looked down at the newspaper again. Maddy stood. "You can keep
that. I'm finished with it. I'll see you back down here in a little bit."
“Maddy?” Elizabeth suddenly asked.
“Hm?”
“What do you know about...the tutu incident?”
Maddy frowned in confusion. “What do you know about the tutu incident? That was years ago. I
don’t even think you were born yet.”
Elizabeth tried to smile at the joke. “Oh, just a rumor I heard.”
“Nasty stuff, what dancers will do to each other. Between you and me,” Maddy lowered her
voice and glanced around the room, “I’ve never liked Caroline, and I don’t think I ever will. I’ve
gotta run, Elizabeth. See you soon.”
Nodding, Elizabeth bade Maddy good-bye, and then stared at the Arts section of The New York
Times for a long moment. She sighed dejectedly and then wondered why she had. This feeling,
this pooling sympathy for a man she hated, was entirely new for her, and strange. Elizabeth felt
such disappointment for him. When she considered this train of thought further, she found that
disappointment inevitably extended to her. She had been intricately involved in the creation of
his piece, or at least the pas de deux, which Miss Mary Louise Benet had deemed dull. Despite
her resentment towards William, Elizabeth had to admit that they had danced well together, and
it hurt to have that so completely and publicly rejected.
Elizabeth had always pictured dance critics as shrill, old ladies with penchants for tie-dyed
headscarves and turquoise Native American jewelry. What kind of woman was Mary Benet?
Was she pretty? Did she hang out at swanky, uptown bars drinking swanky, overpriced
cocktails? Had she taken William to any of those bars? And who had broken up with whom?
Elizabeth very consciously ended that line of thinking and stood, taking the offending newspaper
with her. She was sure Anne would want to read the review, as well. And she did want to skim
over it again, just to make sure she hadn’t misinterpreted any of Mary Louise Benet’s totally
insipid and thoughtless remarks.
William threw down the newspaper, leaned back in his leather recliner, and smiled.
“Too, too true,” he murmured to himself. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, letting a solitary
and swift wave of self-pity break over him, before he opened his eyelids again to the sunlight of
a Manhattan Saturday morning. The height and insulation of his apartment shielded William
from any street noise, but he felt it. On weekends, the city awoke slower. The air calmed and
settled.
He bounded up from his chair, deciding then to enjoy the spring air with a walk in Central Park.
Leaving everything else, William brought the Arts section of The New York Times with him.
It had rained for the entire week, but this morning was cloudless and crisp. He felt invigorated.
Sitting on a bench in an uncrowded section of the park, William once again opened up to page
three and read. He had always known he possessed a resentful nature, but never knew how deep
its roots went. Beaming at the awful review, he imagined the horror with which two in the city
had probably read it - William Lucas and Caroline Bingley. William’s father had always told him
that success was the best revenge, but he’d never known the sweetness of failure, until now.
Elizabeth had been gone for over two weeks. Really, it was more. She had been absent from his
rehearsals for a month, by his own doing and missing from his life for a bit longer than that. The
month had trudged by, each day a trial. He had cried. He hadn’t cried since his father passed
away. He had missed rehearsal. He hadn’t missed rehearsal since…he tried to remember, but
couldn’t. Maybe the time he’d gotten that stomach bug in St. Petersburg, eight years ago. He had
taken walks, striding aimlessly from his apartment, until he looked up and found himself in
Battery Park. He had done everything to stop thinking of her, to get her venom-filled voice and
injured eyes out of his head.
And he had thought. William thought about his father, and wished he were still around, as he so
desperately needed a bit of fatherly advice now. His father had never liked Greg, had always
chastised his mother for aiding “that ingrate fake.” But this was a thought that helped little at
three in the morning.
William remembered his father, remembered how well he had treated his mother, and felt sick
with shame. She had been fifteen years his junior, flighty and whimsical, concerned more with
dance and music than mutual funds, and, yet, they had been perfect together.
William remembered one night of his boyhood, his parents getting ready to go to the opera. His
mother adored the opera and his parents went to nearly every show put on by the Met. She had
records of all the great shows and always hummed the arias as she applied her makeup before
each performance. That night, however, she had been running around the apartment in a panic
because she couldn’t find her other pearl earring. That, and she discovered a run in her stockings,
and they were already late, and she was yelling at her father to “stop laughing, and actually help
look for the goddamn earring, goddammit.”
William remembered his father had winked at him and beckoned him to follow. With William at
his father’s heels, the older Darcy had turned to him and smiled.
“Will, when I’m dead and gone, remember this, if nothing else. Find a woman as pretty as your
mom when she’s mad, and she’ll make you the happiest man in the world.”
Now that his father was dead and gone, that memory struck a somber ring in William. His
parents’ marriage, like most, had sometimes been bumpy, but William knew his father had found
the utmost joy in all of his mother’s whims and intricacies.
He missed Elizabeth. Again and again, William wondered if there could have been any other
way besides sending her on tour. He wondered if there were any chance that she would forgive
him when she got back. William thought about everything he had ever said to her, about the way
he had treated her, as if his feelings had been silly and unjustified, despite everything his mind,
body, and creativity had screamed.
One night, at two a.m., he wondered if he really had loved her. The answer, he determined, was
no. He had admired her, lusted after her, been inspired by her, been infuriated by her, craved her,
longed for her, used her, but he hadn’t really loved her. William had assembled the mortar,
bricks, wood, and steel, but all of those things by themselves didn’t make a building. He hadn’t
even begun to build - to know Elizabeth, or respect her.
Trembling with that insight, William wondered if he had ever really loved a woman. He had
dated plenty, some long-term. At the time, he had imagined himself in love. Passionate kisses
shared, expensive jewelry bought, anniversaries and birthdays celebrated in candlelit French
restaurants. But, William realized, those relationships had ended placidly, even when they ended
badly. His emotions had never been touched. Now, he felt they were being stretched, strangled,
and beaten.
William had finished the third movement of his piece, cleaned the entire thing, and still had a
week of rehearsals left before the world premier. Yesterday, the night of the performance, he had
watched stonily from the upper, right-hand wing, feeling how wrong it looked. The dancing was
perfect; the audience gave the piece several curtain calls. William had even been pulled onstage
for his own solitary bow, and several bouquets of roses had been tossed into the blinding arena of
lights for him to retrieve, humbly and gratefully. Once backstage, he chucked them all in the
garbage and sped towards the silent confines of his private car. He spent the night staring at the
trickle of taxicabs making its way down Central Park West. The piece would garner rave
reviews. Lucas and Caroline would cluck and preen. And Saturday morning would dawn as gray
as the Friday before it.
Except the review was brutal, and it changed everything. He read, the smile on his face
brightening with each paragraph. Finally, the last sentence slapped him in the face, and William
laughed. It was just as he thought. The piece was terrible. He was a failure. Everything that had
tortured him since Elizabeth’s disappearance dawned starkly true. The piece was self-indulgent,
pompous, and terribly cast. Now, he had somewhere to start, something to prove.
Late April in Central Park was no warm affair, but William unbuttoned his coat, leaned back
against the bench, and smiled, for what seemed like the first time in weeks.
Chapter Twenty
Anne’s fingers snaked down Elizabeth’s chest, resting finally at the mouth to the valley between
her breasts. Inhaling, Elizabeth shut her eyes and released a ragged breath. Her entire body
trembled, her insides burned.
“Yes, good,” Anne murmured, the other hand wrapping around Elizabeth’s ribcage.
Elizabeth released her breath in spurts, a bead of sweat trickled down her temple, she gazed up at
the ceiling, feeling the burn in her core.
“Almost,” said Anne.
Finally too exhausted to continue, Elizabeth collapsed back onto the floor, her whole body spent.
“Please, no more,” she begged.
Anne smiled. “Just one more rep.”
Elizabeth groaned. “No, I can’t take any more of these stupid crunches!”
“They’re not crunches. They’re ‘The Hundreds.’”
“I don’t care what they’re called,” Elizabeth whined. “Joseph Pilates can have his Hundred
crunches back.”
“You’re very weak. You’re still moving your chest and not your ribs in the breaths. Fine, fine.
Do your Theraband exercises while I take a shower.”
Elizabeth grumbled as Anne walked over to her suitcase and began rummaging through it.
“Are you all packed for tomorrow?” Anne asked.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Well, you forgot a pair of ballet slippers last time.”
“Yes, thank you, Mom. I won’t do it again.”
Anne stared at Elizabeth sourly, and didn’t respond. Smiling, Elizabeth knew she wasn’t angry.
She loved poking fun at Anne, ever the Miss Do Right, in an attempt to prod a response from her
normally unresponsive features. In return, Anne seemed to enjoy Elizabeth’s teasing as a
crotchety spinster would, loving the attention in a grumbling, begrudging sort of way.
“You should pick up some sunscreen before we go tomorrow.”
“Anne, they’ll have sunscreen in Miami.”
“Yeah, but after that, it’s Mexico and you just never know.”
Elizabeth made a serious face. “I’ll buy two bottles in Miami.”
Just then, Anne's cell phone rang. She reached up and pulled it off of the bed. Glancing at the
screen, she wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“The Wicked Witch of the Upper West Side,” she grumbled, making Elizabeth giggle.
Flipping open the phone, Anne stood as she made her way towards the bathroom where she
always took these phone calls. “Hello, mother.”
Elizabeth shook her head and went back to her Theraband exercises. Midway through a series,
the phone in the room rang. Elizabeth answered it with a bright hello.
“Hello, yes,” answered the voice on the other line, “I’m calling to report a missing person. Her
name is Elizabeth Bennet, and she hasn’t called her sister in over a week.”
“Oh, hey, Jane.”
“Oh, hey, Lizzy. What the heck! Thanks for calling.”
“Settle down, Fan, or we’ll have to get you your Zoloft.”
“Ha ha ha.”
“I’m sorry, Jane. I would have called earlier, but this past week has been really busy.”
“Uh huh.”
“Yeah, we went to Disney World yesterday, and the night before that, a bunch of us went
clubbing after the show. And the day before that was a travel day.”
“Do you actually dance while you’re on tour?”
Elizabeth laughed. “We dance! But we have fun, too. How’s New York?”
“Good. Same old.”
“How’s Charles?”
Jane sighed dreamily. “Good.”
“Any progress on finally unlatching your tongues from each other’s throats?”
Giggling, Jane replied, “We don’t have our tongues down each other’s throats.”
“Sure you don’t. Well, tell him I say hi.”
“I will. He asks about you a lot.”
“Does he? Aw, he’s a sweetie.” Elizabeth smiled into the receiver. “So, how’s everything else?”
“Good, good. Charlotte told me to tell you hi.”
“Oh, how is she?”
“She’s good. Still dating Colin.”
Elizabeth cringed. “I don’t get it, but that’s all I’m going to say.”
“He’s not a bad guy, Lizzy. Charlotte says he makes her feel special, like a lady.”
“Really?” Elizabeth asked skeptically. “Well, who knows? You can never tell what goes into a
relationship unless you’re the two people in it.”
“Exactly,” Jane agreed.
“I still gag when I think about the two of them kissing, though.”
“Oh, I do, too. Blech!”
Elizabeth laughed. “Good to know I didn’t get all of the bitchy genes.”
“No, just most of them.”
Giggling, Elizabeth asked Jane about their other friends. Jane related a piece of gossip fed to her
by Lydia. They chatted about the fall season’s repertoire and speculated on casting. All the
while, a question burned at Elizabeth. During a lull in the conversation, she looked behind her, to
make sure Anne was still in the bathroom, and then lowered her voice.
“And so, uh, has Mr. Darcy started his new piece?”
“Not yet. He hasn’t really been around lately.”
“Oh.”
Jane hesitated. “We went out the other day, though. He, Charles, Charles’ parents, and I.”
“Oh?” Elizabeth attempted to sound as indifferent as she could.
“Charles’ dad and William talked the whole time about stocks and stuff. He seemed okay.”
Elizabeth answered with a grunt, not because she wasn’t interested, but rather, because she was
so curious that she felt any other answer would betray that fact to Jane. Sensing Elizabeth’s
indifference, Jane changed the subject and asked where the tour was stopping next. A twinge of
disappointment nipped at Elizabeth, but she answered.
“Miami, and then Mexico.”
“Aw, man,” Jane moaned.
“Yeah, I know you’re jealous.”
“You’re right, I’m jealous. You’ll be on some perfect beach, and I’m stuck here in a concrete
jungle.”
“You have Charles.”
“Yeah, but I wanna go to the beach,” whined Jane.
“I’ll bring you back a seashell.”
Jane muttered that she didn’t want a seashell, she wanted Miami Beach.
“Lizzy, how much longer do you have on that tour?”
“Only a month.”
Jane sighed and grew quiet. “I miss you.”
“Oh, Janey, I miss you, too, but it’s only a month more. Twenty-seven days, really.”
“I know,” she sighed. “Okay, I should go. The phone card’s going to run out. You’d better call
me.”
“I’ll try. But it’s going to cost me twice as much to call from Mexico.”
“Lizzy!”
“Okay, okay,” Elizabeth laughed, “I’ll talk to you soon.”
Elizabeth hung up the phone, repressing a surge of guilt. Of course, she missed her sister, and
she missed New York. However, Elizabeth found she loved being on tour as well. She loved
waking up in a new city every morning, traversing the country on the company’s money, and
getting a salary at the same time. She hadn’t been great friends with many of the dancers before
the tour had begun, but after weeks in their constant company, she found she was just as close
with some as she was with Charlotte, Lydia, or Katherine. In Anne, especially, she had found a
person so diametrically opposed to herself, that they somehow clicked. Elizabeth joked that
Anne was her Laurel, and she the Hardy.
Surprisingly, Elizabeth didn’t want to go back to the city. She loved traveling. She couldn’t wait
to get to Mexico and the rest of their Central and South American stops. It would be her first
time out of the country. Although she couldn’t speak a word of Spanish beyond hola and burrito,
Elizabeth found the idea of stepping into an unknown land just as thrilling as the feeling before
stepping on stage into the lights. She missed New York City, but, no, she was not ready to return
just yet.
There was another reason for this, she suspected. William Darcy. Elizabeth didn’t want to face
him yet. Rather, she didn’t know how to face him. She was thoroughly humiliated by her
behavior towards him. She had been belligerent and thick. She had played into the role of naïve
suburban girl to perfection. William probably wondered why he had ever shown her any
preference, in the studio and out of it. Elizabeth regretted her words to him, not because she
loved or even liked him, although her feelings had softened considerably, but because it made
her look like a fool in his eyes, and with William more than anyone, that fact made her
physically cringe with embarrassment.
So now the question was how to face him. Should she apologize, and if so, what should she say?
Even if she did apologize, there was no guarantee he would accept it. He might react coldly, or
patronizingly, or worst of all, indifferently to her. Elizabeth couldn’t even consult Jane on the
matter, as the issue so intimately concerned her sister.
In any case, she had another month to work through the particulars. It had already taken her a
month to realize how wrong she had been about William. She figured it would take her another
month to figure out what to do next. There was no need to make a decision any time in the near
future. Right now, Elizabeth simply had to go through the rest of her Theraband exercises and
pack, so that Anne wouldn’t reemerge from the shower with another of one of her mother hen
lectures that Elizabeth had grown so fond of ignoring.
After a three-hour delay in Orlando International Airport, the company arrived in Miami sweaty,
grungy, and irritated. Most had planned on using the afternoon to lounge on the beach, but by the
time they arrived in Miami, the sun had clocked out for the day. The eternal wait in a stuffy
airport terminal had drained away any desire to go out and savor Miami’s famous nightlife.
Thus, Elizabeth sat restlessly in her Miami Beach hotel room, aching to explore the pastel-lined
streets. Anne could not be convinced. The humidity was disgusting and besides, every Thursday
night she expected a call from her “friend,” Mariah.
Resigned to her own company, Elizabeth donned a tank top and sandals and headed out to find a
cup of coffee, a harder task than she expected. Apparently, no one in Miami wanted hot coffee
when the thermometer read ninety-four degrees with ninety percent humidity. Elizabeth strolled
slowly along the street, staring up at the tops of palm trees. Being farther up the beach, there
were few pedestrians. After walking for some minutes and only passing hotels, condos, and
convenience stores, and with her tank top already betraying signs of perspiration, Elizabeth
stopped outside a brightly lit restaurant, Reynalda Cafetería. The lettering on the window was all
in Spanish, but Elizabeth recognized the word “café,” and decided to give the place a go.
Pushing open the door, Elizabeth entered to the clanking of bells against the glass. The interior
was staid and fluorescent-lit, but clean. A middle-aged man behind the counter conversed in
rapid-fire Spanish with a young woman sitting at a table alone. She was the only patron in the
diner.
“Excuse me,” Elizabeth said, approaching the counter, “do you have coffee?”
The man stopped speaking and stared strangely at her, making no reply.
“Do you have coffee?” Elizabeth repeated.
“Coffee? Yes, yes, coffee.” The man spoke with a heavy Spanish accent. “Con leche? Cubano?”
Elizabeth looked blankly at him. He returned the look.
“Coffee,” Elizabeth said.
The man’s face twisted with annoyance. Again, he said something in Spanish in response to
which Elizabeth again stood mutely. The woman at the table giggled, saying something to the
man in Spanish. Elizabeth glared at her, lifted her chin, and was about to turn away in a huff,
when the woman spoke.
“He asked you what kind of coffee you want. Coffee with milk, or Cuban coffee.”
“I can’t just get it black?”
The woman giggled again. “You can, but it’ll be super nasty.”
Elizabeth frowned.
“It’s, like, not really real coffee. It’s kinda like espresso. You should get the Cuban coffee. He
makes it really, really good.”
Nodding, first to the woman, and then to the man, Elizabeth made her order. “Cuban coffee,
then.”
“Cubano? Okay.” The man nodded in approval and went about his work.
“You’re totally not from Miami, are you?” the woman asked.
“No, New York.” Elizabeth fished around in her bag for her wallet.
“New York! Oh, cool. Me, too. Where in New York? New York City?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes.”
“Manhattan?”
“Yes.”
“Ooh! Me, too! Where?”
“I live in Harlem.”
“Ooh, scary. You should, like, really carry around pepper spray or something.”
“Thanks,” Elizabeth said, drolly, “but it’s not that bad.”
The woman grinned and shrugged. Turning her focus away, Elizabeth tried to ignore the bimbo
in the corner. She, however, kept smiling at Elizabeth. She seemed completely out of place in
this small, plain diner. Her hefty Louis Vuitton bag sat ungraciously on the plastic tabletop. No
older than twenty-five, the woman sat with her legs crossed daintily, four-inch strappy sandals
gracing her perfectly pedicured feet. Chanel sunglasses sat on the crown of her head. She wore a
matching Tiffany necklace and bracelet and fulfilled every stereotype that Elizabeth held about
Miami women: tanned, dark, raven-haired, and in the shortest shorts Elizabeth had ever seen.
But, she seemed friendly, annoyingly so. Elizabeth was tired and grumpy. She just wanted coffee
and quiet. Suppressing her irritation, she struggled to maintain a pleasant demeanor.
“How long are you in Miami for?” asked Miss Louis Vuitton.
Elizabeth plunked down $1.50 in quarters and dimes, and smiled stiffly, “Just a few days.”
“Planning on going to the beach?”
“No, I’m here on work.”
“Oh, coming to Miami for work is like, I don’t know, like going to Paris and not seeing to the
Eiffel Tower.”
The analogy didn’t hit. “I’ve never been to Paris.” Elizabeth grimaced at the frost in her voice.
She wondered which was better – sounding like a complete bimbo, or a complete bitch. It’s only
five minutes, Elizabeth reasoned with herself. It won’t kill you to be friendly.
“Have you ever eaten Cuban food before?” the woman asked, oblivious to the bite in Elizabeth’s
tone.
“No, this is my first time,” Elizabeth said. “Can’t you tell?”
“Oh my God! Then you totally have to get something else besides coffee! Pepe makes the best
medianoche. Oh, that means ‘midnight,’ but it’s really only a sandwich.”
“Thanks for the suggestion, but I had a sandwich for lunch.”
“Oh, cool! Then you can have a pastry!” Then, the woman said something in Spanish to Pepe
who turned and walked over to a hot lamp, plucking two pastries from underneath.
“Really,” protested Elizabeth, “you don’t have to. I need to get going anyway.”
“I swear, just try this. They’re the best in Miami. You have to just try this.”
Shrugging and smiling in resignation, Elizabeth let the woman pay for a pastry and usher her to
sit at her table.
“Oops, sorry,” she giggled, removing the designer bag. Elizabeth smiled uncomfortably at the
woman. She had never been bought food by a stranger.
“Thanks, you really didn’t have to.”
“It’s totally okay. You’re so going to die when you eat that.”
Elizabeth picked up the pastry as her hostess did. A large blot of grease remained in its place on
the paper plate. Suppressing a face, Elizabeth figured she would have to double up on Pilates
exercises that week to compensate for all of these calories. The woman held her treat in between
long, French-manicured nails and chomped down happily. Closing her eyes, she smiled. “Yum”
Elizabeth took a tentative bite, and then another. On the third bite, she struck gold; guava paste
and warm melted cream cheese oozed out of the sides. “Ummm,” moaned Elizabeth
orgasmically.
The two women looked at each other and then burst into giggles.
“I told you it was good!”
Elizabeth hungrily scarfed down the pastry, then took Miss Vuitton’s recommendation and
ordered a medianoche sandwich. While that was being prepared, the woman propped her cheek
on her hand and smiled. Elizabeth, feeling guilty for her ungracious behavior, returned the smile
and attempted to make conversation.
“So…what do you do in Miami?”
“College. I go to UM.”
Elizabeth furrowed her eyebrows, and then understood. She laughed. “Oh. I’m originally from
Michigan, and we call the University of Michigan ‘UM,’ too. That’s where I thought you
meant.”
Miss Vuitton giggled. “Oh, no way. I meant Miami, silly.”
“What’s your major?”
“Econ and international politics.”
Elizabeth nodded, impressed. She’d expected the woman across from her to say tanning or
underwater basket weaving. “Wow, that’s pretty heavy-duty.”
“Well,” the woman shrugged, “I really like it. I’m pretty dumb when it comes to books and
reading and stuff, but, like, I totally get numbers and logic and all that boring junk. Oh, gross. I
have guava all in my fingernails. I’m, like, totally nasty.”
Elizabeth laughed. Just then, the door swung open and a woman muttering to herself in Spanish
walked in.
“Oh, hey, Reynalda,” Miss Vuitton called.
“Hola, mi hija,” Reynalda answered, “Where’s Pepe?”
Pepe grunted from under the counter. Reynalda, a woman in her fifties with a bad dye-job, strode
to the counter and began talking to the man in Spanish. Elizabeth recognized a few English
words thrown in.
“They’re married,” whispered Miss Vuitton. Just then, Reynalda, who had grabbed a croquette
from under the heat lamp, came to their table and sat, without invitation. She smiled politely at
Elizabeth.
“Are you Georgiana’s friend from school?” Her English, while still tinged with a Spanish accent,
was far better than her husband’s.
Shaking her head, Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply but was cut off. “No, she’s from New
York,” answered the woman, who Elizabeth now knew was called Georgiana.
“Oh, your friend from New York?”
“No, Reynalda. We just met.”
Reynalda nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be having coffee and pastries
with a stranger. “So, you’re not from Miami.”
“No, I live in New York City, but I’m originally from Michigan.”
Reynalda made a face. “From Michigan? It’s so cold there, no? When I first came over from
Cuba, I lived in Chicago for a few months with my cousin. It was so cold. I thought I was gonna
freeze to death. I can’t even stand New York, but at least it’s better than Chicago.”
Elizabeth simply laughed. Pepe shuffled out from behind the counter then and brought her
sandwich. He asked her something in Spanish, which Georgiana translated.
“Want more coffee?” The stuff was so rich and sweet that Elizabeth said she would be fine with
one. Pepe shrugged and shuffled off.
Reynalda and Georgiana watched Elizabeth eat for a few moments and then began chit-chatting
in a strange mixture of English and Spanish. The older woman asked Elizabeth how she liked
Miami and as Elizabeth had only been in town for a few hours, replied that it was extremely
humid, but pretty. Reynalda seemed satisfied by that answer, and mentioned again how cold
Chicago was. Then, a shrill rendition of Ode to Joy came from the Louis Vuitton bag. Fumbling
in her bag, Georgiana plucked out a thin, pink cell-phone and flipped open the lid. Her eyes lit
up.
“Yo, Dub! Where are you?…No way!…No way!…I thought you weren’t coming ‘til
tomorrow…Cool!…At Reynalda’s. Oh, crap, who’s picking you up?…Oh, good…Oh, crap, he
was supposed to pick me up. I didn’t bring the car…Can you?…Aww, you’re so sweet…Fifteen
minutes…I’m so excited to see you, too!…Oh, man! Why is she coming?…Yeah, yeah. If I have
to, I guess I’ll put up with her….Okay, so fifteen minutes?…Great!…Love you! I’m so excited
to see you….Okay, love you. Bye.”
The woman snapped her cell phone shut and looked at Reynalda with dancing eyes. “He’s
already here!”
“You’re kidding! He said he was coming tomorrow.”
“He wanted to surprise us.”
The woman laughed and clapped her hands, and then yelled something in Spanish to Pepe, who
only smiled in response. Georgiana turned to Elizabeth and explained.
“My brother’s coming in from New York. He was supposed to come tomorrow, though.”
“That’s a nice surprise.”
“Her brother,” Reynalda interrupted, “he always does stuff like that. He’s so good to her. He’s so
good to all of us. And so handsome, too. If I wasn’t married to Pepe, I tell you, that boy would be
in trouble.”
Elizabeth laughed, as did the younger woman. “Reynalda, you always say the exact same thing.”
“Because it’s true, mi hija! Georgiana’s brother is the…”
“She does this to like almost everyone,” explained Georgiana. Reynalda lightly slapped the girl’s
arm and told her to be quiet.
“You know, I worked for his family for years. I took care of him since he was this big. I was like
his grandmother, you know? And their parents,” Reynalda pointed at Georgiana, “may God rest
their souls, they were the best people, too. When you were about how old, Georgianita?”
“I don’t know, like five, or something.”
“When she was five, my sister, she came over from Cuba. You know, she had nothing. Just the
clothes on her back. And her kids. Her husband couldn’t come over. And you know what their
parents did?”
Georgiana rolled her eyes with a good-natured smile on her face. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows,
awaiting the response.
“Her parents, they let my sister and her kids live with them for five months. For five months! My
sister couldn’t even speak English. They got her a job. They fed her and her kids. The best
family. The best. I’m telling you. It didn’t matter if I was the housekeeper, they treated me with
respect. Respect. Now, that’s something you don’t see a lot of lately.”
“No, indeed,” agreed Elizabeth. Georgiana smiled softly and simply shrugged.
“And her brother, he’s the same way, you know. Let me tell you, a couple years ago, I started
getting back problems and the doctor told me to take it easy. You know, from years of dusting
and vacuuming and taking care of these ones. My back just couldn’t take it anymore, you know?
And Pepe, he’d been working for years in the factory, but how’s an old fart supposed to work
day-after-day on the same line with kids two times younger than him? You know? So, I told her
brother, ‘I’m sorry, but the doctor says I have to take it easy, and I can’t work anymore.’ I had
been working for this family for nearly thirty years, you know?”
At this point, Reynalda paused in her account to dab away the moisture from the corners of her
eyes.
“And let me tell you what her brother did. When I retired, her brother bought me and Pepe a
house. And not some filthy, run-down place in Hialeah. No, a nice little house in Kendall, close
to my sister and her husband and her kids.”
Elizabeth nodded in approval. “That’s very generous of him.”
“But that’s not all. He buys me a house, and he gives me a retirement bonus bigger than what
most businessmen get. Can you believe it? I nearly died of shock when I saw that check. Pepe
here, he just burst into tears. And I told her brother, I said, ‘I can’t accept this.’ But he wouldn’t
hear it. He told me, ‘Reynalda, you’re like family.’ Isn’t that something? So, what are we going
to do with all that money? Pepe, he always made the best pastelitos, so we said, why not open a
cafetería? So we bought this place.”
Elizabeth was impressed, not only by the display of goodwill, but also by the vast amounts of
money being thrown around by Georgiana’s brother. No wonder the girl had more designer
brands on her than a duty-free store.
“I’m warning you,” the young woman joked, “this woman exaggerates, like, everything.”
“Oye, hush. You know your brother’s the best man in the world.”
Georgiana giggled and winked at Elizabeth. “He is. He’ll drop whatever he’s doing and help me
if I’m in trouble.”
Chuckling, Elizabeth replied, “He sounds like an ideal brother. I’ve always wanted a brother.”
“You don’t have any siblings?”
“I do. A perfect older sister.”
“Hey,” Reynalda said, leaning into Elizabeth, “give me your sister’s number. We could set them
up. I keep telling him to get married and give me grandbabies, but you know, he’s all over the
place. He won’t settle down.”
Picking up the second half of her sandwich, Elizabeth was about to bite into the corner when
Reynalda screamed and bolted up. Elizabeth jumped, her sandwich falling from her hands and
landing on the tile. Running to the door, Reynalda laughed and screeched and clapped like
someone possessed. Suddenly, Georgiana joined her in her pandemonium, and Elizabeth found
herself alone at the table, picking up pickles and pieces of ham from the floor.
Looking over the table, Elizabeth plucked a napkin off of it and then froze. Her mouth plunked
open. There, at the door, strangled in a vice-like embrace by both Reynalda and Georgiana, stood
William Darcy, his baritone laughter resounding through the small cafeteria like a roll of
thunder.
“Shit!” Elizabeth muttered, ducking back under the table. Then, realizing what she would look
like to William, hiding under the table, she shut her eyes and knew she would have to stand and
reveal herself. A shiver rippled over her skin, and her face scorched with embarrassment. She
stood and looked away awkwardly.
The reunion lasted for a long minute. Reynalda had finally calmed to the point where she was no
longer screaming. William answered all of her questions - how he was, when he got in, how was
his flight, did he have a girlfriend yet. When her interrogation had ended, he turned to his little
sister, her hair now cut in a pixie style, as short as a boy’s.
“What have you done to your hair, G?” he asked.
“You like it? I got it cut!”
“I see that. You look like Audrey Hep…”
Then, he lost all ability to speak. Georgiana stared at him strangely, as he looked past her,
stunned.
“Dub, it’s ‘Hepburn.’”
William nodded, stiffening his jaw. Was he seeing right? He had to be. There would be no reason
for a perfect stranger to be standing in the background so awkwardly, her face beet red, her lips
pursed in mortification, doing everything to avoid his gaze.
Georgiana followed the line of his eyes to Elizabeth and then understood. “Oh, we were making
a new friend. Dub, this is…oh, crap. I’m such an airhead. I totally didn’t even ask you your
name.”
“Elizabeth,” William murmured. Finally, she lifted her eyes. William felt his heart stop and then
stumble into it a frantic rhythm. He had no words, and so he simply stared dumb and wide-eyed,
which was fine, since Elizabeth could only do the same.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Oh my God, this is super creepy. You both know each other?” Georgiana asked, looking from
her brother to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth felt her whole body go up in flames. She wanted so desperately to look away, but she
couldn’t. William’s intense eyes were fixed on her in a look of confusion. Humiliated, Elizabeth
figured that he must have been ten times more shocked and horrified than she at having stumbled
onto her in such an unexpected way. She already looked a fool in his eyes. This folly probably
only compounded the feeling.
William opened his lips to speak, closed them briefly, and then smiled, first in his eyes, then on
his lips. “Elizabeth, how are you?”
Elizabeth started. His voice was so unexpectedly soft. Not knowing how to respond, Elizabeth
stuttered a trite answer.
“G-good, and you?”
“Good. I’m good.” He nodded, his eyes still on her, but filled with just as much light as surprise.
“Wait, this is too weird,” interrupted Georgiana. “You both know each other?”
“Yes,” answered William.
“Far out!”
“William, mi hijo, you come sit. Pepe will make you a café con leche, and we’ll get you
something to eat.” Reynalda pushed him towards the table where Elizabeth was standing and
then retreated to the counter to help her husband fix William a snack. He now stood a few feet
away, as tall and handsome as she remembered. Perhaps, in a casual white dress shirt rolled up to
his elbows and a soft smile on his face, a bit more handsome.
“Uh…how’s tour?” he asked.
Elizabeth nodded, reddened, and then looked down at her hands. “Yeah, tour’s good. We went to
Disney World a couple of days ago.” Wincing inwardly, Elizabeth wondered for the second time
that night if it were better to sound like a total bimbo or a total bitch. Disney World? She’d
already proved to him that she was as reasonable as a tantrum-throwing three-year-old, and now
she seemed out to really drive that point home.
William just smiled. “Did you ride Space Mountain?”
Elizabeth furrowed her eyebrows. “No, the line was too long.”
Georgiana stared at the both of them, bug-eyed, still unable to comprehend the twist of fate that
had occurred right before her eyes.
“And, uh, how’s your sister?” he asked.
Then, Elizabeth relaxed. It was a stupid question. According to Jane, they had seen each other a
few days ago. He was obviously just as flustered as she was. “You would know better than I
would,” Elizabeth teased, “I heard you all went out with Charles’ parents last week.”
“Oh, right. Yes. Well, Jane’s doing fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Elizabeth arched an eyebrow and suppressed a smile. Happiness radiated
from his eyes, so much so, that Elizabeth felt her chest and neck burn from the intensity of his
gaze. She had never seen such an unguarded look on his face before. It made her wonder whether
he had gone on anti-depressants.
“Dub, how do you know each other?” William’s sister asked.
“Elizabeth dances at BTNY,” William explained, still unable to rip his eyes away from her.
Georgiana’s face exploded into a smile. “No freaking way! Elizabeth, you should have totally
said something.”
Elizabeth only shrugged and smiled guiltily.
“So are you dancing tomorrow?”
“No, I have the night off.”
“Aw, man, that sucks hardcore. Dub and I…”
“Hey, G, that reminds me,” William interjected, “we should invite Elizabeth to the barbeque
we’re having tomorrow.” Georgiana stared at him strangely, the smile on her face taking on a
tinge of puzzlement. Opening her mouth to reply, she quickly closed it and simply nodded in
stupefaction.
William grinned and turned towards Elizabeth. “We’re having a barbeque tomorrow. Come.
Please. I mean, if you want to.”
Elizabeth’s stomach flip-flopped inside of her. For a minute, she stared up at William in
incredulity. She didn’t understand. She had insulted him in every possible way a woman could
insult a man. She had been ignorant and unfair. She had been everything unattractive. And he
was William Darcy. He should have been stony and bitter. He should have looked down his nose
at her, snorted in self-satisfaction, and walked away haughtily with his – what had Greg called
her? – his Louis Vuitton-toting, spoiled brat of a sister. Just then, Elizabeth realized that this
bubbly woman in front of her was the same woman about whom she had heard so many lies from
Greg, and so many painful confessions from William. Elizabeth started slightly, and stared at
Georgiana. Now they wanted to invite her over?
“Charles will be there,” William blurted out.
“Oh…”
“Oh, please, Elizabeth, please come,” begged Georgiana. “It’ll be super fun, and we can go in
the pool and, oh my God, Dub makes the best steak. You have to come.”
Reddening, Elizabeth smiled in embarrassment. “I, um, don’t have a bathing suit.”
“I’ll lend you one! I have so many I could open up my own store. You’re totally my size. Except
your boobs are bigger. But, that’s, like, totally okay. You can be sexy.”
Elizabeth felt her face grow hot. Scratching his forehead, William looked down in
embarrassment and then back up to Elizabeth. He grinned and just shrugged.
“I…wouldn’t want to impose…on your family reunion.”
Georgiana opened her mouth to reply, but William answered first. “No. You wouldn’t be
imposing. I want…we want you to come.” Georgiana nodded in agreement.
Elizabeth stared from one sibling to the other. Finally, she consented in a voice barely higher
than a whisper. “Okay, thanks.”
“Yes!” Georgiana cried. Then, she turned to Reynalda and Pepe and told them, in Spanish, about
the barbeque. Reynalda shuffled over to them, a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand, and a
paper plate with a greasy croquette in the other. Frowning, she said that this was the first she’d
heard of any barbeque and how was she supposed to cook something with so little preparation?
She set both the cup and plate down in front of William.
Then, William replied to her, in perfect Spanish, or what sounded like perfect Spanish since
Elizabeth couldn’t be sure. Elizabeth stared. She had thought she’d known him. But here was this
other side, this gentle, smiling, Spanish-speaking other side. Looking to her, he caught her
staring and raised his eyebrow in question.
“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” she answered.
Reynalda took the liberty of explaining. “I practically raised this boy. He’d better speak some
Spanish.”
“There you have it,” said William.
After that, Reynalda began asking William a string of questions – How was New York? How
was the weather in New York? Was he eating properly? Was he getting enough sleep? Did he
have a girlfriend yet? Elizabeth jerked her eyes down to her lap, when he answered no to that
one. She left them there for the remainder of the conversation. Just then, she couldn’t look at
him. Elizabeth wondered how something like this could have happened. Of the hundreds,
possibly thousands of restaurants on Miami Beach, how could they have ended up in the same
one? And more importantly, why was he acting this way?
In every possible reunion Elizabeth had conjured up, William had either been glacial, or bitter, or
arrogantly indifferent. Once, she’d even imagined him hurt and crying, but weakness didn’t fit
him well, and she had quickly discarded that option. What Elizabeth had never, not in one, single
fantasy, ever expected was such congeniality. Perhaps it was an act for his sister’s sake? The
more he spoke, the more Elizabeth figured it was exactly that. When they were alone, he would
act more like himself.
Finally, during a lull in one of Reynalda’s monologues, William spoke.
“So, Elizabeth, what time should we pick you up tomorrow?”
At being spoken to, she blushed and shifted in her seat. “Uh…anytime, I guess.”
“Is twelve okay? Will you be done at the theater?”
“I think so.”
“Twelve it is, then.”
She nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on the plastic tabletop.
“Where’s the company staying?”
“Um, up the road a bit. At the Lambton Inn.”
“Oh, that’s on our way back home. We’ll drop you off.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, no. I can walk. It was only a short way away, really. I’ll be fine.”
She said it with more embarrassment than defiance.
“If it was only a short way away, then it’ll be no problem for us to drop you off,” William said,
looking to his sister who nodded vigorously.
Elizabeth flashed a self-deprecating half-smile. “I guess you got me there. Thank you.”
Georgiana stood, and kissing Reynalda on the cheek, went outside to find Miguel, their driver.
Reynalda offered her cheek to William, who kissed her and wished her goodnight. Elizabeth
waved and stepped out of the restaurant silently, with William following behind her. Georgiana
was nowhere to be seen. Standing awkwardly, Elizabeth shifted back on her heels and stared at
her toes. She felt William’s eyes on her, but she said nothing. Hazarding a glance, her heartbeat
froze when she caught the look in his eyes – mysterious and searching, but certainly not cold.
“I…,” he began, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I wasn’t supposed to say anything about
Charles. He wanted to surprise the company tomorrow.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t say anything,” Elizabeth said, nodding.
“No. I know you won’t.” He looked at her with such meaning, and funnily enough, Elizabeth felt
that she instantly understood him. They were on the same side, keepers of secrets – Georgiana,
Greg, tutus - and performing as if they knew nothing.
“He’s bringing his sister.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Oh.”
“She won't do anything. Don’t worry about her.” His voice was gently persuasive.
Considering his face for a few seconds, Elizabeth realized that actually she wasn’t at all afraid of
the diva, as she would have once been. “All right then. I won’t.” The lilt in her voice held the
same heavy meaning as his had only moments before.
William’s heart dropped to his shoes. He glanced at her for a brief moment, letting his eyes reaccustom themselves to the apples of her cheeks, the freckles on her nose, and those eyes, bright
and sparkling even in the darkness. Finally, he saw the car pull around the corner with Georgiana
in it. It slowed to a stop at the curb and William darted to the door, opening it wide for Elizabeth
to enter first. She stared up at him in surprise and then nodded her thanks
“Sorry,” Georgiana said, “we had to drive around. The parking meter ran out and there was a cop
totally staring us down.”
William said nothing, simply leaning his elbow on the armrest and smiling out of the window.
“Dub, what time’s this party start tomorrow?” Georgiana asked, twisting back in her seat to look
at him.
Turning to Elizabeth, William answered, “I’m picking Elizabeth up at twelve. So after that, I
suppose.” Again, Georgiana stared oddly at her brother.
“Can I bring anything?” Elizabeth offered.
“No, just yourself.”
Elizabeth laughed nervously. “That’s not much of an offering.”
“It’s fine. Even if you wanted to bring something, everywhere is closed now and won’t open
until you’re in blocking rehearsal tomorrow.”
“Ah, ever so practical.”
“Yes, that’s me.”
Elizabeth chuckled and then looked out of the window as they pulled into the driveway of the
hotel. The drive hadn't lasted longer than a minute. “Well, thank you for the ride.”
“No problem. I’ll meet you outside of the backstage door tomorrow at twelve,” he said.
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Bye, Elizabeth!” Georgiana chirped.
She grinned at Georgiana and waved, as a bellhop opened the passenger door. Elizabeth rose
from the seat. Before the door closed, she looked back at William, the grin fading to something
more profound, and then reappearing as a soft smile. She thanked him and then the bellhop shut
the car door softly.
After Elizabeth disappeared into the hotel and Miguel slowly pulled out of the driveway,
Georgiana turned in her seat and frowned at William.
“Am I a total airhead? Did I forget we were having a party?”
“No, you didn’t forget anything.”
“Oh, that’s what I thought. Our tickets are for tomorrow.”
“We can get tickets for the Sunday mat. Elizabeth’s performing.”
Satisfied, Georgiana turned around in the seat and hummed along with the radio. Then, she
stopped, her eyes growing wide, and spun back around. Both siblings stared at each other, one
with a placid, but satisfied, expression, the other with a look of dawning realization. Georgiana
grinned.
“I figured it out,” she sang.
“Did you?” William returned playfully.
“That was so her, wasn’t it? The girl you told me about.”
“Yes, that was so her.”
“Oh my God! This is way weird! It’s, like, fate. Dub! She didn’t hate your guts.”
“Not now, no.”
“She’s chill. I like her.”
William just smiled.
“She likes you, too.”
“No.” He shook his head.
“She does! I can so tell. Don’t you think she liked him, Miguel?”
“Don’t ask me. You know I’m pretty bad with the women,” answered their driver.
“Well, she’s into you.”
“G, I think I can safely say that Elizabeth is most definitely not into me.”
“Hello! I’m a girl, and we girls can read other girls. We’re like dolphins, you know? We have a
sixth sense.”
William laughed and playfully rolled his eyes at his sister. He sat back in the seat, gazing out of
the window as hotels and condos slipped by. The night was breezy and heavy with humidity,
making the palm fronds dance. They would take the causeway and be at home in ten minutes.
The thought made William smile in the darkness. And tomorrow, by some bizarre, but
providential stroke of chance, Elizabeth would be there with him. William suddenly grew
nervous. He remembered, with stunning clarity, everything spoken between them last and
everything spoken between them just now, doubting that he hadn’t dreamed the satisfied look of
surprise on her face and the shy smile on her lips. Maybe it hadn’t been that at all. Maybe she
had been embarrassed, wanting to escape, still angry and reticent. The smile slipped from his
face. He had imagined so much before, William wondered if he weren’t doing it again.
“Don’t worry, Dub,” came Georgiana’s voice from the silent darkness. “She’ll totally love you.
She has to.”
“I haven’t told you half of the things I said to her.”
“Like what?”
“Ugh, G, I really don’t want to repeat them,” William said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Just
things that…weren’t like me. Or at least weren’t like the person I want to be.”
Georgiana was silent for a long moment. Turning back around in the passenger’s seat, she stared
straight ahead of her. William wondered when she would respond and finally, when nearly a
minute had passed, gave up hoping for an answer. Just then, she did reply, in a low and solemn
voice.
“We all do dumb things, Dub. That’s what second chances are for.”
William paused and stared at his sister’s profile outlined by the streetlights. She stared straight
ahead, not allowing William a full view of her face, but he knew from the melancholy in her
voice exactly what she was feeling. Georgiana was thinking of love, or the absence of it.
“Second chances, huh?” William repeated.
Georgiana turned around once more in the passenger seat. Both siblings gazed at each other with
looks of fond understanding. Then, Georgiana grinned and William laughed, shaking his head in
silence, and turned his face to look at the rush of cars on the other side of the causeway.
William arrived at the theater early. He had left the house with Georgiana still lolling in bed,
with a warning that Charles and Caroline’s flight would arrive in an hour, and they were coming
straight to the house. Georgiana had grumbled something incomprehensibly, but William had
picked up the words “Caroline” and “mega-bitch.” He left laughing, but found the closer he got
to South Beach, the harder it was to keep that smile.
His heart beat slow and uneven in his chest, and he had butterflies. He wasn’t sure which made
him more uneasy – how Elizabeth would behave with him, or how Caroline would behave with
Elizabeth. He suspected that it was more the former than the latter.
Even though he arrived early, he arrived to an empty theater. William stood at the back of the
house, staring up to a brightly-lit, but dancer-less stage. He heard voices in the wings and walked
down the aisle. Just then, Madeleine Gardiner appeared on stage with a clipboard in hand, talking
to a short, balding man whom William recognized as the theater’s stage manager. She spotted the
unfamiliar figure in the darkness, squinted out into the house, and then smiled broadly.
“Well, well, Mr. Darcy,” she said, “and to what do I owe this pleasure? You’ve finally started
showing up to rehearsals in your old age.”
William chuckled. “It was only one time, Maddy. I had a stomach bug.”
“You had a hangover,” Maddy laughed and walked towards the edge of the orchestra pit.
“And you’ll never let me forget it.”
“No. Where would be the fun in that?”
“I was hoping I could still catch a bit of blocking rehearsal.”
“Oh, we ended twenty minutes ago.”
Nodding, William glanced at the floor nervously. “So, how’s tour?”
“Good. We’ve been received well everywhere we’ve been.”
“And no injuries or other catastrophes?”
“No injuries, but you know there’s always some catastrophe or another.”
William nodded and struggled for something else to say. Luckily, Maddy spared him.
“So you’re probably here for some other reason than to chit-chat with me.”
“I’m meeting someone,” he replied.
Maddy arched an eyebrow, but simply nodded once. “They should all still be backstage. You’re
welcome to go search for whomever you’re looking for.”
William thanked her and took the stairs on the left side of the stage. He crossed through the
lights and into the darkness of the wings, reemerging into the fluorescent daylight of the
backstage halls. Trekking down the hall, he nodded politely to a few corps dancers who passed
him. They returned the salutation with confused looks. His stomach lurched. If he were going to
find Elizabeth, he would have to ask one of them. William wondered if all of the corps de ballet
thought he was a supreme asshole, in the same way Elizabeth did. The thought made him
reluctant to ask.
Suddenly, a door down the hall opened and Anne Boroughs emerged into the hall. She jerked to
a halt upon seeing William and stared.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hello to you, too,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Anne blinked in response.
“I came down to see Georgiana. We’re coming to the Sunday matinee.”
Nodding, Anne replied, “Oh.”
They stared at each other for a few more seconds.
“I need you to do me a favor,” William said.
“Okay.”
“I need you to find Elizabeth and tell her I’m here.”
Anne raised her eyebrows. “Why?”
Clearing his throat, William looked away in discomfiture. “She’s, uh, coming over.”
“To your house?”
“Yes.”
Anne looked at him strangely. “Why?”
“We’re having a barbeque.”
Anne’s face twisted in disbelief. “You?”
“Yes,” William replied, “Would you like to come?”
It was Anne’s turn to blush and stammer. “Uh, well. I…I can’t. Sorry.”
“Plans?”
Anne reddened. “Mariah came down before we head out of the country.”
“Oh, well bring her, too. Charles and Caroline will be there. So will G.”
Anne made a face. “Caroline?”
“Just come,” William ordered. “And tell Elizabeth I’m here.”
“You tell her. She’s probably in the rehearsal studio.” Anne pointed down the hall.
William nodded perfunctorily. “Come over when you’re ready. Bring Mariah.”
Anne just shrugged and disappeared into her dressing room. Turning, William approached the
rehearsal studio at the far end of the long hallway, slowing as he neared the door. His heart did a
funny plunge into his stomach. As Anne said, Elizabeth was there. She was lying on a mat, legs
up in the air, in what William recognized as a Pilates position. He watched for a long while as
she slowly moved her body, regulating her breaths in time to a series of smooth leg movements.
She had nice form. William allowed himself time to smooth out the uneven roll of his heartbeat.
Elizabeth stood, kicked the mat aside, and stared at her body for a long time in the mirror.
Turning sideways, she gazed at her profile, running her hands over her stomach and ribcage and
taking a series of deep breaths. Watching her breathe, he relaxed, leaning his forehead against the
door, and drinking in the languid movements of her body. She would be furious if she caught
him, but he couldn’t help it. He had missed her too much.
With her body still in profile, Elizabeth posed in fifth position. She adjusted her legs so that her
knees were aligned over her toes. They were not as turned out, but William watched in approval
as she kept them there, sacrificing unnatural beauty for correct posture. She unfurled her leg and
did a piqué into an arabesque. Her leg, while low, was properly aligned. Elizabeth tried to
balance but wobbled. Trying again, she stayed up for even less time.
William saw her sigh in frustration and try a third time. By now, an urge gnawed at him. She had
the alignment, but didn’t know what to do with it. Elizabeth was trying to adjust to a different
style of holding her body, and it was throwing off her balance. He watched her do it wrong, two
impulses pawing at him. He wanted to show her the right way, and he wanted to spare himself
the sting of her cold eyes. In the end, though, William Darcy was a choreographer, and he could
not stand idly by while a dancer did something wrong. He rapped softly on the door and then
opened it.
Elizabeth’s head snapped to the noise, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Hi,” William said. His voice echoed through the massive rehearsal room.
“Hi,” replied Elizabeth.
“I was spying on you. I hope you don’t mind.”
She reddened and looked away. Suddenly, William regretted coming in. He had not thought this
through. With no plan of escape, he had no choice but to run full on into the harsh chill of her
disapproval.
“Your alignment looks good,” he began nervously. “You’ve been doing Pilates.”
“Yeah, a little. Anne’s helping me.”
“Anne? Boroughs?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Yes, Anne Boroughs.” Her eyes settled on him. They shone. “We’re
roommates.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize.”
Shrugging, Elizabeth made no other reply besides a mysterious half-smile.
“I was watching your arabesque.”
Elizabeth sighed and threw her hands up in frustration. “I can’t stay up. I don’t know what I’m
doing wrong.”
“Can I offer you a suggestion?”
Elizabeth stared up to him for a few moments, a wondrous look on her face, before nodding.
“Piqué arabesque,” he said, holding a hand out to her.
Elizabeth used every fiber of control in her body not to jerk her hand away from his as they
touched. The feel of him after so long overpowered her, sending tingles through her limbs.
Slowly, she dared to raise her eyes to his, but found they were not focused on her face, but rather
her hips.
“Now, I’m going to pull on your arm. Pull away from me with your leg. Feel like you’re being
stretched on a rack in both directions.”
Trying to concentrate on balancing, Elizabeth found the task difficult when he lowered his voice
to a sultry murmur. William moved his fingers to let go of her hand. When he did, she teetered
backwards from all of the force in her extended leg.
William frowned. “Don’t pull away that much.”
They tried again, with similar results. Sighing, William looked off to the side for a more
appropriate explanation. Elizabeth felt her face grow warm, embarrassed that, as a professional
ballerina, she couldn’t stay up on her toes in the simplest of steps.
“Alright, let me explain it this way,” began William again. “When you piqué, you were thinking
‘forward.’ That’s wrong. Then, I told you to pull back, and you were only thinking ‘forward’ and
‘back.’ That’s half-wrong. You need to be thinking ‘up’ and ‘out.’”
“Up and out?”
“Up onto the tip of your pointe shoe, and reaching out in every direction.” William
demonstrated, still wearing his street shoes. “Like you’re stepping onto the head of a pin. Then,
your head reaches up, your arms forward, your leg back, and your supporting leg down into the
floor like the roots of a tree. Your center holds it all together. That’s why it’s so crucial to have
strong abs.”
Elizabeth stared at him with a sensation close to awe. He spoke to her while in a perfect balance,
his head turned back, as if it were the most natural position in the world. He made it look
effortless. Coming off the ball of his foot, he faced her again and held out his hand.
“Try again,” his voice was commanding. Two months ago, Elizabeth would have bristled at that
tone. Now, she realized it was an expression of his intensity, and she felt her pulse stall and then
throb.
She stepped into him, grasping his hand, feelings its solidness underneath her fingers. Little by
little, she felt the pressure under her fingertips wane.
“That’s good,” he intoned. “I’m going to let you go.”
Concentrating fiercely on his chin, Elizabeth nodded slightly. His hand slipped away from her.
And she stayed. Her entire body balanced on an area the size of a tablespoon. Yet, she felt like
she could stay there forever. Seconds passed, Elizabeth stretched further into her arabesque, and,
as it dawned on her that she’d finally gotten it, she raised her eyes to William’s face and caught
him in a satisfied, bright smile. Only then, she lost her balance, but recovered in a graceful chasé.
Lowering her arms, she posed pertly, raised her eyebrow, and returned William’s smile.
“Not bad,” he said, nodding in approval.
“I think I finally get it.”
“I hope you do.”
William still smiled, his gaze pulling at Elizabeth, and she had to look away.
“Oh, I’m…I’m sorry. We’ve left Georgiana waiting, haven’t we?” she said.
“It’s alright. She’s at home, entertaining Charles and Caroline. Hopefully,” he replied.
“Oh, okay. I’m going to grab my things downstairs.” Elizabeth gestured to the door.
Nodding, William told her that he would meet her outside of the backstage entrance. Elizabeth
rushed passed him, her cheeks on fire, and her heart thundering in her chest. In the basement of
the theater, she passed a mirror and caught a glimpse of her reflection. She was beaming.
Suppressing the stupid grin, she hurriedly gathered her things and changed from her leotard and
tights into street clothes. The entire time she thought of William. She had only been able to think
of William since he and his sister had dropped her off at the hotel yesterday. She had lain awake,
reviewing his every word and look, wondering at the change in him. He had smiled, not
patronizingly, but a smile that reached his teeth and eyes. He had been warm and interested in
her, not bitter or reticent. He had been the man Georgiana and Reynalda had raved over.
Elizabeth could hardly believe it was the same William Darcy who she knew from New York
City.
Now, he had come to pick her up himself. They had a driver, yet William had come. Strange
flutterings whispered that maybe it was for her, maybe he still cared. But rationality stepped in
with a loud and heavy thud, trampling any notion that could have suggested that. Elizabeth had
been cruel and stupid. Not attractive characteristics in anyone, and more than enough to squash
any special feelings William may have held towards her in the past.
Yet, if that were so, why was her stomach twisting so nervously? Why was her pulse racing?
Why did she undo her bun and apply a coat of pink lip-gloss before she left the dressing room?
Fortunately, Elizabeth reached the backstage door before she had time to contemplate the
answers.
Once outside in a blinding Miami afternoon, she glanced right and left for any sign of him. She
heard a car horn and looked straight ahead at the only car in the vicinity. The passenger window
lowered and William waved to her.
“Holy crap,” she whispered through a smile and strode towards a black BMW glinting in the sun.
By the time she reached the car, William had gotten out and was holding the passenger door
open for her. Elizabeth entered the car and, in the ten seconds that she was alone in the BMW,
commanded the blush to fade from her cheeks. When William slid in beside her, however, she
knew it was a lost cause, and covered by pretending to search for something in her bag.
“Do you have everything?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, pulling out her sunglasses in a moment of improvisational brilliance.
The drive down South Beach provided them with the opportunity to discuss the weather, the
buildings, and the people. While not verbose, William carried on his share of the conversation
with interest. Elizabeth cringed at the obvious nervousness in her voice. As they slipped onto the
causeway, the conversation trickled into silence. Elizabeth smoothed the legs of her jeans, and
looked out of the window at the turquoise ocean.
“I can understand why your sister would want to go to college here,” Elizabeth said in an attempt
to re-ignite their small talk.
“Why is that?”
“It’s beautiful! I’d go to the beach everyday if I lived here.”
William smiled. “Once you’ve lived here long enough, it just becomes your average semitropical sauna. Not much to do except the beach. And the clubs. But I’ve outgrown that.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “Does your sister go?”
“She used to. I think she was on a first name basis with all of the bouncers on the Beach. She
doesn’t go clubbing so much anymore.”
“Has she outgrown them, too?”
“No,” William said, his voice stiffening, “she stopped after she got married.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth slumped in the black leather, feeling unbearably foolish. Glancing out of the
corner of her eye at William, she saw his hard and unsmiling profile boring intently at the
highway ahead. Elizabeth let out a soft sigh and closed her eyes momentarily. Knowing their
talent for always saying the wrong thing to each other, she realized what an awful idea this had
been, coming to this barbeque.
They drove the rest of the way in silence. Elizabeth soon forgot her embarrassment as they
crossed over a bridge and through a guard gate. William smiled and waved at the guard, who
returned the greeting with equal cheer. The island was a haven of palm tree-lined driveways,
wrought-iron gates, and sprawling mansions beyond. Elizabeth’s jaw nearly hit her chest.
“Madonna used to live there,” William said as they zipped by an enormous mansion.
Elizabeth craned her head backwards to catch a glimpse of yet another gate fading in the
distance.
“And here we are,” William said, slowing the BMW and making a right turn into a tree-covered,
gateless entryway
Chapter Twenty-two
Elizabeth sucked in a long breath, as she stepped out of the car. Eyes round and wondrous, she
gazed at the grove of palm, cypress, and tamarind trees surrounding them, a silly smile melting
across her mouth. In front of her stood William Darcy's house, vine-covered and encased in
tropical foliage, birds-of-paradise, hibiscus, and bougainvillea blooming throughout. The house
itself stood amidst the greenery like an old, Spanish monastery. The roof was covered in
terracotta tiles. Limestone columns and arches fell back into a courtyard that was the front door.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, “it’s…just amazing.”
Closing the door of the car, William beamed, but said nothing. He gestured for her to follow,
which Elizabeth did, wordlessly and bug-eyed.
The interior of the house was everything Elizabeth expected. Understated and classic just like
William’s Manhattan apartment, the furnishings were neutrally colored – beige sofas, dark
woods, and white walls. But, something about this home jumped out at Elizabeth more than the
New York City penthouse. Splashes of color popped through in every room like a cheery hello –
a large, red lacquer bowl on the coffee table, a modern painting in yellows and oranges on the
wall, white, turquoise, and navy pillows on the sofa in the living room.
“Don’t tell me this house has also been in Architectural Digest,” she said, as William led her
through the terracotta-tiled kitchen.
“May, 1996,” he answered.
Elizabeth shook her head and caught her first glimpse of the backyard through the large window
in the kitchen.
“Holy crap! Ocean view! You’re on the freaking ocean!”
“It’s a bay, really.”
Still shaking her head, Elizabeth grinned. “Can we go in?”
“Sure, if you want. The pool’s a lot nicer, though.”
Just then, a blonde in a tiny, white bikini strutted into view. Both William and Elizabeth’s face
fell into scowls.
“Oh, Caroline and Charles are here,” Elizabeth commented, with plastic chipperness.
“Joy.”
“Well, I’m glad to see Charles, at least.”
“Elizabeth!” Georgiana bounded into the kitchen and threw her arms around her new friend.
“Thank God you’re here!” She cast her brother a knowing look.
“Have you had fun entertaining our guests?” William asked saccharinely.
Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Um, hells no. But now Elizabeth’s here, and I can escape. Come on,
let’s get you a bathing suit.”
Georgiana pulled at Elizabeth’s hand and they were out of the kitchen, across the sprawling
house, and into Georgiana’s bedroom in several seconds.
“I hope I didn’t offend you,” Georgiana said once they were in private, “but, I’m so not a fan of
Caroline.”
“No, I’m not either.”
“Ooh, good. So now we can spend the whole time laughing at her behind her back and being
really bitchy.” Georgiana turned from her and opened a drawer in her dresser, revealing rows of
bundled-up bathing suits. “I’ve already picked out a few that would make you look super hot.”
William’s sister held up several bikinis, really just glorified strips of cloth and strings. Elizabeth
balked.
“I can’t wear those!”
“Sure you can! We’re totally the same size. Your boobs are a bit bigger than mine, but that’s a
good thing.”
“No, Georgiana, I can’t wear those. Don’t you have a one-piece or something?”
“A one-piece?” Georgiana frowned, squinched her face, and concentrated hard. “I don’t really
own any one-pieces. There’s, like, one from ages ago.” She pulled out a baby-pink bathing suit
from the inner confines of the drawer.
“Perfect,” Elizabeth smiled.
“You can change in there.” Georgiana pointed to a connecting bathroom.
As Elizabeth slipped out of her clothes, she asked, “I have a question, and let me know if it’s too
personal.”
“Sure.”
“Why do you call your brother ‘Dub?’”
Georgiana giggled. “It’s kind of an inside joke. Because my name’s so freaking long, he always
used to call me ‘G,’ which was okay when I was nine, but then when I entered junior high school
I was on this ‘Georgiana’ kick. I wanted to be called ‘Georgiana.’ But, Dub refused. He said it’d
take him all day. But, I totally hated ‘G,’ so for revenge, I started calling him ‘W.’ But try saying
‘W.’”
“W.”
“It takes forever right? What’s the point of a nickname if it takes a million years to say? So, I
shortened it to ‘Dub.’”
Elizabeth laughed. “Ah, I see. But by that logic, didn't it make sense for him to call you 'G?'”
Georgiana considered the remark. “Oh. I'd never thought of that. Duh.”
Meanwhile, Elizabeth had slipped into the bathing suit and frowned at herself in the mirror.
While it wasn’t a skimpy bikini, it certainly could not be defined as modest. The bathing suit was
cut extremely high in the legs, and plunged low in the back. Still, it left most of her body
covered. Shrugging, Elizabeth stepped from the bathroom and struck a pose.
“Well?”
“Ooh, nice! I should give you that. I never wear it and it looks way better on you than me.”
“Do you have a sarong or something?”
“Yeah. Ooh! And it totally matches that color.”
Complete with her floral sarong and matching bathing suit, Elizabeth was led by Georgiana back
through the terra-cottaed halls of the Darcy’s home. They stepped onto a porch and Elizabeth
exhaled in delight.
“Wow.”
To all sides of her, sprawled a tropical garden very much like the one in the front driveway.
Immediately in front of her was a pool lined with limestone, and in the far distance stretched the
turquoise waters of the bay. In between the pool and the bay lounged Caroline Bingley on a deck
chair, tanning. Her eyes were closed and covered by large, Chanel sunglasses.
“Liz!” she heard from behind her. Turning around, she saw Charles walking towards her, a broad
grin on his face.
“Hey!” Elizabeth replied. The sight of him made her face break out in a similar smile. They
hugged and made small talk about the weather, Miami, tour, and Jane. But William was at the
brink of her thoughts. He was nowhere to be seen, and his absence furthered Elizabeth’s
apprehension. More than wanting to see him, she wanted him to see her, and to look at her in that
way of his. This time, she wouldn’t misunderstand what it meant.
In the middle of Elizabeth’s chat with Charles, Georgiana had also disappeared, leaving
Elizabeth alone with the Bingley siblings. By this time, Caroline was aware of her presence. She
sat up in her chair, glaring at Elizabeth. The conversation with Charles died, and Elizabeth was
forced to turn around.
“Hey, Caroline,” she said icily.
“Hello, Elizabeth. How are you?” Caroline returned with frigid politeness.
“Fine. You?”
“Good.”
“How did the world premier go?” Elizabeth asked in her most saccharinely diabolical voice.
Caroline's expression soured, but before she replied, the sound of a male voice cut her off.
William appeared, now in swimming trunks and a white polo shirt, with a bag of charcoal in his
hands. Georgiana trailed behind him holding a heaping platter of steaks, salmon, and vegetable
skewers. The Darcys weren’t hamburgers and hotdog kind of people, Elizabeth supposed.
His eyes caught Elizabeth’s, as he stepped onto the porch, and his lips curved up in an
acknowledging smile. They stayed on her as long as possible, before the look could be
considered ogling. Georgiana said something to him – Elizabeth was too far away to hear what –
and he nodded, glancing back at Elizabeth briefly. She stared, entranced, not caring if Caroline
was scowling at her. A satisfied heat warmed her face; she had gotten her look.
With just the five of them, the barbeque began as an awkward affair. William spent most of the
time at the grill, getting the charcoals started. Georgiana ran back and forth from the patio to the
kitchen in her attempt to be a good assistant. Caroline lay mutely on the chaise lounge, focusing
on her tan and ignoring Elizabeth. That left Charles. Elizabeth and he had never been great
friends; he was her sister’s boyfriend, that was all. Dipping her feet in the water, Elizabeth sat on
the edge of the pool chit-chatting with him about Jane – one of the only things they shared in
common – but she found her concentration was far from her sister.
In fact, it was in a nearer place. Across the patio, where William Darcy stood peering into the
grill, with a pair or tongs in his hand. She was staring blatantly, that she knew, but it was
hopeless not to. Elizabeth had to figure him out. It was impossible to believe she was with the
same person from two months ago. His demeanor was gentle and generous. He was happy to see
her, had invited her to him home. There had been the trip-up in the car, but he seemed to have
forgotten that. She wasn’t sure what it all meant. She wasn’t sure if it were an act for his sister’s
benefit. She wasn’t sure why she desperately didn’t want it to be an act, and why she was
conscious of her every move, just in case his eyes fell on her again.
“I have no clue why he’s doing this,” Charles said suddenly.
Nabbed staring, Elizabeth snapped her gaze away from William to an uninteresting part of the
garden. “What’s that?”
“This. This barbeque. He hates social functions. Both going to them and throwing them. We’d
barely gotten in the front door before he told us to get changed and get in the pool.”
Elizabeth smiled slyly. “You didn’t know about this?”
“No,” Charles snorted, “William doesn’t throw parties. I’m shocked that he’d bother with a
welcome party for Caroline and me. There’s never been so much ceremony for the other times
we’ve come to visit.”
“Hm.” Elizabeth bit her lip, trying not to grin. Apparently, Georgiana hadn’t been the only one
taken off guard. She wondered if the spontaneous and supposedly uncharacteristic barbeque had
anything to do with her, and glowed in contentment at the thought. As if sensing her thoughts,
William slowly turned his head and stared queerly back at the two people sitting at the edge of
the pool, gazing at him.
“What?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing,” joked Charles, “just revealing all of your dirty secrets to Liz.”
A slow smile diffused over William’s face. “Secrets? I don’t have any dirty secrets. You know
how I detest deception.”
Charles turned to Elizabeth. “William is a man of principles.”
“A man of principles,” she repeated, her eyes locking with his. “There’s nothing wrong with
that.”
He wasn’t sure what that flash in her eyes meant. William didn’t know if she were teasing him,
chastising him, or issuing him a silent white flag. There was light and heaviness in her eyes.
William cracked a neutral smile and then turned back to the coals.
A few minutes later, Reynalda and Pepe showed up, bearing a huge aluminum tray of rice and
beans and just as large a platter of pastries. Pepe joined William at the grill, and as they chatted
in Spanish, William felt her eyes on him, watching him. He was trying with every gesture and
look to show her the side of him he hadn’t been assed to show her before. William was nervous,
but he fought it. Whenever he caught Caroline gazing at him like he were that evening’s meal, he
resisted the urge to retreat. He smiled. He played the charming host, asking everyone if they
needed drink refills. But always, William knew for whom he performed. The warm timbre of
Elizabeth’s voice trickled to his ears, and made his arms tingle. Having her here was so
succulently real, William felt he would become whatever man she wanted him to be, if it meant
that hearing her laugh would be an everyday occurrence and not just some fluke of chance.
“Why don’t you let me take over here?” offered Pepe in Spanish.
William looked to the older man, who had just glanced to the woman in the pink bathing suit, at
the other end of the patio. Smiling in appreciation, William handed over the barbeque tongs and
patted Pepe on the shoulder.
“Thanks,” William said. He strolled to where Elizabeth stood at the edge of the deck admiring a
bird-of-paradise flower.
“You have a breathtaking home,” Elizabeth commented when he approached her side, “Your
backyard makes me feel like I’m lost on some gorgeous, tropical island.”
“Would you like a tour of the gardens?” offered William.
“They’re that big that I would need a tour?”
“Well, no, not really. But they’re much more interesting that way.”
Elizabeth raised her palms in a gesture for William to lead the way. As they walked through the
grass, William began by pointing out the various flora, but he sensed Elizabeth didn’t want a
lecture on botany. He decided to lead her in silence, sneaking glances at the calm expression on
her face as her eyes skimmed over the garden.
Was she really here? He could scarcely fathom it. William gazed at her appreciatively, warmed
by the warmth on her face. For a fleeting moment, he didn’t care that she hated him, he felt so
full with her presence. He wanted to sit her down and tell her everything about him, show her
through all of the closets and drawers of his home, and just be with her, just listen to her voice,
and discover all of her hidden intricacies. William looked away. He had to. The sun, the heat, the
lapping of the ocean, Reynalda’s faint laughter, and Elizabeth standing there had become too
much for him.
“Do you come down here often?” Elizabeth asked, breaking the comfortable silence.
“No, not as often as I’d like. Especially not in the past few years.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. I wouldn’t be able to stay away.” Elizabeth grinned and gazed around the
garden. In the several months that he had loved her, William had sometimes pictured her here,
the only woman whom he had ever dared imagine in his house. As the grass crunched quietly
under their feet, William recalled all of the happy memories of summers spent here with his
parents. Splashing in the pool, taking boat rides in the bay, playing hide-and-go-seek with
Georgiana in the garden. William had never imagined himself married, with children, living that
life. But, now, with Elizabeth next to him, he sampled a taste of the contentment that life might
bring. It was the first time he felt that way, and it shocked him, but not unpleasantly.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s all,” William said.
“Thanks for the tour.”
Both made their way back to the deck in silence. They were greeted with an arch look from
Caroline, but nothing more.
When Elizabeth saw the addition to their party, she laughed in surprise.
“Anne, what are you doing here?” she asked. Anne smiled silently, but her “friend” Mariah burst
forth with a happy greeting for the “chick she’d heard so much about.”
Suddenly, with Elizabeth, Mariah, and Georgiana in the same five-yard range of each other, the
patio burst into a cacophony of laughter and voices. Caroline lazed on the chaise lounge, fiercely
ignoring the antics at the other side of the porch, Reynalda was busy in the kitchen, Pepe busy at
the grill, which left Charles, William, and Anne watching three very young, excited women
make their introductions. The party had begun.
Realizing there was no music, Georgiana dragged Elizabeth and Mariah off to help her pick out a
CD to play. Charles wandered over to the grill and stood by Pepe. Each were unable to speak the
other’s language, but somehow they communicated through the universal male language of
grilling meat. Reynalda zipped in and out of the kitchen, each time with a new dish in her hands,
moaning and muttering to herself in Spanish. William stood with Anne, in silence. He shrugged,
she mirrored the gesture, and then walked off to get a Coke.
William looked around himself, and smiled. This situation felt so foreign to him. He felt so
foreign to him. But except for Caroline, the people who meant the most to him were all here, and
he was happy.
Spying Anne sitting alone on a patio chair, William walked over to her. “How’s tour been?”
Anne sipped her Coke from the can. “Fine.”
William hoped for an elaboration, but she offered none. “So…everything’s been going well?”
“Yes, fine.”
“So…no one’s gotten injured or anything? Everyone’s all right?”
“Elizabeth is all right, if that’s what you mean,” Anne said dryly before taking another sip.
Caribbean jazz began playing from speakers at the corners of the patio. The French doors opened
and the trio of girls slipped outside, giggling and chatting away as if they had all been best
friends for years. Mariah had her arm slipped around Elizabeth’s neck, grinning as Elizabeth
talked about the nearly losing her lunch on Splash Mountain. Both Anne and William had their
eyes riveted on the two women.
“Hey, nobody’s gotten in the pool yet!” cried Georgiana in mock-indignation.
Suddenly, from the middle of their conversation, Mariah smiled wickedly and gave William’s
younger sister a swift push. Georgiana lost her balance and with a thunderous screech and splash,
became the first in their party to test out the waters. Everyone around the poolside burst into
laughter, except for Caroline who scowled at getting wet. Georgiana reemerged sputtering and
laughing as well.
“I was totally asking for that, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, you totally were,” Mariah answered, “and now Elizabeth and I are going to join you.”
“Gah!” Elizabeth cried, as Mariah flung both of them into the water.
The splash they created sent Caroline bolting up in the deck chair. When all three women
emerged from the water, screeching with laughter and surprise, Caroline glared at them with a
look of death, which then melted like plastic into a wide, stiff smile. William’s eyes were on her,
cold and disapproving. She certainly wanted to make a good impression, but she was trying to
tan.
William watched his sister, and let out a sigh of relief. It was the Georgiana he remembered
before Greg Wickham had slithered back into their lives. The silly, blithe girl who smiled. He
had seen too many glimpses of himself in her over the past year, too many moments of dark
introspection, of shyness, of melancholy.
“...and Jane comes running back, bawling because she swallowed about a gallon of seawater!”
Elizabeth exclaimed, finishing the story she had just told. Georgiana and Mariah cracked up, and
William smiled, too, although he had heard nothing of the tale.
“I’d love to meet your sister! What’s she like?” Georgiana asked.
“I can probably only tell you the bad stuff, like how she borrows my clothes and returns them
with ketchup stains. If you want a better of opinion of her, you should ask Charles. He’s her
biggest fan.”
Georgiana beamed and looked across the patio at a blissfully clueless Charles, flipping over
salmon steaks. Turning back, they resumed their happy chatter.
“Georgiana and Elizabeth have really hit it off,” observed Anne.
William only nodded.
“You must be happy,” Anne continued.
William turned to her, his eyes full of contentment. “I am.”
Anne made no immediate reply. The two merely stared at the group of girls in the pool, now
playing a game of Marco Polo.
“There’s one thing I’ve discovered,” Anne suddenly said.
“What’s that?”
“Everything in your life that you thought was important - money, status, your pride. You realize
how easily you can throw them away, when you have the right person to convince you.”
William chuckled. “You’ve become one of the great philosophers of our time.”
“Well, better than you, at least.”
“That’s a given.”
Soon afterwards, the meat finished cooking, and all gathered around the table at the patio to heap
food on their plates. William saw it as his golden chance to once again speak to Elizabeth alone.
Unfortunately, his sister also saw it as her golden chance, as well. Grabbing Elizabeth’s elbow,
Georgiana led her off to a secluded section of the patio where they seemed engrossed in
conversation. Resigned, William asked Reynalda about her grandson, and listened bemusedly as
she declared with certainty that he was the cutest baby ever born.
Several minutes later, an excited cry came from the other side of the patio. “You’re kidding!”
Everyone looked to where Georgiana and Elizabeth sat. “Hey Dub, guess what?”
William smiled and shrugged. “I give up,” he answered from across the poolside.
“No, come on, guess.”
“Okay, you’ve decided to give up shopping and move to Tibet.”
Georgiana giggled. “Oh, get real.”
He glanced at Elizabeth, looking down at her lap in resigned embarrassment.
“Okay, I’ll tell you,” Georgiana continued, with playfulness in her eyes. “Elizabeth and I are the
same age.”
“I knew that, G.”
“Oh. Okay, but did you know that Sunday’s her birthday?”
William met Elizabeth’s eyes. “No. I didn’t know that.”
“Oh my God, are you going to be alone on your birthday?” asked Georgiana.
“I guess not,” Elizabeth answered. “I’ll be with friends in the company, I suppose.”
“Oh. Are you going out?”
Elizabeth shrugged, her eyes darting from one Darcy sibling to the other. “I…I don’t know.
Nothing’s been decided yet.”
“Elizabeth, it’s your birthday?” Anne piped in suddenly.
She shrugged in a noncommittal answer.
“Oh my God, we have to do something!” exclaimed Georgiana.
“Well, we have a performance on Sunday and leave for Mexico on Monday morning, so I
thought I’d just lay low.”
“But you’re going to be twenty-four!”
Laughing, Elizabeth replied, “There’s not that much of a difference between twenty-three and
twenty-four.”
Georgiana looked shocked. She turned to her brother. “Dub! We totally can’t let Elizabeth spend
her birthday alone. Can’t we take her out?”
William felt his face grow warm. “We could. If she wants, that is. And has no other plans.”
Pushing back a strand of wet hair, she stared up at him with a look of hesitance and surprise.
“You shouldn’t spend your birthday alone,” he added.
Elizabeth still looked hesitant, but answered finally, “Really? Is that okay?”
“Whoo hoo!” cheered Georgiana. “Dub, we should totally take her to Estrella. I love that place!”
“She hasn’t even said ‘yes’ yet, G.”
“Is it really okay?” Elizabeth asked Georgiana this time.
“Hell-o! Yes! We can pick you up after we watch Sunday’s performance.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “You’re coming?”
“Duh, that’s why Dub came down. To take me.” Georgiana grinned triumphantly.
Elizabeth turned to William. “God, I’m sorry to be intruding like this. You really don’t have…”
“Elizabeth,” he interrupted, “we’ll meet you outside after the show.”
She nodded mutely and then offered her thanks.
The rest of the afternoon floated by lazily. Between entertaining Charles, Georgiana, and
Reynalda, William barely had time to talk to Elizabeth. She seemed fine on her own, chatting
with Anne and Mariah. But, every so often, he caught her eyes fixed on him. Once or twice, she
even smiled. Elizabeth had plenty of conversation partners, and she seemed delighted when
Reynalda swept her up and began teaching her the intricacies of salsa and merengue dancing.
When William was pulled in to partner her, she didn’t seem to mind, instead focusing intently on
her footwork with a large grin across her face.
William knew it probably wasn’t because of him, but seeing Elizabeth happy made him happy.
He felt euphoric.
After the sun had set, Elizabeth approached him shyly. “William, I want to thank you…for
today. I, um, think I’d better go. We have another early start tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure. Let me get my keys.” He didn’t want her to go, but he nearly ran to his car. It would
be the first moment of privacy that they had together since their tour of the gardens. He wanted
to gage Elizabeth’s reaction. She was silent as they walked out of the house together, and timid
until he turned out onto the main road. Finally, she spoke, thanking him again for inviting her.
“That’s okay,” he answered, “I’m glad you came.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I feel like maybe Georgiana roped you into taking me out on Sunday. It’s
completely fine if you don’t want to, though. I don’t expect you to at all. You should spend time
with your sister.”
“Georgiana didn’t rope me into anything,” he replied. The issue still hung heavily in the space
between them. He glimpsed over to her and smiled. “If you’d like to go, we’d like to take you.”
Elizabeth’s face relaxed. She gazed out to the mansions rushing by, and then answered. “In that
case, thank you.”
William felt his heart stir in hope.
“Your sister’s funny. I like her a lot,” commented Elizabeth.
Laughing, William’s focus remained on the road. “She is funny, and I’m glad you like her. She
liked you, too. I haven’t seen her that animated in a long time. I owe you my gratitude for that.”
“Gratitude? I didn’t do anything.” She smiled.
“Maybe it didn’t seem that way, but G was happy. She’s a great girl, but she doesn’t have many
friends.”
“Somehow, I can’t believe that,” Elizabeth said. “She could make friends with a rock.”
“Well, it’s complicated.” He paused to look over his shoulder and change into the other lane.
“She has a brilliant mind. She’s the kind of person who can hear a song once, and play the whole
thing on the piano. And she’s great with numbers, but it’s always given her problems. She
doesn’t fit in with the math geniuses, and she doesn’t belong with the club-hopping socialites
either. I’ve always joked that she’s a strange concoction of Albert Einstein and Donatella
Versace.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Can she really do that? Play a song on the piano that she’s only heard once?”
“She can. She doesn’t play any more, though. She outgrew that phase. Now, she just makes
mixed CDs and sends them to me all the time.”
“Mixed CDs?”
William reached over Elizabeth and opened up the glove box. Removing a leather CD holder, he
placed it on her lap. “Have a look.”
Elizabeth giggled as she went through his collection. “Female Singers Born in 1972…Choruses
Without the Word I or The…Rockers with Two First Names...The Condiment Colletion. What
does this mean?”
“Um, let me try to remember what's on that one. The Spice Girls, Salt n' Pepa, Red Hot Chili
Peppers, Simon and Garfunkel.”
“Simon and Garfunkel?”
“Parsely, sage, rosemary, and thyme.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That's hysterical! I think making CDs like this takes more talent than playing
the piano.”
“G’s something of a music snob.”
“Ooh, here’s a great and relatively normal one. The Eagles Greatest Hits.”
“She gave me that for Christmas a few years ago. Do you listen to The Eagles?” William asked
incredulously.
“No, my dad does.”
“Thanks.” William clutched his heart in mock-pain.
“Oh, will you shut up! That’s not what I meant.”
“I know when I’ve been called old.”
“You’re not old,” Elizabeth countered with a smile, “just...finely aged.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Yes, it’s no longer PC to call people over thirty ‘old farts.’”
“Ah. I must have missed that one. I’m probably going senile.”
“Probably.” Then, Elizabeth laughed, throaty and warm. She glanced over to William with a
molten smile. For a second, he took his eyes off of the road and returned the look. In that
moment, something in the air between them retreated like a clearing fog. They talked about
music for the remainder of the ride to Elizabeth’s hotel, in the most animated and amiable
conversation they had ever shared.
They arrived at the Lambton Inn. Before getting out of the car, Elizabeth turned and smiled
silently at him. Something flickered in her eyes, which made William’s stomach clench.
“Well, thank you,” she said finally.
William simply nodded. “We’ll see you after Sunday’s performance.”
“Okay.” Elizabeth slipped from the confines of the BMW, closed the door gently, and skipped up
the driveway. William watched her retreating figure with a mixture of satisfaction and loneliness.
After pushing open the front door, however, Elizabeth craned her neck around, paused, and then
lifted her hand in a small wave. Only when she disappeared into the hotel, did William sigh
gently and head for home.
William heard Caroline's high-pitched laughter all the way from the foyer when he stepped
through the door. He rolled his eyes reflexively and sighed, donning the mental armor he would
need to deal with a night of Caroline Bingley. As he neared the living room, her voice grew
clearer.
"And really, that bathing suit! Blech. It was so five years ago!" Then, she laughed again, making
William wince.
He stepped into the room to find his sister sitting on the couch, arms folded defensively across
her chest, glaring up at Caroline, and Charles suspiciously burying his nose in an old copy of
National Geographic.
"That was my bathing suit, Caroline. From five years ago," Georgiana responded frigidly.
Caroline flinched, but then recovered with a laugh. "Oh, of course it was, darling. It was a
beautiful suit and would look great on you. But, I think she needs a bit of a diet before she can
pull that one off."
Georgiana flashed William a look that told everything. His face went dark as he stood in the
doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, in a stance mirroring his sister's. Noticing
William, Caroling turned around and flashed a malicious smile.
"What do you think, William? Being on the road hasn't done good things for poor Elizabeth, has
it?"
William glared at her. "I didn’t notice any remarkable difference."
"Well, you'll be the only choreographer who'll cast her. She'll bust out of her tutu if she gets any
wider!" Caroline screeched with laughter. No one joined her. William saw Charles hide his nose
further into the pages of the magazine.
"Fortunately, you're not the one doing any casting," William retorted. The ice in his voice was
unmistakable. Caroline smirked at him, and raised an eyebrow in defiance.
"Hm, it didn't seem like that before," she hissed.
William’s nostrils flared and the retort was on his tongue. But, before it could pass from his lips,
he glanced over at Charles, whose face was so red that he looked sunburned. Sighing in
frustration, William swallowed down his bile, and gave her a black look as he stalked past her
and disappeared down a hallway. Georgiana leaped from the sofa and followed on his heels.
After the Darcy siblings had departed, only the Bingleys remained. Charles closed the National
Geographic and glared at Caroline.
"What?" she asked defensively.
"That's enough." Charles’ voice quivered with anger.
Caroline started. She hadn't heard that tone in Charles' voice since they had fought as teenagers.
He roughly tossed the magazine down next to him and stared at her with such fury, that she was
left speechless.
"That was the epitome of rudeness, Caroline! Will invites us here, and you...you go and act
like...that! I'm not dealing with that kind of behavior anymore!"
"Oh, please, Charles. Don't talk to me as if I were a child."
"You are a child!" Charles stood abruptly from the sofa. He paced for several seconds, his face
twisted in turmoil, and then stopped. Unable to face his sister, he said in a small voice, "I know
what you were doing to Elizabeth."
"What are you on? I was just tanning."
"No, not today. Before. Before she went on tour." Charles turned to face his sister, whose face
was contorted in a look of repressed shock.
“What?”
“I knew something was going on. I just didn't know what. It didn't take long for some 'friends' of
yours to confess once they'd been asked.” Charles' voice took on a hint of bitterness, a tone his
sister had never heard.
“What?” Caroline whispered.
“The next time it happens, you're fired. And you're not dancing in the fall season.”
“What!?”
“And Lucas agrees.”
"What! Lucas knows?" Caroline asked, her voice cracking.
"I told him."
"Charles!" Caroline’s eyes bugged out in fear.
"And you can go back to New York tomorrow."
"Charles!" she whined, stamping her foot.
Charles merely raised his hands for her to stop. He gave her a last look, mixed with anger,
sadness, and betrayal. Caroline’s chin trembled. But, Charles only turned away and strode down
the same hall where William and Georgiana had disappeared. Caroline stamped her foot again
and whined a string of curses, but there was no one left to witness her histrionics.
The next day dawned sunny and warm, a perfect day for a flight back to New York.
Chapter Twenty-three
Elizabeth frowned at her reflection. There wasn't much she could do to herself when she still had
eyelash glue stuck to her eyelids and hairspray flakes dusted about in her hairline.
“Can you see the eyelash glue?” she asked Elina, a corps member she had become close with on
tour.
“Yeah, but don't worry. It only looks like eye crud.”
“Oh, wonderful.” Elizabeth rubbed at the corner of her eye.
“What's up with you?”
"I'm going out for a night on the town."
"Ooh."
"It's my birthday."
"What! Lizzy, why didn't you say anything?"
"It's not in my gentle and demure nature to brag about those kinds of things."
"Gentle and demure, my ass! Who are you going with, and why wasn't I invited?"
"Just some friends and because you smell."
Elina stuck her tongue out.
"Hey, wanna give me a birthday present?" asked Elizabeth, as she applied the final dab of lip
gloss to her lips.
“Gentle and demure people don't ask for birthday presents," teased Elina.
"Take my stuff back to the hotel?" Elizabeth gestured to her heavy dance bag.
"Fine, but only because it's your birthday."
"Thanks, Lina."
"’Welcome, Lizzy."
"Well," Elizabeth said, whirling around for her friend, "what do you think?"
Elina whistled. "Nice. He's going to love it."
Arching an eyebrow, Elizabeth replied, "Who said anything about a 'he?'"
"Girls don't dress up like that for other girls."
Shrugging, Elizabeth grabbed her purse. "Wish me luck."
"Girls also don't need luck when they're just going out for a casual birthday dinner."
Winking, she bid everyone good-bye and skipped out of the dressing room. As Elizabeth passed
a mirror backstage, she stopped and smiled, checking that she didn't have lipstick on her teeth.
Then she rolled her eyes at herself and laughed down a burst of butterflies.
That performance had been a nerve-wracking one. Elizabeth knew the steps perfectly, her
costume fit like a glove, and her ankle felt good, but she knew that somewhere beyond the lights
sat William and Georgiana, and that thought had her hands clammy and her stomach in knots for
the entire day. Elizabeth was honest with herself; she wasn't nervous about seeing Georgiana
again. It was her brother that caused the flutterings. Elizabeth wasn't sure what they meant, but
decided that any normal woman would be edgy if she were going out to dinner with William
Darcy. At least Georgiana would be there. She could carry most of the conversation when things
got awkward.
Elizabeth took the last flight of stairs slowly, breathed deeply twice, and then pushed open the
backstage door. Several fans lingered about with programs and pens in their hands, waiting for
their favorite dancers to appear and offer them an autograph. The fans paid Elizabeth no mind.
She didn't see him at first. It had rained that afternoon, and the light drizzle meant that when she
finally did spy him, he was behind a huge golf umbrella. He was alone.
"Hi," she said, approaching him tentatively.
William turned, his face lighting up in a broad smile. "Hey. Great performance." In his hands
rested a bunch of white lilies, which he handed over without ceremony. "From Georgiana and
me."
Elizabeth inhaled their scent. "Thank you. You really didn't have to."
He smiled. She caught William's eyes scan the length of her body, and her face went hot. "Is
Georgiana waiting in the car?"
William shook his head. "She's had a terrible migraine for the entire day. She left during
intermission. She said to tell you - I hope I get this right - 'I'm totally sorry for being the biggest
jerk in the world, and happy, happy, happy birthday.'"
Elizabeth laughed. "You can tell her I forgive her."
Realizing his lack of manners, William thrust the umbrella over Elizabeth's head.
“Oh, thanks,” she said, looking up. Then, to cover for the obvious embarrassment passing across
her face, she joked, “Not that it matters much. My hair’s looked like a big frizz-ball ever since
we got here. The humidity.”
William studied her head. “It looks the same to me.”
“Oh, well…”
Elizabeth looked everywhere but his face. She couldn’t. Georgiana wouldn’t be there! She had
never hated someone for being ill more than she did now. As they walked in silence to the
parking lot, Elizabeth had flashbacks of their rendezvous at the Italian restaurant and winced.
They reached the black BMW again, and when Elizabeth was alone inside, she closed her eyes,
inhaled deeply, and prepared herself for an encore of the awkward and horrible evening. Happy
birthday indeed!
When the driver-side door opened, Elizabeth snapped her eyes open and smiled saccharinely.
William smiled back, but only momentarily, before slipping the keys in the ignition and turning
on the engine.
Once they had cleared the parking lot, William spoke. “My sister made reservations for us at a
restaurant called Estrella. It’s not far. About a ten-minute drive.”
“All right. What kind of food?”
“They call it ‘Caribbean fusion.’ It’s a terrific restaurant,” William said. Then, he added, “I hope
that’s okay.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s fine.”
For the remainder of the car ride, they chatted about the humidity in Miami, the unseasonably
cool weather in New York, the dryness in Texas, and finally when it seemed like the topic of
weather had run dry, William turned into a small alley and turned off the engine.
“Well, this is it.”
Estrella was a tiny restaurant, snuggled in between an office complex and a parking garage. Its
only sign was a stylized star by the door. They entered and William was greeted by name by a
tall, beautiful hostess. He smiled and asked the hostess, Josefina, how she had been lately. They
chit-chatted as she showed William and Elizabeth to their table in a corner that looked out onto
the bay. Glancing around the restaurant, Elizabeth admired the combination of navy interior, dim
lighting, dark furniture, and a single yellow orchid on each tabletop. The restaurant was
completely full, but intimate enough not to be noisy.
The hostess set menus in their hands. Remembering their last dinner together, Elizabeth braced
herself before opening the leather cover. In William Darcy-style, the food was expensive.
“Georgiana wants to treat you to dinner,” William said, glancing up from the drink menu.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t let her…”
“It’s your birthday. Nobody pays for their own birthday dinner.”
Elizabeth smiled in resignation. “In that case, tell her thank you.”
Scanning the menu, Elizabeth began to salivate at all of the choices listed before her. The menu
was extensive, and everything looked good. Looking up, she asked, “So what's good here?
Recommend something.”
William raised his eyes, and Elizabeth had a difficult time keeping her gaze. She realized it was
the first time that evening that she had looked directly into his eyes, as dangerous as the sun. Still
in a dress shirt and tie, sitting across from her in a dark restaurant and wearing a look of intensity
that Elizabeth knew all too intimately, William held a power over her similar to magnets and
paperclips. Heart thudding, she averted her gaze back to the menu.
“It all looks so good,” she added weakly.
“I like the salmon,” offered William. “The lamb is good, too, though.”
“Maybe lamb, then.”
Closing her menu, Elizabeth looked out of the window to the dark ocean. She felt his eyes on her
and grew warm. Thankfully, a waitress came to take their drink orders.
“Chardonnay,” Elizabeth said, needing the dose of alcohol to calm her nerves.
“And for you, Mr. Darcy?”
“Just iced tea, thanks.”
Once the waitress left, Elizabeth sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“Well, you’re been designated tonight's driver on my account.”
William smiled softly and leaned back in his chair. “That’s all right. I never drink.”
“You don’t drink?” What New Yorker didn’t drink?
He shook his head. “I haven’t for a couple of years.”
“Oh. Why?” She regretted the question the moment it slipped out. Talking about another
person’s preference for alcohol was never a comfortable subject; it either led to religious doctrine
or tales of AA.
“Well,” William said, fortunately, with the smile still on his face, “I don’t know, really. I used to.
Quite a bit at the bars and clubs. But when my father died several years back, I decided to put
those years behind me. I haven’t drunk alcohol since.”
“I…see,” said Elizabeth, frowning in confusion. “You just lost the taste for it, or…?”
Sighing, William glanced out to the night. Elizabeth saw him gathering his words and wanted to
kick herself for prying into the man’s personal life. Asking about his drinking habits, digging up
old memories of his father…could she say anything more inappropriate?
“No, I didn’t like myself when I drank. I did stupid things. I felt foolish and unhappy. I don't
think I was addicted, but I was close to it. At the time, I just felt like I had nothing under control.
I was thirty years old, already retired, and my father had just passed away...After that, I decided
to get myself back under control. It just didn't feel right anymore, being Mr. Manhattan Party
Boy. It felt like a pathetic attempt to regain my youth.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips, but it was not enough to shield the laughter from her eyes. “You were
thirty. You were still young. You are still young.”
William stared at Elizabeth with a half-smile, but his eyes weren’t convinced.
“Hey, that’s the whole point of being drunk. You do stupid things!” Elizabeth said, trying to
lighten the mood, “You know, throwing up on your friend’s computer, running around in twentydegree weather in your underwear, sleeping with someone who makes your stomach churn.”
Finally, the laughter melted into William’s eyes. “And you’ve done them all, I assume.”
Only then did Elizabeth realize her folly. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean…what I meant was…” She
stared down to her lap, unable to finish the sentence, thinking of the thousand ways she hated
herself.
At that moment, the waitress re-appeared with Elizabeth’s wine and William’s tea. He ordered
the salmon, and she the lamb, but she never lifted her eyes from the menu. Just as the waitress
finished scratching their order into a pad, William spoke.
“Actually, can you cancel the iced tea?”
“No problem, Mr. Darcy. Is something the matter with it?”
“Nothing, no. I've just changed my mind. I’d like a glass of what she’s having,” William said,
nodding to Elizabeth. She stared up at him with wide eyes.
“Very good. I’ll get that right for you.”
The waitress disappeared.
“Is that okay?” William asked. “One glass shouldn’t do much to my driving.”
“Sure,” Elizabeth blurted, “Are you okay? I don’t want to force you into anything.”
William intertwined his fingers and rested his chin on top of them. He said nothing, but simply
stared at her with a look Elizabeth recalled from their last date. The wine came soon after.
Raising the stem between his fingers, William said, “A toast.”
Elizabeth fumbled for her glass and raised it as well, smiling embarrassedly. She locked eyes
with William, whose expression morphed to one Elizabeth didn’t quite understand.
“To stupidity.”
Elizabeth snorted, her mouth bursting into a grin. “Here, here.”
They clinked glasses, and brought the rims to their lips at the same time. It was difficult to say
who looked away first, but when they did, it was not in awkwardness.
“Can I ask you another personal question?” Elizabeth asked, leaning forward in her chair.
“Go ahead.”
“All right. When did your father pass away?”
“Four years ago, this November.”
“It must have been difficult to lose your father so young.”
“Well, he was seventy-eight. He lived a long life.”
“Seventy-eight? Wow.”
“There were fifteen years between my mother and him,” William explained. “I was born when
he was in his forties.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Were the two of you close? I’m sorry. I hope this isn’t getting too personal.”
“Ask, and I’ll tell,” William replied, taking another sip of wine. “God, this is good. What have I
been doing these past few years?”
Laughing, Elizabeth simply shrugged.
“Yes, we were close. We had a great relationship. He was the best of men.”
“Really?” Elizabeth asked, smiling.
“He would have to be. What father in his right mind would let his only son forsake the family
business to prance around all day in tights?”
“So, he didn’t disapprove, then?”
“Not at all. I’m sure he would have rather I went to business school and learned about mutual
funds and IRAs. He did want me to run his company eventually, but once I had made the
decision to dance, he supported me one-hundred percent. He and my mother bought box seat
tickets to every BTNY performance for all of the years I danced.”
“What kind of business was it?”
“Pemberley Securities,” William said, flashing a sly smile. Elizabeth’s face dropped in surprise.
“You’re kidding. That’s your ‘family business?’”
“Sure. It’s going to Georgiana once she gets a few more years of experience.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Only a person like you would refer to Pemberley Securities as a
‘family business.’ That’s like calling GM a ‘little, old workshop.’”
William chuckled. “A person like me, huh? And just what kind of person is a person like me?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes in response, but said nothing. She was enjoying this - this smart, edgy
flirting, the back-and-forth rhythm of it like tennis. Once the food came, William turned the
questioning back on Elizabeth.
“And so what about you? Are you close with your parents?”
“With my dad, yes.” Elizabeth popped a piece of French bread into her mouth. “I guess you
could say I’m ‘Daddy’s little girl.’”
“And so let me guess. You have a terrible relationship with your mother.”
“Hey, you’ve met her. You’ve seen what she can be like firsthand.”
“No comment.”
“How diplomatic of you.”
William took a silent sip of wine then replaced his glass with a smile. “Your parents are
divorced?”
“You’re very insightful this evening.”
“Well, I remember your mother mentioned her ‘ex-husband.’”
“Yes,” Elizabeth nodded, “thankfully, they’re divorced.”
William titled his head. “Thankfully?”
Sighing, Elizabeth looked down at the tablecloth and then back up at William. “Do you really
want to hear my tale of woe?”
“You listened to mine.”
William watched as she gazed out to the bay. She pushed her hair back behind her ears and
propped her chin up in one hand. He wondered at how easily conversation flowed now, when
before, things had been so icy between them.
“Well, I guess it’s a pretty typical story. My parents fought all of the time. And then when I went
to college, they got a divorce. I just wish they had done it sooner. It would have made Jane and
my life much easier.”
“Living with two fighting parents must have been rough.”
“Yes, it was. It kind of turns you off of the whole marriage thing. But, Jane and I had each other.
We only had each other.”
“Which would explain why you’re so close.”
“Yeah,” Elizabeth smiled, “Jane is great. If your sister is a cross between Einstein and Donatella
Versace, then mine is a cross between Shirley Temple and Buddha.”
“That's unexpected.” William chuckled.
“But it's true. She's the only person I know who can pull off innocent and sage at the same time. I
always joke that she's the only normal one in the family. Everyday I look at myself in the mirror
and wish I could be more like her.”
William frowned. “Why?”
“You're a guy. Have you seen Jane? She's beautiful!” joked Elizabeth. William smiled and
shrugged noncommittally. “But – God, this is so corny - she's beautiful on the inside, too. I wish
I could be as positive as she is. And as nice. I’m also a little jealous of her dancing, but don’t tell
her that. Jane doesn’t understand the meaning of jealousy.”
Although Elizabeth attempted to make a joke of the comment, William could not smile. He
stared at her with his forehead creased, wondering how Elizabeth could think as she did. The
longer he stared at her, the fainter her smile grew.
“I’ve always found that comparing myself to others has been an exercise in futility. I’ve learned
to stop doing it.”
The smile on Elizabeth’s face faded completely, and a part of her expression went cold. “I
suppose that’s easy when you’re William Darcy.” The bitterness in her voice William recognized
all too well.
His face grew intense. “How do you think I became William Darcy?”
She returned the look, just as serious and rigid. It was the sudden change in her eyes that gave
William pause. No, he didn’t want to go back down that path. He cleared his throat, breathed,
and began again.
“I was lucky. I entered BTNY during the worst period in the company’s history. Lucas had just
come from the UK to be the artistic director. The company’s finances were shit. It had no
creative direction. They were desperate. Would you like to know why I was hired immediately as
a principal dancer? Frankly speaking, I was great PR. Young, rich, handsome, right family – yes,
it sounds arrogant, but that’s what they needed. There were better dancers. I shouldn’t have been
a principal. My first year, everyone hated me and I had few friends, except for Charles.”
Elizabeth shook her head, her expression softening once again. “That sounds awful.”
“Well, it only lasted a year.”
“How did you turn things around?”
William folded his arms over his chest. “I became the best.”
Elizabeth laughed at what she thought was a joke. But, William’s face did not change. He stared
at her until understanding dawned in her eyes.
“You make it sound so simple,” she said.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice droll, “it is simple. You have the raw talent. That’s more than
most can say.”
She took several more bites of her food in silence. William watched her. He could almost see her
brain turning over his words, like a child studying a discovered seashell. They ate quietly for
several more minutes. Every so often, William raised his eyes to Elizabeth to gage her reaction.
Was she angry? No, she didn’t seem that way. She was still thinking, so he let her be. When he
looked up at her again, he caught Elizabeth studying him, her eyes darting across his face.
William did not look away, and neither did Elizabeth. They sat staring at each other for a long
moment – a comfortable stare, one without reproach or desire – a look that simply was.
This time, William looked away first. There was something about staring straight at Elizabeth’s
face – the purposeful set of her lips, the shine of her eyes - that did things to him. Simply talking
to her, even without the promise of love or sex, made William content. The small feeling of hope
building in him since Thursday had strengthened. In the silence, William allowed himself the
indulgence of imagining he and Elizabeth sitting like this in a New York café, discussing
whatever topic appeared on the front page of that day’s paper. Why had he ever had reservations
about her? Too young? He talked to her more easily than most women his age. In the corps? He
didn’t see how that mattered anymore, and she wouldn't be there forever. And the biggest
obstacle, her being in his piece, William had inadvertently solved by sending her on tour.
Then, reality kicked him swiftly in the shins. The biggest obstacle was none of those things.
Rather, it was the fact that she didn’t share his feelings. William wondered if she still loathed
him, desperately hoped she didn’t, and took a long sip of wine to send down the rising lump in
his throat.
“I forgot to ask. How’s next season’s program shaping up?” Elizabeth suddenly asked.
“Good, it seems,” William answered with forced cheeriness. “You know they've decided to
restage Serenade. Charles is really excited about it.”
“Yeah, I heard. I can imagine he’s psyched. He’s the Balanchine boy, after all.”
They talked of dance thereafter. William revealed the dirty secrets of BTNY’s most famous and
infamous dancers, and Elizabeth listened raptly. She told him about the ballets she and Jane used
to put on as children, the most popular one being the Paula Abdul Revue. As the night wore on,
patrons around them came and left. Elizabeth ordered another glass of wine. William declined
the refill so he would be clear-headed for the drive home. They ordered coffee and sorbet. Only
when Elizabeth stifled a small yawn did William check his watch.
“It’s almost eleven. You probably want to get back.”
“Oh, yeah. We have to be at the airport tomorrow at nine. Yuck.”
William smiled. “I remember those days. Hated them at the time, but if I could just go on one
more tour…”
Elizabeth smiled back. “I’ll pick you up a sombrero.”
“Just what I’ve always wanted.”
After dinner had been paid for and they had returned to William’s car, Elizabeth turned to him
and grinned. “Is it okay if we listen to one of Georgiana’s CDs?”
“Sure. You know where they are.”
Without further instruction, Elizabeth pulled open the glove box and flipped through the leather
CD case. Her train of thought snagged on a strange notion – how normal this felt. Months ago,
she detested William Darcy and everything he stood for. Now, she was in his car, thumbing
through his CD collection. Elizabeth had met his sister, been inside of his house. They had
shared a pleasant meal together. He had not been patronizing or haughty. She had inadvertently
insulted him several times, and he merely brushed it off with a smile. And he was letting her
touch his radio, something which the ex-boyfriend she had dated for a year in college had never
done. No, it had been more than a pleasant evening. It had almost been perfect.
“Found one yet?” William asked, when her search had grown longer than a minute.
“Oh,” Elizabeth stammered, looking down at the CD that was open, “this one.”
It was Georgiana’s “rockers with two first names” compilation. She slipped it in the CD player
and let the music fill the car, as she sat in meditation. Next to her sat a William Darcy altogether
altered from the one she had known three months ago. Elizabeth figured there could only be
three reasons to explain the difference: One, it was a ruse to keep up appearances with his sister,
which would not explain this evening when Georgiana hadn’t been there. Two, something about
New York City turned William into the beast he had been. Or three, he had actually changed.
Had he changed? And, why? Elizabeth shook her head at the first answer that popped into her
mind. No, it was not for her. Then…because of her? No, it was foolish to think that, too.
Nevertheless, the farfetched notion made her oddly happy. It was unthinkable, but, Elizabeth
rationalized, not impossible. After all, David had brought down Goliath. So perhaps it was likely
that Elizabeth Bennet had, with a well-aimed cast of the stone, knocked William Darcy back
down to the land of mortals.
“I love this song,” he said unexpectedly. The song had changed from a cheery George Michael
pop tune, to a mellow riff of piano.
“Billy Joel.”
“This song always makes me realize how much I love New York City.”
The comment knocked one more possibility off of Elizabeth’s list.
“Yeah, this is a great song.”
“To me, this song is everything right about New York. Georgiana prefers Miami, but I find the
city more appealing. It's more textured, more interesting. It can be anything you want it to be.”
Elizabeth smiled at this other, more verbose side to William. “I feel the same way.”
“Do you? Do you have a 'New York State of Mind,' then?” William laughed at himself, but
waited for Elizabeth's response.
Elizabeth considered the question. “That feeling, when you're about to cross the street and there
are a dozen people standing on your side, and a dozen on the other. That moment, when you
meet in the middle of the pavement. That energy. That's New York to me.”
Staring straight ahead, William only smiled and nodded.
“What about you? Do you have a 'New York State of Mind?'”
“Hmm. I don't know.”
“Oh, come on! I told you mine,” laughed Elizabeth.
William remained silent for a few moments. Looking at his face, Elizabeth could have sworn she
saw an embarrassed flush on his cheeks.
“I don't know. New York is home. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes I love it. It depends on the
day. On my mood.”
“So, then I'm assuming you hate it more than not.”
“I'm going to ignore that comment.”
Laughing, Elizabeth sat back in the soft leather. She let Billy Joel get through the chorus before
she replied. “You should choreograph something to this.”
William made a face. “Ah, I don’t know.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Elizabeth teased, arching an eyebrow. “The great William Darcy doesn’t do pop
music.”
“Not really, no.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “You know, Tchaikovsky used to be en vogue. He was like the Billy
Joel of the 19th century.”
“I’ve never heard him described like that.”
“He was a pretty successful composer, something of a superstar. All of the stuff that we think of
as true art now...at one point or another, it was just pop culture. Pop music is relevant, you know.
Just like classical music was back then.”
William said nothing. He stared straight ahead at the highway, with an unmoving, unreadable
look on his face. Elizabeth stared for a few moments longer, to see if she could understand that
expression. She couldn't. Turning her face away, Elizabeth shut her eyes and inwardly chastised
herself. She had done it again. Why did she always say the wrong thing? Why, after all she had
suffered through, had she still not learned how to think before she spoke? Afraid to say anything
more, she spent the rest of the car ride in silence. William seemed to want it that way, as well,
since he made no effort to speak, either.
When they finally did pull into the driveway of the hotel, William opened his door and stepped
out of the car. Wanting to escape and feeling that she didn't deserve his chivalry, Elizabeth also
opened the door and stepped out into the rain before he could reach her side. But, William
already had his umbrella open over her head.
“Thanks,” Elizabeth whispered, unable to make eye contact. She made one more desperate effort
to lighten the atmosphere between them. “Not that it will really help save my hair from the
frizzies. But thanks anyway.”
Thankfully, William smiled. He stared at her for a small moment, his expression gentle and
unexpectedly yielding.
“Happy birthday.”
Elizabeth shrugged away her awkwardness. “Thanks. Tell Georgiana thank you.”
He kept staring at her, and Elizabeth expected him to speak, but words never came. Rather,
William reached his out his free hand and slowly, hesitantly raked his fingers through her hair.
Elizabeth sucked in her breath slowly, gazing up at him. She said nothing as he fingered the ends
of her hair, merely feeling the pulse of her heartbeat in her throat.
“Actually, it's only a little frizzy. But it looks fine.” His voice, low and sensual, made Elizabeth’s
stomach flip. She was paralyzed by him again, just as she had been at the Netherfield Gala. He
was gorgeous, able to freeze and melt her insides at the same time with a mere look. Elizabeth
shivered at the way William looked at her, the focus in his eyes, as if she were the only thing he
saw. Then, he retracted his hand.
“Well,” he said, “uh…good luck in South America.”
His voice stung harder than any slap. Elizabeth’s insides recoiled.
“I’ll see you back in New York,” he added, slipping his hand in his pocket.
Elizabeth could only nod in response.
“Goodbye, Elizabeth.”
“G-goodbye.”
He began walking around his car. She craned her neck to look at him, and waved half-heartedly.
After William had driven off, Elizabeth followed his taillights until they disappeared around the
corner. She sauntered back into the hotel, knowing she would get little sleep that night for her
journey to Mexico in the morning.
William slipped in through the garage door, hung his keys up, and then went looking for
Georgiana. He heard the faint strains of Miles Davis coming from the den and figured he would
find her there.
She was reclined on the couch, flipping through Vogue, and drinking from a plastic bottle of Diet
Coke.
“Knock, knock,” he said.
Georgiana looked up and grinned. “Hey, I didn’t hear you.”
Eyeing her posture, he raised a suspicious eyebrow. “How’s the headache?”
“Oh, much, much better. I think I just needed some time to chill out. It’s been a busy few days.
How was your date with Elizabeth?”
Striding slowly towards the couch, William folded his arms over his chest. “Yes, see, that’s the
problem. It wasn’t supposed to be a date.”
Georgiana widened her eyes innocently. “Huh?”
“Don’t try that trick with me. It won't work.”
“Aw, come on, Dub. You know you didn’t want me there anyway.”
“Well, no.”
Georgiana tsked. “Oh, thanks!”
William sat down on the section of sofa not occupied by his sister’s legs.
“Well, how was it?” asked Georgiana. “Was she into the restaurant?”
“I don't know. I didn’t ask.”
“Duh! You don’t have to ask. You should be able to tell.”
“From what I could tell, I think she liked it.”
“Ooh, good! And, so, how was it? What did you guys talk about? What did she wear? Did she
like the flowers?”
“Too many questions,” laughed William, holding his hands up for Georgiana to stop.
She frowned at her brother’s reticence and stared at him with a pout for a long minute. “You’re
not going to give me anything?”
“No. I’ll tell you that we had a nice time. We talked about, well, a lot. I can’t really remember
everything now. She wore a skirt. She liked the flowers. She says thank you.”
Georgiana sat back, contented. She smiled. “I really like her, Dub.”
“Good. So do I.”
“So…are you going to ask her out when you get back to New York?”
William sighed. “G, I’ve told you, the whole thing is complicated.”
Georgiana looked down to hide her disappointment.
“What?” asked William.
“No, nothing.”
“G.”
“It’s just that…you seem…really unhappy up there. And...I feel like it's my fault somehow.”
“How are my moods your fault?”
“I-I know you wouldn't be like this is it weren't for me being the dumbest girl on the face of the
planet,” Georgiana said, picking at her socks. “I'm afraid that my mistake has made you, I don't
know, jaded.”
“I was jaded before the marriage, G.”
She looked up at him with an expression crossed between anger and sadness. “But I don't want
you to be like that! And you weren't like that when Elizabeth was here. It was like the old you.”
“Hmm, that wasn't the old me.”
“Okay, fine. Then a new you. Whatever. She’s cool, Dub. And you seemed really happy with
each other, and…”
“No,” William interrupted, “I think that was only one-sided.”
“What do you mean? She was into you. She couldn’t take her eyes off of you for, like, the entire
party.”
William shook his head, but felt his heart trip at his sister’s observation. “You’re imagining
things.” But, he recalled the way she had smiled at him that night across the table, her eyes
luminescent, and felt that maybe there was a sliver of a possibility that Georgiana could be right.
William, however, refused to entertain foolery anymore and quickly dismissed the thought.
Georgiana huffed. “I will bet you…,” she picked up her magazine and thrust it in his face, “this
Prada shoulder bag that if you asked her out again, she would accept.”
“Don’t you have enough Prada all ready?”
“Dub! A girl can never have too much Prada!”
Laughing, William stood and ruffled his sister’s hair. “Goodnight, Georgiana Inez.”
“Goodnight, William Fitzpatrick.”
He walked from the den and into the master bedroom. After he crawled into bed, William looked
to the empty space at his left and, for the first time in weeks, allowed himself the luxury of
imagining it occupied by a twenty-three, no, twenty-four-year-old corps girl who was absolutely
perfect.
Lyrics to the song if anyone's interested:
New York State of Mind by Billy Joel
Some folks like to get away
Take a holiday from the neighborhood
Hop a flight to Miami Beach
Or to Hollywood
But I'm taking a Greyhound
On the Hudson River Line
I'm in a New York state of mind
I've seen all the movie stars
In their fancy cars and their limousines
Been high in the Rockies under the evergreens
But I know what I'm needing
And I don't want to waste more time
I'm in a New York state of mind
It was so easy living day by day
Out of touch with the rhythm and blues
But now I need a little give and take
The New York Times, The Daily News
It comes down to reality
And it's fine with me 'cause I've let it slide
Don't care if it's Chinatown or on Riverside
I don't have any reasons
I've left them all behind
I'm in a New York state of mind
It was so easy living day by day
Out of touch with the rhythm and blues
But now I need a little give and take
The New York Times, The Daily News
It comes down to reality
And it's fine with me 'cause I've let it slide
Don't care if it's Chinatown or on Riverside
I don't have any reasons
I've left them all behind
I'm in a New York state of mind
I'm just taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River Line
'Cause I'm in a New York state of mind
Chapter Twenty-four
Mexico, Ecuador, Argentina, and Chile were surprisingly bland. At least, that was the impression
Elizabeth had as she sat in the Burger King at Miami International, one flight away from being
back in New York City, back with Jane, and back in the same area code as William Darcy.
“Delta Flight 39 for New York LaGuardia will be boarding in ten minutes,” a bored stewardess
announced over the PA.
Elizabeth smiled, felt the butterflies flutter once again, and sucked the last of her Diet Pepsi from
the straw, before making her way to the gate. Who would have thought an airport could have
made her so happy?
She had spent three weeks thinking only of Miami. Of guava pastries and of Reynalda Cafetería.
Of a palatial home, oval pool, and a turquoise bay. Of a dark, candlelit restaurant, of white wine,
of lamb in a tangy mango sauce. Of a BMW and Billy Joel. And of the person who brought them
altogether for her—William.
It was odd. She had hated him so vehemently, and now, no matter how hard she tried, no matter
how many insults she remembered, cold looks, arrogant lifts of an eyebrow, even in spite of what
he had done to Jane and herself, Elizabeth simply could not summon up the same feelings about
the man that she once could upon the mere mention of his name. Even odder, on several
occasions, Elizabeth found herself smiling unconsciously as she remembered their conversations
in Miami. She took a lazy pleasure in knowing that she had spent her twenty-fourth birthday
sitting across a candlelit table from William Darcy.
Throughout Mexico City and Quito, she had rewound through every moment and had come to
the hesitant conclusion that, despite her immaturity, her thoughtless abuse of him, and her
narrow-mindedness, there was still a shard of a chance that William may have still liked her. In
Buenos Aires, she began wondering what she would do about it. By Sao Paolo, Elizabeth thought
it might not be such a bad idea to go out on a few dates. It was as Charlotte said; two people
could date without being in love first. In Santiago, Elizabeth realized she wasn’t being totally
honest with herself; if she and William did end up going on a date, Elizabeth certainly would not
be going into it indifferently.
She began imagining where they would go. Nighttime cruises on the Staten Island Ferry,
intimate sushi bars (she assumed William went to places like that), dance performances, Central
Park. During long waits in between shows, Elizabeth let her imagination wander back to New
York City, where William was always with her. It was not love, she figured, but rather curiosity.
If William was not the man she had initially imagined him to be, then what kind of man was he?
He had told her he loved her. He had written that she had been his inspiration. It was
unbelievable, but perhaps Elizabeth had been more to him than just great sex. In Miami, William
had been different - careful, considerate, gentlemanly. Elizabeth desperately wanted to believe
that it was because of her. Despite his arrogant veneer, William was a man of solid principles,
loyalty, and honesty - everything that Elizabeth respected. In her ignorance she had told him
otherwise, but she was honored that a man like that would fall in love with her. She hoped that
she was a person still worthy of such esteem, but feared that perhaps in the same way that she
had become enlightened, William may have also experienced a similar, but opposite, change of
heart.
The plane touched down at LaGuardia smoothly, and Elizabeth experienced a moment of jubilant
terror. Only a weekend separated their reunion at work, but first Elizabeth had to meet her sister.
“Jane!” screamed Elizabeth, as she spied her sister across a crowded airport terminal.
“Lizzy!” Jane waved her arms frantically and pushed around a set of lost-looking tourists, before
she made contact with Elizabeth with a huge bear hug.
Amidst a wave of tears, giggles, and screeches, both Bennet sisters became reacquainted after a
three-month absence.
“Oh my gosh, I’ve missed you so much! Guess what? I painted the living room walls!”
“No way!”
“Yeah, Charles helped me. They’re blue!”
“Is that my shirt?”
“Yeah, I borrowed it. I’ve had two wardrobes for the past three months. It’s been great!”
Elizabeth laughed. After she picked up her luggage, she waved goodbye to the remaining corps
members and told them she would see them on Monday. Everyone else seemed to be in the same
state of elation – just happy to be home. With a rolling suitcase in one hand each, Jane and
Elizabeth made their way to the taxi stand and finally got into a yellow cab. Breathing in deeply,
Elizabeth sighed back into the pleather seat.
“God, I missed this place!”
“You have to tell me all about tour,” Jane encouraged her.
“Oh, forget tour for a bit. I just want to savor New York. Tell me what’s been going on the past
three months.”
Jane’s eyes glittered. “Well, not much. The spring season went okay. Did you see the reviews for
Mr. Darcy’s piece?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth rolled her eyes, “I did.”
Jane nodded. “We were all shocked. Caroline didn’t come to the studio after that for a week.”
Snorting, Elizabeth shook her head. “I wouldn’t have expected any less.”
“And…what else? Giselle reviews were good. Everything else was good.” Jane finished
speaking, but her eyes betrayed that she had more to say.
“And?”
Jane beamed. “Well, I wanted to wait to tell you this. You just got off the plane and all…”
“Charles asked you to marry him!”
Jane laughed. “No, it’s not that good.”
“Oh. Then tell me! I’m going to explode if you don’t tell me!”
“Are you sure? Don’t you want to tell me about tour first?”
“Jane! Tell me!”
“Okay,” Jane giggled, “you’re not going to believe who William Darcy’s chosen to dance the
lead in his next piece.”
Elizabeth’s heart tripped and a warm smile melted over the features of her face. She had visions
of herself tangled up in William’s arms, stealing kisses in Studio B, receiving thunderous
applause from the audience in Lincoln Center.
“Who?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly, her smile broadening.
Jane bit her bottom lip. “Me!” She raised her eyebrows and waited for her sister’s reaction.
Elizabeth’s smile wavered and she scanned Jane’s face for any sign of an uncharacteristically
well-aimed practical joke. As Elizabeth expected, there was none.
“You?”
“I know, can you believe it? But, it’s true. I just found out this week!”
“B-but, you’re in the corps!” Elizabeth stammered. Jane was too swept up in the excitement to
notice that her sister’s disbelief was not out of empathy.
Jane giggled. “They’re promoting me.”
“To principal!?”
“No, not yet. Just soloist. But still…a soloist performing the leading role in William Darcy’s
piece! Unbelievable, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth shook her head and stared at her lap, trying to reign in the shock she felt. “And…Sir
William Lucas? He’s okay with this?”
“I guess he’d have to be. It was announced on the boards and all.”
Forcing a smile, Elizabeth replied weakly, “That’s really great, Jane. I’m…that’s great.”
She turned her face away to look at the first of Manhattan’s skyscrapers coming into view, and to
hide her disappointment and envy from Jane. Jane dancing the lead in William’s next piece? It
wasn’t right. She didn’t have the passion in her dancing necessary for his choreography. She was
too languid and calm. She didn’t have the fire in her movements that William needed. Elizabeth
instantly pictured Jane with her arms entwined around William’s neck, and felt sick.
“Lizzy? Earth to Lizzy.”
“What?”
Jane laughed. “You must be seriously jet-lagged. You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said, have
you?”
“No, sorry.”
“It’s okay. We’ll talk after you’ve showered and rested. We’ll be home in five minutes.”
Nodding, Elizabeth immediately looked back out of the window, feeling the embers of jealousy
being fanned inside of her. Hadn’t William said that she had inspired him? That he couldn’t
choreograph without thinking of her? That’s what he’d said that day they fought in Studio B, in
his letter. And what about Miami? What had that been? He had invited her to his house, taken
her out for her birthday, ran his fingers through her hair, nearly kissed her! And despite it all, he
cast Jane in his piece. Jane, and not her!
At long last, Elizabeth was able to resurrect the anger she had once felt for William. When she
alighted from the taxi, she slammed the door as hard as she could, slapped the money into the
driver’s hands, and walked ahead of Jane, insisting she would be fine dragging her thirty-pound
suitcase up three flights of stairs. Elizabeth didn’t want her sister’s help. She didn’t want to speak
to her sister. She was livid.
To celebrate Elizabeth’s return, Jane had bought a bouquet of roses and a nice bottle of Merlot to
go with the lasagna she’d prepared. They ate in the living room, now painted a cheery
cornflower. Jane did most of the talking, and Elizabeth replied in grunts and weak smiles. After
she cleaned her plate, Elizabeth apologized, but she had a headache and only wanted to shower
and sleep. Jane nodded and smiled, telling her sister she would clean the dishes. Elizabeth was
about to disappear in her room, when Jane called her name.
“Lizzy, I’m glad you’re home. I really missed you.”
Elizabeth heard her sister’s voice quiver. “Yeah, Jane. I’m glad to be home, too. I missed you,
too.”
In her room, Elizabeth sighed and collapsed onto the bed, hating herself for lying to Jane, feeling
guilty for envying Jane, but nevertheless, being unable to control the bile that had been in her
mouth since her sister’s ecstatic announcement.
Judging from the laughter and screeching coming from Studio A, one would have never guessed
it was a Monday morning at Ballet Theater of New York. It was a morning of reunions – friends
and colleagues brought back together after a three-month hiatus. Finally, the company was whole
again.
Stepping into the studio, Elizabeth was pounced on by Lydia and nearly strangled by Charlotte.
She laughed, returning their hugs and smiles, answering their questions about tour, and asking
ones of her own. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth noticed Caroline Bingley
breeze by. The prima did not stop to acknowledge her. Nevertheless, Elizabeth felt a chill run
through her, remembering the last time she was in a studio with Caroline.
Throughout class, Elizabeth watched the diva out of the corner of her eye, searching for signs of
malice in Caroline’s expression. Caroline’s eyes were often on her, but to her surprise, when
Elizabeth stared for longer than a moment, it was the principal dancer who turned her gaze away
first. Elizabeth still detected a pinch of venom in her expression, but otherwise she appeared very
much like a satiated tiger – still dangerous, but bored. Elizabeth wondered if this change had
anything to do with William.
The sudden thought of him sent Elizabeth’s heart skipping and then falling flat on its face. She
was back to square one – unable to hate him. Elizabeth might see him today, the first time in a
professional setting after everything that had transpired since the Netherfield Gala, since Miami.
She knew she shouldn't expect a tender reunion, but she still hoped for one anyway. Elizabeth
balked at her feebleness.
Class ended promptly at 11:30. A line of sweaty dancers filed out of the studio, Elizabeth
sandwiched in between Jane and Lydia. As they regrouped to walk downstairs for lunch,
Elizabeth’s heart leapt to her throat when she saw William coming towards them, a CD and
notebook in one hand, a pen in the other. He smiled and nodded politely at a group of corps
dancers passing him, which Elizabeth noted with no little surprise and confusion. Since when did
William acknowledge corps girls? Then, Elizabeth saw recognition seep into his eyes as he
caught her gaze. Her face warmed.
William smiled, not broadly, but wider than he had at the last group. “Ladies,” he said, nodding
as they approached, keeping his gaze particularly on Elizabeth.
Lydia was too stunned to reply, Elizabeth, too shy, and thus, Jane was left to respond with a
bright, “Hi, Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth immediately regretted her cowardice, and lowered her eyes to
the tips of her pointe shoes.
He paused, longer than what would be considered normal for mere pleasantries, and Elizabeth
wagered a glance. Just as she looked up, she saw his eyes dart from her.
“Well, I’ll see you in rehearsal today, Ms. Bennet,” he said, nodding perfunctorily before
walking past the trio.
Elizabeth only then realized that her heart was pumping crazily. Without saying a word, she went
downstairs, ate her cheese sandwich and yogurt listlessly, and analyzed every intonation in
William’s voice. Her mood darkened. Jane would soon go to his rehearsal, and Elizabeth would
go to her own. She had not been cast in his piece this time. Few had; it was a cast of only ten.
Elizabeth felt a chill run through her. She felt as if she were missing out on something. She felt
rejected, plain, unneeded. Looking back on those rehearsals before, Elizabeth wondered why she
had ever hated them. Jane wasn’t trembling in fear now that she was being singled out by the
most promising ballet choreographer in the American dance world. She remembered what he had
told her at Estrella when she had asked, “How did you turn things around?”
“I became the best.”
At the time, she had thought the answer typical of him – arrogant in its simplicity and
assumption, but, really, it made perfect sense. Become the best. A dancer didn’t become the best
by slinking off into corners, resenting corrections, running from opportunity. Jane knew that
instinctively. Why didn’t Elizabeth?
She cursed herself as she trudged to rehearsal. Stupid, stupid modesty. Elizabeth barely learned
the choreography that day. She inputted the dance into her body’s short-term memory, quickly
forgetting it once she rested at the sides. All she could think was, where would William’s hands
be now? Would he have that same, drilling look in his eyes when he choreographed with Jane?
By the end of rehearsal, Elizabeth had bitten off the nails on her right hand and had begun to
work on the left. She dreaded the locker room chatter, the breathless play-by-play that Jane
would surely tell her in the subway on the way home.
Finally after rehearsal ended, Elizabeth raced out of the studio with her eyes turned away from
the slit of window on the door of Studio B where William Darcy's rehearsal was still taking
place.
Two weeks after Elizabeth had been back in New York City, she could not say she was much
happier than when she hadn’t been there. With each subsequent rehearsal, Jane’s infectious
excitement grew more nauseating. Elizabeth found it impossible to listen to tales of Mr. Darcy’s
rehearsal without rolling her eyes or snapping sarcastically at her sister. In her goodness, Jane
bore it remarkably well, attributing Elizabeth’s attitude to the stress of being plunged back into
the frenetic pace of the city. She did, however, note that Elizabeth and she spoke less, went out
after work less, and spent less time together, watching TV and doing the other sisterly things
they used to enjoy doing.
In the rare moments that Elizabeth saw William in the halls, he acted friendly towards her, but
revealed nothing of the gentleness that they had shared in Miami. More disconcerting, he now
behaved pleasantly with everyone. William would never be Charles. He would never grin and
joke and call dancers by their nicknames. But, he now at least acknowledged their presence in
the hallways, and even laughed in rehearsals, according to Jane. If he were nice with only
Elizabeth, she could have hope. Now that he was pleasant with everyone, she had none.
She had royally fucked up. One night, when Jane was once again out with Charles, Elizabeth lay
alone and dejected on her bed, sideways, staring down into Perfection by Hermes. She should
have at least given him a chance to tell his side that day in the studio. If only she had listened to
him rationally. If only she had said something like, “Yes, Mr. Darcy, I am upset, but I simply
need time to process the facts before I jump to any conclusions. Why don’t we discuss this
tomorrow over drinks? Let's say eight o’clock?”
She rarely spoke to him anymore. William didn’t come to the studio before noon, and Elizabeth,
not wanting to catch a glimpse of his rehearsals with Jane, bolted after she finished her own.
Elizabeth didn’t know if she was in love with him, but she missed his company. Even in their
most vitriolic moments, she and William had shared a repartee that had somehow been fun. She
liked his sense of humor, dry and understated. He was only out to impress those clever enough to
be impressed. He was unapologetically himself – honest and self-assured, but they were traits
that, Elizabeth had discovered, were more rare than diamonds.
William had changed. She sensed that. He had changed his behavior, maybe even his personality
– that part of a person's character set in stone. Of course, then, he could change his feelings. He
must have realized what a fool he was, to fall in love with such a fickle, silly girl. Such
despicable irony, to realize all of this now when, if Elizabeth had been a bit smarter, she would
have thought it all through sooner, before she had chased him away.
Now, William didn’t even want her in his piece. Elizabeth struggled, but in vain. Try as she
might, the only person she could hate was herself.
“Oh, no she didn’t! Girl, where have you been!” cried a fellow dancer, Latisha, when Elizabeth
walked in the door of New York Rhythm for a long overdue Saturday Afro-Caribbean class.
Elizabeth squeezed her friends in a warm hug and then explained that she had been on tour for
the past three months. She then settled in for the usual gossip-while-stretching session, that
morning's version concerning the sexual orientation of one of the drummers, who Latisha had
heard from a friend of a friend, hung out on Christopher Street far too often for a straight man.
When the prior tap class finished, the doors opened and the dancers crowding the lobby filed into
the studio. Elizabeth took her place, somewhere in the middle of the room, still chatting with
Latisha, when her eyes were sucked over to the door and who had just walked through it.
Greg’s eyes zeroed in on her immediately. He paused, and then grinned, giving Elizabeth a
mischievous wink. She snapped her head away, a surge of hatred ripping through her.
“Liz, you okay?” asked Latisha.
“Yeah. Yup. Fine.”
But, she wasn’t fine. Greg was weaving his way over stretching dancers, making for an empty
part of floor space right next to her. Elizabeth’s heart pounded. Finally, he reached her, kneeling
down.
“Hey, gorgeous. Long time, no see.”
She smiled bitterly. “Hi.”
“How have you been?”
“Fine. On tour.”
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” boomed a large, round man at the front, “let’s begin.”
Once class started, Elizabeth’s rage only grew. He was hot as hell, to be sure, in his sweatcovered Abercrombie T-shirt. The dance did nothing to help, either. There was something in the
rhythm of it, the wild pelvic movements, fluttering arms, and rolls of the shoulders that
murmured hot, wet sex. She saw Greg’s eyes on her in the mirror as she rotated and gyrated her
hips to the frenzied drums. And, yet, she felt nothing except for the drumbeats like a signal of
war. Remembering Georgiana, Elizabeth let anger fuel her movements. And for the first time in
nearly a month, her ankle responded, stuttering painfully through every step. Suddenly, it hurt to
bend her knees. In between sets, she stretched her calves out on the side, which did little to help.
Class ended. As Elizabeth toweled her face off, limping through the line to exit the studio, Greg
sidled up to her and whispered in her ear.
“Let's catch up. How about coffee?”
His tone made her bristle, and she glared up to him angrily. Christ, he was hot when he smiled
like that, and yet it went no further than that thought. He was hot, but he was a cretin. Elizabeth
nearly pushed him out of her way.
“I can't. I'm meeting someone for lunch.”
“No prob, Liz. It's still early. You can be anywhere in the city in ten minutes. Come on, let's
catch up,” he insisted, taking her arm and weaving it through his. Elizabeth flinched. She
certainly didn't want to go for coffee with him, but she had already made her excuses, which he
had ignored.
She replied weakly, “Fine.”
They walked out of the studio together. Knowing their inclination for fortuitous meetings,
Elizabeth prayed to whatever higher being was listening that she wouldn't run in to William.
“So, tell me about tour,” Greg asked, as they strode up the block.
“It was good.” Elizabeth kept her voice cool.
“Just good?”
“Tiring.”
“Where was your favorite place?”
“I liked San Francisco a lot.”
“San Francisco’s great. Great city.” He said nothing in particular to offend, but his voice dripped
with fakeness. Elizabeth glowered, thinking of his foil, William, who, no matter how harsh the
opinion, always expressed his honest viewpoint. How had she ever been mistaken about the two
men's true characters? Listening to Greg now, her past naivete glared through.
“Where else did you all go?
Suddenly, a diabolical urge struck her. “We went to Miami.”
Greg grinned. “Ah, now that’s what I’m talking about. Miami’s the greatest city on the planet.
Hot clubs, great beach, beautiful women. Second only to New York, of course.”
“Of course.” Elizabeth met his slimy kiss-up attempt with sarcasm. “You lived in Miami, didn’t
you?”
“I did. Wish I’d never left.”
They had reached the same Starbucks where they had gone on their first date. Greg held the door
open for Elizabeth, and she stepped through. Both ordered their coffees, then sat at a table by the
window.
“So,” Elizabeth said, stirring her drink, “why did you leave?”
“Leave?”
“Miami.”
“Oh, I was offered a prime job in L.A. Couldn’t turn it down.”
“Must have been hard leaving behind all of your family and friends.”
Something in Elizabeth’s tone, the hint of harshness perhaps, gave Greg pause. “Yes,” he replied
slowly, “I left people behind. But that’s life.”
Elizabeth suddenly felt like throwing her coffee all over his face. She hated herself for coming
with him and entertaining his grand notions of himself for this long. She felt like she owed the
Darcys better than this.
“Oh! I forgot to mention who I met in Miami.”
Greg raised his eyebrows. “Will Smith?”
“No, Will Darcy. And his sister.”
Elizabeth knew she hadn’t inflicted a revenge equivalent to everything Greg had done to
William. But, she thought smugly, William would be satisfied to know that she had played a
small part in exacting vengeance on the slimeball. Greg’s eyes widened, but then he caught
himself, stabilizing the palpable shock on his face to a staid, forced kind of indifference.
Elizabeth nearly laughed.
Greg choked out a snort. “That’s too bad. At least you had the chance to see what a horrible bitch
his sister is.”
“Georgiana was lovely. We really hit it off.”
“Oh? Perhaps she’s changed in the few years since I’ve seen her.” Greg said nothing for a long
moment. He sipped from his paper cup of coffee, his eyes darting over to the street. “Perhaps
being away from the influence of her control-freak brother has done things to improve her
attitude.”
“Hm,” said Elizabeth, “I didn’t get that impression. In fact, I think some people could benefit
from a tad of William Darcy’s influence.”
Chuckling lightly, Greg replied, “Has Darcy had a change of heart? That soul of stone has finally
cracked?”
“No, not a change of heart. He’s the same man he’s always been, but he improves, once you get
to know him.”
“I knew him my whole life, and he was always a dickhead.”
“Of course he was,” Elizabeth retorted dryly. Greg wore a cross smile on his face, a look of
someone desperately trying to conceal their irritation. Elizabeth didn’t even bother to hide hers.
They sat in silence for several long minutes, until finally Elizabeth tipped her cup up and took
the last sip of her drink.
“Well,” she said, setting the cup down on the table, “it was great catching up with you.”
“Yeah, you too,” Greg replied, the false cheeriness back in his voice.
Elizabeth stood. “I gotta go.”
“Pretty early lunch, no?”
She considered lying her way out of an awkward situation, but stopped herself. Looking straight
down into Greg’s face, Elizabeth shook her head. “I'm not going to lunch.”
“Then why the rush?”
Elizabeth licked her lips and then smiled. “I’ve wasted enough time here all ready.”
She dumped her cup in the garbage can before pushing open the café door and striding out onto
the sidewalk. Letting the humid summer breeze hit her face, Elizabeth glanced around at all of
the people rushing by her and smiled. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the rush of
adrenaline that came from shutting down a creep like Greg. Perhaps it was the long-missing
sense of having control over her actions. Elizabeth couldn’t pinpoint the reason, but somehow,
she simply felt like stretching her arms up and hissing a triumphant “Yes!”
A small resolution took shape in Elizabeth’s head as she limped down the steps of the subway.
This would not do. This clicking, this pain. On the subway, she sat, rolling her ankle, trying to
ease the knot that would not undo itself. A dancer didn’t become the best by lying to herself.
Elizabeth didn’t need Afro-Caribbean. She liked it. She didn’t like meeting Greg there. She
didn’t like the way her ankle always felt on Sunday mornings after a particularly rigorous class.
By the time Elizabeth reached her apartment, a resolution had hardened through her like plasterof-Paris.
She rummaged through a messy stack of papers and fliers on her dresser. Towards the bottom,
stained with a blotch of coffee, was a business card. Elizabeth stared at it, feeling a dose of
nostalgia and regret course through her. She paused a moment, asking herself whether she could
really afford to do this. Starbucks, Chinese take-out, and splurges in East Village vintage stores
would be history. Hopefully, it would be worth it.
Elizabeth picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello?” came the voice from the other line.
“Hello, is this Marge Phillips?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“Oh, um. Hello. I’m Elizabeth Bennet. I dance with Ballet Theater of New York. I called you a
long time ago, about Pilates lessons.”
“I see.”
“And I’d like to schedule an appointment with you, if that’s possible.”
“Sure thing. When are you free, Elizabeth?”
“Um…anytime really. Saturdays are good.”
“Fine. Can you come today?”
Elizabeth swallowed. Payday was next week, and her reserve was running low. “Today?”
“Yes. I have an opening at 3:30.”
“3:30? That sounds…fine.”
“Do you know how to get here?”
“I have your address.”
“Great, so I’ll see you then. It’s seventy-five dollars for professional dancers.”
Nodding, Elizabeth replied, “I know. I…I’m having ankle problems. I’ll pay whatever I can to
make them better.”
“Well, that’s a good attitude, Elizabeth. I look forward to working with you.”
“Thanks. So…I’ll see you soon.”
“Yes. Goodbye.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Elizabeth stepped into the studio and suppressed a hefty yawn. She had arrived earlier that
Monday morning with a purpose. Even ten minutes made a difference; the studio was almost
empty, with only three other early birds stretching in scattered locations by the barre.
Swallowing, Elizabeth walked to the side of the room, hiked one of the heavy metal barres up in
her hands and dragged it to the center of the room. She placed it down and then sunk to the floor
to begin stretching.
As the time neared nine, dancers began trickling in to the studio. Voices and the sound of ballet
slippers on the wood floor filled the room. A principal dancer came to stand behind Elizabeth,
offering the corps girl a simple nod and smile before beginning her own warm-up.
Elizabeth saw Charlotte and Lydia walk in. They paused when they saw Elizabeth at her front
and center space, and cast her a puzzled look. Shrugging, she simply waved and went back to the
Pilates exercises she had learned that weekend.
Class began as it always did on Monday mornings, but Elizabeth felt how different the
experience was from one of the best locations in the room. The ballet mistress eyed her for the
entire first exercise. By the end of barre, Elizabeth had received three personal corrections. She
dragged the barre away once exercises were over, her leotard drenched in sweat, halfcongratulating herself, half kicking herself for choosing that spot. She still had center exercises
and a full day of rehearsals ahead of her, after all.
But after class ended, she felt limber and awake, ready to charge into Sleeping Beauty rehearsals
that afternoon. Elizabeth wondered what had taken her so long to realize that being front and
center wasn't really so bad.
Sir William glanced to the back of the room curiously, wondering at the corps girl, Elizabeth
Bennet. For the past several rehearsals, she had stood in the back as he worked with the soloists,
mimicking the steps they danced, watching, absorbing, as if she had deemed herself understudy
for each role. Unusual behavior, indeed. Most dancers relished the opportunity to sit on the sides,
giving their aching toes a break or having a brief chat with their friends.
Elizabeth was having trouble with a particular turn in the variation, a complicated pirouette
followed by a whirlwind series of chaînés. The problem lay in her supporting leg; her balance
was off. Pausing in the middle of his observation of the soloist in the center, Sir William watched
her and then called out.
“No, honey. You supporting leg comes in, you don’t go to your supporting leg.”
Elizabeth looked up to him with wide eyes, then nodded and tried the turn again. This time, it
came out better.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said, smiling.
Elizabeth thanked him with a nod and smile. Strange behavior indeed for a corps girl, but then
again, she knew the part and danced it well. It was that logic which influenced Sir William Lucas
to cast Elizabeth Bennet, in his mind at least, as understudy for nearly all of the soloist roles in
The Sleeping Beauty.
William and Charles took the stairs, discussing the logistics of ordering refurbished Snowflake
tutus for that year’s Nutcracker, as opposed to new ones. It was Tuesday night, the night they
usually grabbed dinner together after work.
“Okay, but it’s an investment. New tutus would cost about a thousand each, but they would last
twenty years,” said Charles.
“Can the company finance the thirty grand?”
“At the moment, not really.”
“Refurbished, Charles.”
Charles sighed in the way he did when he knew William had won. Giving a resigned shrug,
William looked to his friend before pushing open the door to the building.
“Well, where to this week?”
“Thai?”
William shook his head. “Not in the mood for something spicy.”
“Okay, what about that Mexican place a few blocks away?”
“Charles, nothing spicy.”
“Oh, right.” As Charles contemplated their restaurant options, the door swung open behind them.
Both men looked up to see two sisters, one with a radiant grin on her face, the other in a
strangled look of surprise.
“Hey, Bennets,” greeted Charles with a warm smile, mostly for his girlfriend.
“Hey, you,” Jane answered with a peck on the lips.
Elizabeth descended the steps in silence, looking at her sneakers the entire time. William’s eyes
were riveted on her, his hope sinking with each second that she refused to meet his gaze.
“Are you two off to dinner?” Jane asked.
“Yes, if we can only figure out where,” answered Charles.
“Oh, we know a good place, right, Lizzy? Remember? That little Indian place up the street.”
Elizabeth smiled and nodded weakly in response. Her eyes, for a brief moment, darted to
William.
“Oh, I love Indian,” Charles asserted. “Why don't you girls come along? You wouldn’t mind,
Will, would you?”
If William didn’t look enthusiastic, it was because Charles had once again forgotten his request
for non-spicy food. But, he reasoned, he could endure anything if it meant a chance to finally talk
to Elizabeth outside of the confines of the dance studio. One glance at her, however, revealed she
was not as excited.
Jane and Charles naturally paired off and cooed to each other as they walked up the block.
Several paces behind them, William and Elizabeth strolled side-by-side, saying nothing to each
other.
“So,” William began, in the hopes of livening up Elizabeth, “how are rehearsals coming?”
“Good. Everything’s fine.” Still, she chose the sidewalk as her focal point.
“Oh, that’s good to hear.”
Elizabeth raised the corners of her lips in an obligatory smile. William repressed a frustrated
sigh. He could withstand her mockery and insolence, but this stiff silence was unbearable.
Growing despondent, William feared everything they had shared in Miami had been a figment of
his imagination, or a fabulous act on her part. He made a last, desperate effort to get her to speak.
“It seems you’ve become a seasoned New Yorker,” he said.
Finally, she looked up to him curiously. He noticed a hint of suspicion in her expression and, to
his delight, a pinch of wonder mixed in with it. William pointed down.
“The sidewalk.”
“Yes. It is.” She eyed him as if he had gone mad.
William chuckled. “Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?”
“The longer you’ve lived in the city, the lower your gaze when you walk around.”
Any laughter on Elizabeth’s face was suddenly extinguished. “Oh, right. Yes, I remember now.
But…I still don’t agree with your theory.”
“No?”
“No.” She said the word with such finality that William knew not to attempt any conversation
after that. It was just as well. The quartet had just reached the restaurant. Tuesday nights in most
New York eating establishments were usually quiet affairs, and this Tuesday night was no
different. Aside from a lone patron sitting by herself across the room, the restaurant was empty.
“Well, this is nice and intimate,” Charles said smiling around the table. Jane returned his grin
with an equally bright one. William simply nodded. Elizabeth fingered the edge of her glass.
“Lizzy, when you and I came here, what did we get? It had beans in it,” Jane said.
“I think it was dal.”
“Oh, right! Dal. That was good. I’m getting that.”
That’s when William caught her. Elizabeth, her head still turned down towards the table, raised
her eyes and gazed at him. There was no reason for her to do it. It had been an innocent comment
about Indian curry, and yet she had never excelled at hiding the feeling in her eyes. He could see
something was bothering her. He had a sinking suspicion the reason lay in himself. Almost
desperate to bring back the vibrant, cutting Elizabeth he knew so well, William decided that he
would be as cheery as Charles tonight, or at least, fake it well.
“Do you like Indian food?” he asked Jane. The chipperness in his voice nearly sent him choking
in embarrassment. It was so unlike him.
“Oh, I adore Indian food.”
“Have you ever been down to 1st and 6th Street? Where all of the Indian restaurants are?”
“No, never.”
“It's a experience. Every restaurant dripping with Christmas lights. And the waiters actually
come outside and verbally spar against each other for your business.”
“Will thinks it’s all staged, though,” Charles interjected.
“Completely staged. I wouldn’t be surprised if every restaurant on the block was owned by the
same guy.”
Jane laughed, her eyes crinkling charmingly. “We’ve never been! Lizzy we should go!”
Elizabeth wore a sour expression. She merely shrugged. Laughing uncomfortably, Jane
explained, “Lizzy’s not a big fan of Indian, so we don’t go that often.”
William turned to Elizabeth, who only looked at Jane and smiled half-heartedly. “I prefer
Chinese. I can’t really tolerate spicy food that well.”
Which might have explained why Elizabeth barely touched her food, but William sensed it was
more than a revulsion to garam masala. As Jane, Charles, and he chatted amicably, she sat stonefaced, with her countenance growing grimmer as their conversation progressed. William
wondered if she were offended. After all, he hadn’t seemed eager to have the girls come along.
Straightening in his chair, he vowed to try even harder to prove that he could be affable and
welcoming. And he would start with Jane, who he knew Elizabeth cherished more than anyone.
“So, Jane,” he began, “tell me your honest opinion.”
Jane smiled in response.
“Is The New York Times going to fry me over this piece, too?”
Laughing, Jane shook her head. “Don’t say that! You’re not going to be fried. It’s great.
Probably even better than your last.”
William caught Elizabeth lift her eyes from the tablecloth and glance at her sister sharply.
“That’s not saying much,” joked William.
Charles laughed, too. “Someone’s fishing for compliments.”
“No, not fishing at all. I’d just like to hear one of my dancers’ opinions, that’s all.”
Hazarding a glance in Elizabeth’s direction, William nearly started at the haunted look on her
face. She licked her lips, pursed them, and then went back to the tablecloth.
“Well, I love how you have the dancers walking slowly behind me in the pas de deux,” Jane
offered. “The contrast in tempo is really interesting. And the movements are so gorgeous. So
flowing and easy to dance, you know?”
William smiled uncomfortably, aware that this was not producing the reaction he wanted from
Elizabeth.
“Yes, but is there anything that I could improve upon? Anything that’s not right?”
Knowing one of Elizabeth’s loves was criticizing him, William steered the conversation to a
place that might be easy for her join in. She didn’t take the bait.
“No, nothing,” Jane said, giggling. “I think your piece is perfect.”
The shriek of a chair scraping against the floor startled the entire table. Everyone looked up to
Elizabeth now standing, with her napkin balled in her fist.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I’m going to use the restroom.”
She returned her napkin to the table with a sharp toss of her arm. They all watched her go. Jane
colored.
“I’m sorry about her,” she apologized. “She’s going through this weird phase. I think being back
in New York is a lot for her to handle.”
Charles nodded sympathetically. William simply stared to where Elizabeth had disappeared, a
contemplative frown creasing his forehead. He knew this was no “weird phase.” Elizabeth was
livid. Looking down at his lap, William attempted to control his disappointment with himself. No
matter how hard he tried, he pissed her off. It was like an indelible force between them: pungent
physical attraction tempered by stubbornness and pride on both sides. William closed his eyes,
wondering if things would ever be right with them. He so desperately wanted to amend all that
he had done to her. Elizabeth, however, seemed unwilling to budge.
“I’m going to go check up on her,” Jane said, edging out of her chair.
Just as she stood, Elizabeth re-emerged from the bathroom. She approached the table with her
gaze lowered. As she neared them, she looked up with a scorching frost in her eyes. Only,
William was surprised to note, she fixed her look on Jane, and not on him.
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said woodenly, returning to her seat. For the remainder of the meal, she
continued to give off a “don’t talk to me” aura, and so no one did. Jane and Charles chattered
happily about the intricacies of sequins on Snowflake costumes, and William sat enveloped in
the same cloud of silence hanging over Elizabeth. He wondered if she felt any kind of
communion with him, whether she appreciated his silence in the face of their bumbling dinnermates. Every few minutes, he stole a glimpse at her. Her eyes and lips were set in stone. Once,
however, he caught Elizabeth staring at him with a look he could only pinpoint as soulful. She
quickly looked away.
The walk back to the subway station began as a silent affair. Jane and Charles were still on the
subject of tutus. William wondered how two people could talk about the most insipid of subjects
for such a lengthy span of time. With his hands in his pockets, he walked next to Elizabeth, his
pace unbearably slow just to match hers.
Inhaling, William made one, last effort to lift her from her mood.
“Marge Phillips tells me she has a promising new student.”
Elizabeth smiled down to the sidewalk. “No, not promising at all, just inspired to improve
herself.”
“Inspiration is everything,” said William. “Or so they say.”
Once again, Elizabeth only lifted the corners of her mouth in response.
“Elizabeth, I’m…glad you’ve started going to Pilates. And relieved. It would be such a shame to
waste talent like yours to an ankle injury.”
Lifting her eyes, she stared at him in silence. Then, William saw her face flush. Elizabeth looked
away bashfully, considered his words for a few seconds, and then her cheeks lifted into a genuine
smile.
“I can’t think of any better way to waste it.”
Arching an eyebrow, William looked away and considered her quip. Here was the Elizabeth he
knew; the one who would say anything simply to oppose him. “You can't? Well, there’s always
narcissism. I hear arrogance is en vogue these days, too.”
“No, arrogance is so five years ago. Temper-tantrums and blackmail are all the rage for talentwasting.”
“And you can’t forget drugs and alcohol.”
“Oh, yes. How could we forget drugs and alcohol?” said Elizabeth, with a conspiratorial grin.
William laughed at their nonsensical battle and she joined him in that sultry, throaty way that
drove him crazy. It was a laugh he wanted to take possession of, that he wanted to drink in with
his lips, and that made him smile with every muscle in his face.
They walked the remaining two blocks in silence again, but the cloud had lifted. William felt as
if he were walking with a long-time friend, with someone who he didn’t need to speak to at
every moment for there to be comradeship. He felt quietly happy, even though he knew it was
fleeting. But that was what Elizabeth did to him. William had long ago accepted it.
They rounded the corner and saw the green street-lamp of the Columbus Circle subway entrance.
William and Elizabeth watched awkwardly as Jane and Charles said their gooey good-byes. It
was a farewell that William observed with a twinge of jealousy as he wanted to turn to Elizabeth
and do the same—take her cheeks in between his hands, turn her face up to his, and kiss her
swiftly, but tenderly. Being with her made his every thought seem so visceral, and he quickly
looked away.
Once their farewells were said, Jane and Elizabeth turned to head down the stairs. Before the
girls had completely turned their backs, William heard a small, shy voice whisper.
“Goodnight, William.”
His eyes widened and, for a moment, he didn’t understand. Once the words registered, Elizabeth
was half-way down the stairwell. William stared in amazement.
That night, his head was filled with Elizabeth’s voice. Goodnight, William. It meant little, but it
had been something, when for so long that had been nothing.
It just made the announcement he would have to make tomorrow all the more awful.
After reverence, the dancers applauded the ballet mistress and the pianist and were about the
gather their things to leave, when the door swung open, and Sir William Lucas strode in with
William Darcy behind him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, will you please stay where you are? I have a few announcements to
make,” the artistic director said.
He cut William a glare before sashaying to front and center. As if on instinct, William looked
around the room to catch Elizabeth’s gaze. He found her towards the side, staring back at him
with the same look of wonder reflected on all of the dancers’ faces. Sir William began.
“First, Nutcracker casting will be up within the week. Charles and I have been making some final
adjustments which explains the delay. Rehearsals will begin next Friday, as originally scheduled.
I remind you that costume fittings for the fall program are this afternoon at three. Attendance is
mandatory. That means you, Caroline...”
Light laughter was heard around the room. Rolling her eyes, Caroline turned her back towards
the artistic director and walked away.
“Lastly, I have a surprising and rather sad announcement to make.” The tone of Sir William’s
voice was sharply professional, and anything but sad. “We have had the pleasure of having
William Darcy here for several months to choreograph for us. While he will stay for the
remainder of the year to choreograph one more piece, I am sad to say that it will be his last...”
The dancers murmured to each other in shock. William didn’t care about their reaction; he could
only see the change on Elizabeth’s face, her forehead wrinkling in disbelief.
“...Rest assured that this decision was made in mutual agreement. We will be sad to see Darcy
leave us, but he has made the decision to start his own company, and he will have our full
support—unless he starts adversely affecting our ticket sales.” Sir William laughed hollowly.
Few joined him.
“Please join me in thanking him for his hard work.”
All throughout this speech, Sir William’s face remained stiff. He clapped and bowed his head to
William, who returned the gesture just as rigidly—two seasoned performers in just another
dance. The company applauded William politely, except one. Elizabeth remained with her arms
at her side, gazing at him with an unreadable expression. When she realized that he, too, was
staring at her, she looked away, licked her lips, and then followed as the company disbanded for
their lunch break.
Sir William had already begun striding towards the door, and, if he didn’t want to be left alone
and bereft, William decided he would have to follow. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach, as
if he had just committed a sin, even though he knew the decision to leave was the most upright
decision he had made since he’d arrived at Ballet Theater. It was simply hard to remember that
when Elizabeth Bennet stared at him with those glacial eyes that he remembered so well from all
those months ago.
“Freaking tragic,” declared Lydia, in the dressing room after work that day. “Now whose ass am
I going to stare at when rehearsals get boring?”
“Oh, no. You may have to actually pay attention,” teased Katherine.
“I know!”
“Jane, did you know anything about this? Were you holding out on us?” Lydia asked.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it, too. But, wow, his own company. That’s awesome.”
“Well, I know who will be the first in line at his auditions,” teased Charlotte, with a playful
pinch to Elizabeth’s arm. “Lizzy, you’re not going to let your all-time favorite choreographer slip
away so easily, are you?”
Elizabeth clenched her jaw and stuffed her tights into her dance bag. “You’re hysterical,
Charlotte.”
“Oh, look!” laughed Lydia, “Lizzy’s pissed! Aw, Lizzy, don’t cry. If you’re lucky, he may keep
his company in Manhattan.”
Slamming her locker shut, Elizabeth glared at her friends. “Thanks,” was all she said, before
hefting her dance bag over her shoulder and storming out of the locker room. Some friends.
There was no one in the halls; she was the first one out of the dressing room and up the stairs.
Elizabeth felt her chest shaking with an inexplicable fury. As she took the stairs two at a time,
she heard herself breathing raggedly. She burst outside, ran down the front steps, and was about
to turn downtown to head for the subway, when a voice stopped her.
“Ms. Bennet.”
Halting, Elizabeth looked up in surprise to see a man standing rigidly by a black limousine. He
wore dark aviator sunglasses. She didn't know who he was.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Elizabeth Bennet?”
“Yes.” She frowned in confusion. Why did this stranger know her name?
“Ms. Bennet, Ms. Boroughs would like a moment of your time.”
“I'm sorry?”
“Ms. Catherine Boroughs.” Saying nothing else, the chauffeur opened the back door of the
limousine. Elizabeth peered in, seeing nothing in the dark interior of the car except a bourgeois
hand, holding a long, thin cigarette in between the second and third fingers. Swallowing,
Elizabeth remembered the childhood warning—the one about getting into cars with strangers.
Most strangers, however, did not approach their victims in sleek, dark-tinted limousines
accompanied by sunglassed chauffeurs. They also weren't one of the wealthiest and most public
women in the city. Forcing down her dread, Elizabeth reluctantly ducked into the limousine and
found herself sitting across from the infamous Catherine Boroughs.
She wore an immaculate gray suit, Ferragamo heels, and blood-red lipstick on her thin lips.
Although she looked to be nearing sixty, Catherine had not a wrinkle. Her hair was pulled back
into a tight bun, giving her face a taut, unsmiling look. Inhaling from the Virginia Slim in her
fingers, Catherine Boroughs looked to Elizabeth with a supercilious raise of the eyebrow, and
then smiled. The gesture only reached her lips.
“Do you mind?” she asked, holding up the cigarette.
“No. No, go ahead,” Elizabeth stammered in response.
Catherine took another long drag from her cigarette and began.
“Miss Bennet, I do apologize for the inconvenience of this meeting. It's not usually how I do
business.”
Elizabeth nodded and smiled nervously, unable to believe that the same blood ran through the
veins of the proud woman across from her and her silent, disaffected friend, Anne.
“You probably don't know who I am.” There was an unmistakable conceit in her voice. She
expected to be unknown—not by any deficiency on her part, but rather, from a lack of
worldliness in the mere corps girl. Elizabeth bristled immediately at the tone, and raised her chin
defensively.
“No, in fact, I do know who you are,” she answered, causing Catherine to smile slightly. “You're
my friend, Anne's, mother.”
The smile wilted.
“Yes, I'm that, too. It's coincidental that you would mention your 'friend,' Ms. Bennet. I've come
to talk to you about just that.”
“About Anne?”
“Amongst other things.”
Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably in the plush, leather seat. She wondered if Catherine was here to
wrench a confession from Elizabeth regarding Anne's sexual preference.
“Is everything okay with Anne?” Elizabeth began, softening her tone.
“Miss Bennet, I am well known amongst my friends and acquaintances for my frankness, and I
won't mince my words with you. I want to know why you've done it.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Done...what?”
Catherine smirked and inhaled her cigarette again, before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “Why
you cost William Darcy his career.”
Elizabeth's eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“No need for theatrics here, Miss Bennet. I know your game, but I simply can't figure out why
you've played it this long. You do know you're shooting yourself in the foot?”
Elizabeth furrowed her eyebrows. “I'm sorry, I really don't know what you mean.”
“You don't? One would think that to get your way with Darcy, he would have to actually be
around.”
“My way with Mr. Darcy?” repeated Elizabeth defensively, the woman's meaning slowly
becoming clearer.
“You won't deny it, will you? I have it on good authority that you and William Darcy are having
an affair.”
Starting, Elizabeth frowned deeply. She opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off.
“I refused to believe it myself, at first. I could scarcely believe William Darcy would be
interested in a woman like you. But then, well, how could I deny it? After he gave that role to
your sister...and after what it cost him! And for what?” Catherine swept her eyes down Elizabeth,
censure bubbling on their surface.
“That's a good question,” Elizabeth replied ironically, which Catherine missed totally.
“It is a good question. You must know that William is already engaged to my daughter—your
so-called friend. He's an extremely loyal fiancée; they've been together for years. And I know
he's not usually so easily tempted by girls like you. So you can see how I would dismiss the
rumors for as long as I did.”
Elizabeth bristled. “Yes, well, you had two very excellent reasons to do so.”
Catherine did not miss the tone in Elizabeth's voice this time. She glared with poisonous eyes at
the corps girl and then slowly reached into a sleek, leather bag lying beside her and pulled out a
silver cigarette holder. Plucking a cigarette from within, Catherine lit it, inhaling long and
thoughtfully, and then blew a stream of smoke straight into Elizabeth's face.
“I know about you, Miss Bennet.”
“And what exactly do you know?”
“I know that you were in Mr. Darcy's piece. I know you rehearsed privately with him. And I also
know that your sister lost her promotion to Anne. What scheming, little corps girl wouldn't want
to exact revenge? I've been in the arts for years. I know all of the games dancers play. And I
know that trading sex for professional favors isn't below many a corps girl.”
Elizabeth could only glare at the woman across from her, so furious and insulted at all of her
implications. “Yes, you're right.”
Catherine waited for a continuation. When she received none, she narrowed her eyes. “And that's
all you have to say for yourself?”
“I don't think I have to say anything for myself! I don't see how my sex life affects you at all.”
“Might I remind you that I pay good money to ensure that Ballet Theater remains the best ballet
company in the nation, uncompromised by anything less than the highest artistic standards! I do
not look kindly upon women who are so willing to tarnish those standards to further their own
ambitions. Frankly, I find you vulgar, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Vulgar?
“Would you describe using sex to get your way any differently?”
“It’s an apt word to describe using money to get your way, too. Don't you think?”
The grand dame's face went black. She took another long drag of her cigarette. “You cannot
truly be insinuating that supporting the arts and sleeping with the choreographer are the same
thing!”
“According to you, I'm also doing my part to 'support the arts,'” Elizabeth retorted with the same
black glint in her eyes.
Catherine sneered. Elizabeth noticed her color change, and knew the old bitch was pissed. “Vile!
You call that 'supporting the arts?' You saw what happened with his last piece. We all know how
that ended. It was a critical disaster! And now you're doing it again! Only this time, you've gotten
him fired. Do you want to ruin him, Miss Bennet? He'll never be able to choreograph anything of
worth in that silly, little company of his.”
Fired? thought Elizabeth. Knowing that surprise would give Ms. Boroughs the upper hand, she
hid her reaction and continued calmly. “I don't hand out the pink slips, Ms. Boroughs. Unless
you think I'm sleeping with William Lucas, too.”
Catherine snorted, slowly losing her self-control. “You know perfectly well what I'm talking
about. Who convinced Darcy to go modern, who convinced him to cast your sister as the lead in
his piece? You must have woven quite a potent spell over him, Miss Bennet. Not even Lucas
could change the man's mind. And look what you've cost him. Look what you've cost the
company! I can't possibly support a dance company that’s filled with dancers like you—coarse,
common, amoral. I don't like modern pieces, and I especially don't like it when senior dancers,
like my daughter, are passed up for roles because of people like your sister!”
Elizabeth slowed her breathing and studied her nails with mock indifference. “I still don't see
how I got Mr. Darcy fired.”
Catherine snorted. “Well, what else was Lucas supposed to do? Darcy refused to cast prudently,
and I refused to support such reckless, unprincipled artistry. Fortunately, Lucas is a man of
sense. But I can hardly imagine a reason why Darcy would go mad and throw all rationality out
of the window, with merely the 'inducements' you're giving him.”
Stunned more by the contents of Catherine's account, rather than the bile behind her words,
Elizabeth breathed deeply once, then twice, before she answered.
“Your money doesn't buy his principles.”
“What?” Catherine seethed.
“Mr. Darcy isn't the kind of man who allows others to decide for him.”
Catherine snorted, her control slowly uncoiling in the face of Elizabeth's facade of calm. “If
that's the case, how did someone like you manage it?”
The accusation, the disbelief, the horror in Catherine's voice set off something in Elizabeth. She
smirked, narrowed her eyes, and then licked the corner of her lip. “It’s simple. I have no gag
reflex.”
“No g...!” Catherine began. Then, the words sunk in, and her mouth fell open. For the first time
since she was a teenager, Catherine Boroughs blushed scarlet. She sputtered, paused, gulped in a
breath of air, and then turned a regal shade of violet.
“Miss Bennet!” she gasped, dramatically thumping her palm over her chest, “I am horrified!
Have you no shame!? I don't think I've met a girl as vulgar as you in all of my life. You call
yourself a dancer? An artist?! You’re no more than a common prostitute.”
Elizabeth's smirk had morphed to a fiery glare. Catherine finished her rant with a exaggerated
fling of her arm.
“Since you're such a fan of being blunt,” Elizabeth replied, in a voice filled with acid calm, “then
here it is. I don't care who you are, how many companies you donate to, how many artistic
directors and finance directors and managers and 'artists' you have chained to you and your
money. It doesn’t matter to me. The only reason I'm talking to you at all is because I like your
daughter. I don't want it passed around at some bajillionaire soirée that I'm a whore who will
screw over my friends to get what I want, and I'm not sleeping with William Darcy.”
Catherine narrowed her eyes. “But you have slept with him.”
“Maybe I should be more explicit. I don't have sex for roles. And this conversation is over.”
Scooting over on the leather seat, Elizabeth grabbed the door handle. Catherine's arm shot out to
still her wrist.
“You haven't been dismissed,” she hissed. She smelled of stale tobacco mingled with Chanel
No.5. Balling her fist, Elizabeth swallowed down an explosion of rage and answered in a voice
so deadly calm, it made Catherine's grip falter.
“This. Conversation. Is. Over.” Elizabeth yanked her hand away and pushed open the door.
“Miss Bennet!” she heard the old woman yell. Leaping out of the car, Elizabeth's feet hit the
pavement, and she slammed the door, startling Catherine Borough's chauffeur from his halcyon
cigarette break
Chapter Twenty-six
Elizabeth thundered up the block with Catherine Borough's voice booming in her head. Frankly,
I find you vulgar... You've gotten him fired...You’re no more than a common prostitute.
“Dumb bitch!” Elizabeth cursed. She had never felt so assaulted, so insulted. Anything William,
or even Caroline, had ever said or done to her paled in comparison to this tirade. Sleeping with
William Darcy so that Elizabeth could get a better part? The irony was that she had slept with
him, wished she'd never done it, and then had herself made an outcast for it. Sleeping with
William Darcy to get her sister a better part? The greater irony was that Jane now had a better
part, and Elizabeth wanted to wring her neck for it. She should have told Catherine that! The old
hag would have choked on her Virginia Slim.
And William fired from BTNY? That was simple insanity. Everyone in the company knew
Darcy was the golden goose; Lucas would never fire him. Truly, Catherine Boroughs must have
been suffering from a mental disorder—schizophrenia perhaps, or drug abuse. Any other way of
looking at the situation turned slapstick in its absurdity.
Suddenly, Elizabeth felt very sorry for Anne. To live with such a woman! To have been raised
by such a woman! It explained a lot in her friend's personality; one would have to become cold
and detached to keep her sanity around such a mother—presumptuous, intrusive, bigoted bitch
that she was.
But at least Elizabeth had stood up to her. She hadn't trembled in intimidation, or meekly
protested her innocence. She had taken the flames from the dragon's mouth, and for that, she
could be proud of herself. Not many corps de ballet dancers—hell, not many people—could say
they had gone up against Big C and come away unscathed. Of course, Elizabeth could only wait
for what professional consequences might come from this altercation. She would probably be
fired, perhaps even blacklisted from other dance companies in New York. Elizabeth should have
been quaking with fear and regret. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but she couldn't find the fear.
She had withstood Caroline Bingley and William Darcy. What was one more self-righteous
millionaire to her?
That made Elizabeth smile—a genuine, satisfied smile—one that had recently been too
infrequent a visitor to her face. Then, she chuckled to herself and balled her fists. She felt like
punching the air around her like a triumphant boxer. She only needed an endless series of steps,
and she probably would have dashed up them Rocky-style, raised her arms up to the sky, and
then thrown air punches around her.
She would probably be fired tomorrow, cut off from the dance world before she had even
plunged into it, but she had looked the grand dame of New York's art world in the face, laughed,
thrown a few solid, sucker-punches, and come out, well, if not victorious, at least not knocked
out. And there weren't many people, corps dancers or otherwise, who could say that.
Elizabeth went into work the next day expecting a summons from Sir William Lucas. It never
came. Elizabeth was not fired that day, or the day after that. The remainder of the week passed
by normally—classes, rehearsals, costume fittings. She went out to dinner with Anne and
Mariah, and no mention was made of the spat with the older Boroughs. No one glanced at her
strangely. She did not hear her name whispered in the halls. Even Caroline, normally foaming at
the mouth, ready to sink her teeth into Elizabeth, barely glanced at the corps girl.
The fall season premier was several weeks away, and after that, Nutcracker. In the halls and
locker rooms of BTNY, dancers hummed with the same casting speculations as they always did.
Rumor had it Louisa Hurst wouldn't be dancing Sugar Plum this year. Jane Bennet was pinned
for Arabian. Everyone wondered if Caroline would be healthy enough after the “injury” that had
kept her from dancing in the fall season.
Once Elizabeth had gone on tour, the company forgot about her. She came to class, fell in line in
rehearsals, and went back to the locker room to change, free of stares and whispers. The rumor
mill churned out new gossip every day, but nobody talked about Elizabeth Bennet very much at
all, and this, she realized, was exactly the way she preferred it.
Elizabeth trudged downstairs with Jane and Charlotte following behind her.
“Ow, ow, ow,” chanted Charlotte, as she descended each step.
“What's wrong?” asked Jane.
“I have a blister the size of Wyoming on my big toe.”
“I've become desensitized to those by now,” remarked Elizabeth. “They have to be the size of
China to get any attention from me.”
“I have sensitive toes,” Charlotte pouted.
The trio undid their pointe shoes and threw on their street clothes. They had decided to go buy
their lunch at the deli down the block. Elizabeth took just enough money for a turkey sandwich
and a juice. Since starting Pilates, she had been forced to cut back on her outings to the deli and
Starbucks. Today's lunch would be a treat, and she intended to enjoy her hefty turkey sandwich
to the fullest.
Charlotte, Jane, and Elizabeth chattered on the way out of the studio about the impossible series
of jumps the ballet mistress had taught that day. They ordered their sandwiches in the deli and
headed back to the studio. On the way, Charlotte turned to Jane, eyes dancing with curiosity.
“So, Jane, I'm just dying to know...what are Mr. Darcy's rehearsals like, now that he's gotten the
pole out of his ass?”
Elizabeth turned her eyes down to the sidewalk upon the mention of his name, feeling her insides
begin to churn with envy. She tried to avoid the topic of Mr. Darcy's new piece. After nearly a
month back in New York City, it still stung, and the pain made her turn on Jane.
Jane laughed. “He never had a pole up his ass, Charlotte!”
“Okay, whatever. Since he started smiling. What are they like? Come on, Lizzy and I want to
know.”
Elizabeth smiled stiffly. She really didn't want to know.
“They're just normal,” said Jane. “He teaches the steps, we dance them. Same as his last piece.”
“Oh,” Charlotte sighed, with a hint of disappointment in her voice. “So what's the piece like?”
“Um, slow-ish. Kind of different than his last piece, I guess.”
“You guess?” repeated Charlotte.
“Actually, he hasn't let us hear the music yet.”
“Huh?”
“He says he wants us to know the dance in our bodies before he lets us dance with the music. He
says the music will bias us.”
Elizabeth snorted. “That's so typical. So when is he going to let you hear it? The day before the
show?”
Jane licked her lips nervously, jarred by Elizabeth's sudden mood swing. “Well, I'm not sure
really. Maybe when he's finished choreographing the piece. On Tuesday, he mentioned that it
might be soon.”
Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth muttered inexplicably under her breath. Charlotte and Jane shared a
knowing look and returned small shrugs. Jane glanced to her sister uncomfortably, puzzled and
hurt by Elizabeth's defensiveness as of late. She saw a bone in Elizabeth's jaw shift as she stared
stonily ahead. They reached the steps up to the doorway.
“I'm going to sit outside for a while,” announced Elizabeth. “Enjoy some of this cool weather.”
“Okay. Want company?” asked Jane.
Elizabeth shook her head. “That's okay. You and Charlotte go inside.” She sat with an air of
finality. Waiting for a helpless second, Jane looked at Charlotte, and then the two went inside.
“I don't understand her,” said Jane. “She's been like this since she got back from tour.”
“Did anything happen while she was away? Did she say?”
“I don't know. We barely talk anymore. She's never home, and when she is, she just stays in her
room.”
Charlotte frowned. “Maybe she feels there's a reason she can't open up to you.”
“We tell each other everything, though. I just don't understand.”
They trekked upstairs to eat lunch in the hallway outside of the studios. Sitting in an unoccupied
corner, they unwrapped their sandwiches and continued the conversation.
“Jane, do you think...,” Charlotte hesitated, “there's a reason she isn't confiding in you?”
“What kind of reason?”
Charlotte sighed. “Do you think she's jealous of you?”
“No. No way.” Jane stared at Charlotte as if she were crazy.
“Think about it. You got promoted. You got a prime role is Darcy's piece. She might be jealous
of you.”
“No, Charlotte. She's not. This isn't the first time I've gotten a better part than Lizzy. She's never
gotten jealous before.”
“Okay, but what if it didn't have to do with dancing?”
Jane stared at her friend suspiciously. Charlotte took a sip of her soda and lowered her voice.
“Do you think it might have to do with Mr. Darcy?”
“What about Mr. Darcy?”
Charlotte shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. A while back, I heard some rumors that...”
“You shouldn't trust rumors,” warned Jane.
Charlotte sighed. Here it was again, that instinctive Bennet urge to protect the other members of
the clan. Smiling in resignation, she took another sip of soda.
“Yeah, I know. Lizzy's just in a funk.”
Jane nodded, but her expression wasn't convinced. However, she didn't have much time to
ponder the issue, as her thoughts were interrupted by an excited cry from down the hall.
“Hey! Nutcracker casting's up!”
Elizabeth pushed herself off from the steps and took a deep breath before entering the building.
The lobby was quiet. Before turning up into the stairwell, she glanced over her shoulder at the
poster of William Darcy in La Bayadere. She shook her head and shuffled down the stairs to the
locker room.
As she pulled open the door, two fellow company members were on their way out. They smiled
at her. One patted her shoulder.
“Nice one, Liz,” she said, before continuing past her up the stairs.
Elizabeth frowned in confusion. Afternoon rehearsals were about to begin, but there were few
dancers left in the locker rooms. Quickly shucking out of her street clothes, she grabbed her
pointe shoes, warmers, and water bottle. Another late dancer ran out from the bathroom, smiled
at her, and called out, “Congrats!” before streaking out of the room, so as not to be late.
Elizabeth's heart began beating an allegro rhythm. Something was up. She walked slowly from
the dressing room and into the hall. No one was around. Checking the clock, she wondered
where everyone was. Rehearsal would start soon, but usually dancers were still milling about at
this time.
Just then, Anne Boroughs ambled down the stairs and stopped when she spied Elizabeth.
“Hey,” she said, smiling uncharacteristically, “I bet you feel like a million bucks.”
“Uh, no,” Elizabeth replied, “I feel like crap, and I want to know why everyone keeps smiling at
me.”
“They're just being nice, Elizabeth. Would you rather they take a crowbar to your kneecaps?”
“Huh?”
“Huh? Have you even seen the board?”
“No.”
“Nutcracker casting is up.”
Suddenly, Elizabeth understood. Her eyes widened, and she straightened her spine as if a bolt of
electricity had just coursed through her. Without a word of good-bye, she pushed past Anne and
took the stairs two at a time. Anne watched her go with a smile and shake of the head.
Elizabeth saw a small crowd gathered in front of the company message board. Her heartbeat felt
heavy in her throat as she approached, at once excited and terrified. She began scanning the list
from the bottom up, as had become her habit to avoid disappointment.
She found her name towards the bottom of the page, in a cluster of corps dancers' names, for
Waltz of the Flowers. She had also been chosen to understudy the Dance of the Reed Pipes.
Elizabeth smiled; she had not even been in Act Two the year before. She looked further up and
found her name under Waltz of the Snowflakes. As she suspected. Maybe a little better.
Certainly no reason for all manner of felicitations to be spouted her way. About to turn away
from the board, she gasped in surprise when Lydia catapulted onto her and nearly broke her neck
in a huge hug.
“You fucking rock!” she cried.
“Thanks,” Elizabeth sputtered. “You're fucking choking me.”
“Sorry.” Lydia giggled, releasing her. “So, how many times did you have to blow Lucas to get
that part?”
Elizabeth guffawed. “First, that's just sick. Second, fuck you. And third, you're in the same
dances as me.”
Raising an eyebrow, Lydia looked at Elizabeth strangely. She pointed at the list. “Why don't you
take another look, Lizzy.”
Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth turned around and skimmed the list again. She ran her index finger
up the list of names for Waltz of the Flowers. She saw herself and nodded. Continuing upwards,
she saw that her sister had been cast in the Dance of the Reed Pipes, as well, and as understudy
for the Arabian pas de deux. Caroline's name was listed under Sugar Plum Fairy, along with two
other principals. Elizabeth's finger continued the journey upwards to the cast list for Act One.
The list for Waltz of the Snowflakes took up an entire page in itself. Elizabeth found herself and
nodded again. Finally, simply to be thorough, she looked upward to the cast for the opening
Christmas party scene, comprised of mostly children and retired dancers playing party revelers.
And then her finger stopped.
“You're kidding,” she exhaled.
But there it was, in that staid, Times New Roman font, the one she had always hated. Her name
written under the heading “Doll,” a one-minute soloist role danced early in the first act. Elizabeth
gawked in disbelief and whirled around to stare at Lydia, who simply stared back smugly.
Turning around, Elizabeth looked again, studying the words “Elizabeth Bennet.”
And then, she smiled. She shouldn't have, but she did anyway. Elizabeth felt everything in her
body turn warm and light. Jane had also been chosen to dance the role, most likely in a different
cast, because it was a part for one. Nevertheless, Elizabeth grinned and then laughed in
disbelieving bliss. It was a fluke, alphabetical serendipity, but there it was. In spite of rank or
experience, for the first time ever on any cast list, it was the name of Elizabeth Bennet which
came before that of her sister, Jane.
After the last of the company had gone home, William meandered up the stairs and down the hall
to studio B, his favorite—the one with no windows. The last minute of his piece was giving him
trouble, and he needed to put in the overtime to tweak a few transitions and phrasings. Not
exactly the way he wanted to spend his evening, but the piece needed to be finished.
Everything had begun so well. After Miami, he had raced back to New York City and
choreographed the first two minutes of the six minute work in an evening. And then, his
inspiration slowed, drying up to the caked, cracking desert where he was now wandering blind.
William regretted his decision. At the time, the choreography had seemed so fresh, completely
opposite to anything he had ever created. He had made the decision during a fit of creativity;
everything, all six minutes of his piece, had seemed so clear to him then. What had happened?
In any case, he would have to struggle through the last minute of the song. Tonight, he decided,
if the dance still didn't work, he would change the music to something he was more comfortable
with, simply to get the damn piece done. Fortunately, he hadn't let the dancers hear his selection
yet, covering for his cowardice with an excuse about “feeling the dance in their bodies.” If he did
decide the song wouldn't work, at least he could still save face.
As William crossed the empty hallway, he heard the clod of pointe shoes break the silence.
Someone was in his studio. Frowning, he checked his watch. It was half past five, late, but not
late enough that all of the dancers would have gone home. William approached the door to
Studio B and peered through the thin strip of window on the door. His stomach lurched.
Inside was Elizabeth, slowly marking through a series of steps and turns. Her legs walked
through the dance, but her arms and face performed full-out. He noticed her fingers closed
stiffly, her arms rigid as she danced. It was the characteristic posture for the Doll variation in the
first act of Nutcracker. William smiled, feeling a warm pride tingle through him. He could claim
no credit for Elizabeth's getting that role, but it satisfied him nonetheless. Now that she was more
conscious of her dancing, it showed to everyone, ballet mistresses and artistic directors alike.
William and Lucas still weren't speaking, but he heard enough from Charles to know the old man
was impressed.
He could have watched longer, but his CD was inside, and he would have to interrupt her to
retrieve it. Knocking softly, he pushed open the door and was met with her surprised
countenance, which quickly morphed to embarrassment.
“Sorry,” he said, “I just need to grab my music.”
“Oh, no, that's okay,” she replied, as he walked in the studio. “I'll be out of here in a few
seconds.”
“No, stay. I can work in another studio.”
“Really, it's fine. I've been in these shoes too long anyway. My toes are killing me.”
William looked at her, and then chuckled. Elizabeth furrowed her eyebrows. “What?”
“We've made a real 180, haven't we?”
“What do you mean?”
“Arguing over who can be more courteous to the other.”
While he'd meant it as a joke, Elizabeth's face fell palpably. She recovered with a weak smile and
then turned and shuffled towards the side of the studio to grab her water. Feeling awkward,
William tried to bring back a lighter atmosphere.
“Congratulations, by the way.”
She took a long sip of water and then smiled. “Thanks. I don't know what Lucas was thinking,
though. I'm not up for this role.”
“He wouldn't have cast you if he didn't think you could dance it.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I can't get any of the turns when my arms have to be as stiff as poles the
whole time.”
“You don't turn with your arms.”
“I know,” Elizabeth said, with a lopsided smile, “but I cheat. I can't help it.”
William considered her words with a smile of his own. “How's the ankle?”
“Better. The Pilates is really helping, I think.”
“Good, then you should be able to plié more. That should get you around for the turns.”
Elizabeth grinned. “You and your pliés.”
“It's all in your supporting leg.”
Placing her water down on the floor, Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Let's see about that.” She
walked to the center of the room and picked up dancing from the middle of the variation.
Preparing for the series of turns that ended the solo, she called out, “Okay, here's your plié.”
William smiled and rolled his eyes, but then watched in self-satisfaction as Elizabeth landed each
turn crisply. She seemed surprised herself. After the series finished, she looked at him in mirror
and grinned.
“See? I told you. It's all about the plié. And the supporting leg,” she joked.
“Ah, now I get it.” He returned her quip with equal ease.
“You should listen to me more often, William.”
He raised his lips in a soft smile of acknowledgment. “I've already figured that out.”
Blinking twice, Elizabeth stared at him, searching him, and he willed his expression to open to
her, so that she would find whatever she was looking for. She returned his smile.
“So,” she began, “when are you starting this company of yours?”
Disappointment bit at him. He didn't like that she had steered their conversation away from
where he wanted it to go. “Well, I have to finish out my contract here. Then I'm thinking about
going down to Miami for a few months, to spend some time with G. Maybe I'll hold auditions
next spring.”
Elizabeth nodded. “That's...great. You must be excited.”
“I am.” He didn't sound convincing. Once again, Elizabeth grew quiet. He waited for her to
speak. Moments later, she smiled and went back to retrieve her things.
“Well, we're going to miss you,” she said, flinging her towel over her shoulder. “Who else is
going to scare us all into submission?”
William felt his heart crack. This was the part where Elizabeth was supposed to burst into tears,
confess her love for him, and beg him not to go. Instead, she was once again teasing him at his
expense. He couldn't return her jab this time. He merely shrugged.
When Elizabeth realized she would get no reaction from him, she sighed and chuckled once.
“Okay, well, the studio's all yours.”
“Thanks. Sorry to interrupt you.”
Elizabeth waved his apology away and then left the studio with a soft good-bye. William listened
to the sound of her retreating pointe shoes for as long as he could, and then closed the door,
hollowed with solitude. Looking around him, he sighed, rubbed his eyes, and muttered a curse.
Melancholy seeped through him like water through a bag of strong, dark tea.
His feelings from before paled in comparison to this powerful, coursing ache. If Elizabeth had
been intriguing several months ago, as the surly, head-strong dancer in his piece, she was
intoxicating now, as the bright, teasing woman. William stood in the center of the studio for
several ageless minutes, regretting. Then, he decided no matter how big of an idiot he was, he
would never finish his piece if he kept on with those thoughts. He paced to the stereo and turned
on his music.
The slow piano introduction only served to heighten his melancholy. Staring at the wall, he let
Billy Joel's song waft through him, thinking of how perfect everything had seemed when he'd
heard it with her. Her suggestion had hit something in him, like a spark on gasoline. Everything
about this song was Elizabeth.
Pacing to the middle of the room, William let the music take him. The steps came, finally. He
only paused to scribble them down in his notebook. His movements were languid and blue. But,
that was what he felt. Instead of fighting down his heartache, William let himself steep in it.
Before, it had been lust. Now, it was sadness. But, both times, it was all because of Elizabeth.
When William next looked up at the clock, it read 9:23, and he had finally finished his piece.
“Okee dokee, ladies and gents. That's all for this week,” announced Sir William. “Have a lovely
weekend, soak those feet, and we'll see you back here on Monday.”
The dancers offered light applause for the artistic director and then in a whirlwind of voices and
laughter, gathered their things to leave.
“So, are we still on for tonight?” Charlotte asked Elizabeth, as she pulled off her leg warmers.
“What time?”
“The place opens at eight. Band starts at eight thirty.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Might as well. I'm not doing anything else tonight.”
“Gee, Lizzy, way to make a friend feel loved.”
“You know I love you, Charlotte.”
“Lyd, you coming?” Charlotte asked, turning to Lydia.
“You know I don't do bands.”
“Yes,” interjected Elizabeth, “Lydia doesn't listen to anything that doesn't have a synthesizer in
it.”
Beaming because it was the truth, Lydia nodded. “I'm going to a rave in Jersey City.”
Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Raves are so nineties.”
“I know. But the DJ's yummy.”
The trio gathered their things and walked to the door of the studio.
“Liz, does Jane want to come tonight?”
“She can't. She's off to Charles' ranch upstate.”
Lydia sighed. “I wish I had a rich, cute boyfriend who owned real estate.”
“I'd settle for just a boyfriend,” Elizabeth said.
They left the studio behind and moseyed into the hall, where several other dancers lingered. As
they neared Studio B, Lydia frowned and made a face.
“Ugh, I hate this song.”
Charlotte perked her ears up to listen. “What! I love this song! Just because it doesn't have a
synthesizer.”
Laughing, Charlotte looked to Elizabeth to join in on the jibe, but the latter's face had gone
completely still. Several company members were huddled around the narrow strip of window of
the door to Studio B, gazing in to William Darcy's rehearsal, curious at his choice of music, at
long last revealed. Elizabeth furrowed her eyebrows in concentration, blinking rapidly.
“Lizzy? You okay?” Charlotte asked.
“Hold on,” she said, “I want to see this.”
Pushing her way over to the door, Elizabeth rose onto the tips of her pointe shoes to glimpse into
the studio over the heads of the dancers in front of her. Her heartbeat stilled.
Over the one-month course of William Darcy's rehearsals, Elizabeth had never wanted to look in.
It stung too much, seeing her sister in the center of the studio, where she should have been.
Unlike most of the company, Elizabeth absolutely did not care about his choreography. She
didn't care about the mystery piece of music William had refused to let his dancers hear. She
didn't care about any of it, because she cared too much. So, she had stayed away.
Now, as she stood on her toes, gaping as the dancers in his piece moved to “New York State of
Mind,” the very song they had listened to that night in his BMW in Miami, Elizabeth felt like
movement and even time had stopped. She watched as a group of dancers in the background of
the piece moved inconspicuously like two crowds on opposing sides of the street, meeting in the
middle.
...That feeling, when you're about to cross the street and there are a dozen people standing on
your side, and a dozen on the other. That moment, when you meet in the middle of the pavement.
That energy. That's New York to me...
Elizabeth swallowed hard, feeling her pulse pound in her throat, her fingertips, her chest. Aware
that her fingers were trembling, she could do nothing to stop them. She simply watched. Jane
spun in the fingers of her partner, extending a graceful leg, reaching for him, and then pulling
away. Elizabeth bit her lip, suddenly understanding.
She had believed Catherine Boroughs insane, but, Elizabeth thought sardonically, the old biddy
had been right.
Who convinced Darcy to go modern, who convinced him to cast your sister as the lead in his
piece? You must have woven quite a potent spell over him, Miss Bennet.
In a surge of realization, like a light bulb exploding in its socket, Elizabeth understood now the
desperation in Boroughs' voice during that tête-à-tête.
This piece, it wasn't about Jane, at all. It wasn't about a salary or a contractual requirement.
William Darcy didn't do pop music. Elizabeth's jaw fell open as she saw Jane tumble gracefully
to the floor and roll. William Darcy didn't do rolls. He didn't cast haphazardly. There was a
reason why he had chosen Jane, and suddenly Elizabeth knew that the reason wasn't Jane. There
was also a reason William had chosen this particular Billy Joel song, and that reason wasn't to
experiment with contemporary dance.
Idiot, Elizabeth thought, cracking a crooked smile at her stupidity. As many times as she had
read his letter, as well as she thought she had memorized it, how could she have forgotten that
crucial line that came bubbling up in her memory now.
You won’t believe this, but your dancing inspired my choreography like no one ever has. It was
something mythical and special.
The reason, for everything, was her.
The song and William's rehearsal finished, and the curious group of dancers edged away from
the door. Elizabeth remained, chewing on her lip, staring into the studio. The first dancer in
William's piece flung open the door and exited with a tired sigh. The rest of the dancers
followed. Elizabeth saw Jane approaching her, too, but she stared past her sister to the man in the
center of the room, whose eyes had landed on hers as soon as the door had opened.
Elizabeth gazed at William, the length of a studio separating them. He looked to her openly,
holding her eyes and refusing to look away. Still stunned by her revelation, Elizabeth could do
nothing but blink in response. She couldn't even smile.
Jane reached Elizabeth at that moment. “Hey, Lizzy. Whatcha doing?”
Pulling her gaze away from William, she looked to Jane. “Nothing.”
“Ugh, I'm pooped!” Jane linked her arm in her sister's, and greeted Charlotte and Lydia, who
stood further back against the wall.
“So, he finally revealed the music,” Charlotte said.
“Yeah, unexpected, isn't it?” answered Jane. “Ow, my legs are killing me.”
Perhaps the girls continued to talk— Elizabeth couldn't be sure. Her thoughts were stuck on the
music, the dancing, the way William had stared at her, and the conclusion to which, Elizabeth
was certain, they all pointed.
He still loved her.
Of course, if she thought rationally, Elizabeth might have concluded that he had just plagiarized
a few of her ideas. Or, perhaps he needed a change from the stiff, classical stuff he always
choreographed. But, in her gut, Elizabeth knew this was one of those times when reason seemed
too outlandish to be possible. He still loved her, or at the very least, she could make him love her
again.
The quartet had reached the stairwell, echoing with the laughter and chatter and footsteps of
nearly a dozen dancers. Jane released Elizabeth's elbow, and they descended they stairs. With
every step down, Elizabeth felt pulled further back.
No, she should wait, Elizabeth chastised herself. She should reserve the weekend to think, to
strategize, to analyze this revelation more fully. It wouldn't be prudent to run back there and
throw herself at him. That would be desperate. Yet, despite all of the protests of her brain,
Elizabeth's body stopped half-way down the flight of stairs. Jane nearly crashed into her.
“Lizzy?”
Spinning around, Elizabeth grabbed the banister on the other side of the wall and strode up to the
landing.
“I'll see you at home, Jane.” She was about to bolt up the next flight of steps when Jane called
out to her.
“Lizzy!”
Elizabeth paused, holding up a line of dancers attempting to pass her on the way down.
“I'm not going to be here this weekend,” Jane said, exasperated that her sister had forgotten
again, for nearly the third time since she had told her on Wednesday.
“Oh,” answered Elizabeth. If Jane expected an elaboration, she was to be sorely disappointed.
Elizabeth merely turned on her heel and charged up the flight of stairs.
“That girl forgets her water bottle more than she remembers it,” said Lydia, shaking her head.
“She forgets everything lately,” grumbled Jane.
“Well, she'd better not forget that she promised to go see this band with me tonight,” Charlotte
added.
Unfortunately for Charlotte, Elizabeth had completely forgotten.
Chapter Twenty-seven
After the last of the dancers had left and the halls quieted, William paced to the chair at the front
of the studio. He sighed into it and cast his head back against the mirror, closing his eyes and
simply breathing, simply trying to calm his chest after that look.
Remembering Elizabeth's face, his heart began beating furiously again, strangely excited and
fearful at the same time. She had seemed astonished, yet she had seemed to know. William had
seen the understanding dawn in her eyes. Everything about her had been calm, except for the
thoughts mirroring themselves in those wide, hazel eyes. Her surprise surprised him. How could
she not know his feelings? And yet, if there was one thing at which the two of them excelled, it
was misunderstanding the other.
The sound of vigorous footsteps broke his reverie. Opening his eyes, William sat up straight in
the chair when he saw Elizabeth standing at the threshold of the studio, clutching the door frame.
Her chest moved in a light pant, and she had a curious half-smile on her face.
“Hey,” he said, in a trite greeting to cover a surge of nervousness.
“Hi,” she said, slowly and brightly. She stayed there, saying nothing else. William licked his lips
and waited for her to continue. She wore the look of someone wanting to say something, and
William's heart jumped at the thought of what it might be.
“Are you finished for today?”
He shook his head and stood. “I still need to smooth a few things out in the pas de deux.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth wrinkled her forehead and looked down to the floor. Her breathing still came
rapidly. Then, she raised her eyes, leaned into her hip awkwardly, and cocked her head to the
side. “Can I help?”
William did not answer, wondering if he'd heard correctly.
“I mean...I know I'm not in the piece, but...”
“Sure,” he answered.
When she closed the door to the studio softly behind her, William's face went molten, and his
heart rocketed to his throat. He turned sharply away, walking to the stereo.
“I like your choice of music,” commented Elizabeth. He couldn't see her face, but he heard the
lightness in her voice.
He attempted to answer calmly. “You're about the only one.”
“Am I?”
“Lucas detests it, and I haven't heard the end of it from Charles.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I thought Charles liked whatever you did.”
“No. Actually, it turns out he has a mind of his own.” Cuing the music, William faced her again
and smiled. “You really don't have to do this.”
She smiled. “It's okay. I want to.”
Swallowing hard, William stared at her for a long moment. He forced himself to think rationally.
She isn't here to throw herself at your feet. Calm down. Calm down. But, with her face flushed
from more than exercise and her eyes almost wild in their brightness, William was having a
difficult time restraining the speculations of his heart.
He approached her where she stood in the middle of the studio. “All right. If you don't mind,
there's a transition after this particular lift that your sister is having trouble with. I think it needs
re-working.”
Elizabeth nodded perfunctorily. “Okay.”
They stared at each other, each too awkward and nervous to move. William cleared his throat.
“It, uh, begins in a fish dive.”
“Oh. Oh, right.”
Elizabeth skirted in front of him and popped up onto the tips of her pointe shoes. William braced
himself, knowing the feel of her smooth back under his thumbs would once again do things to
him that he couldn't control. The lift went well enough. Held with her nose merely a foot from
the wooden floor, Elizabeth asked, “Now what?”
“Okay, you're going to kick your right leg back and around. I'll pull you back up so that you're
facing me.”
“I'm sorry, I don't understand.”
“I'll be carrying you. Like, uh, like a man carries a woman over the threshold.”
Elizabeth let a silent moment pass before she answered. “Oh. Got it.”
Inhaling, she prepared to be hurled up and around. The first attempt failed, as William figured it
would. They tried again. Elizabeth dived into the first pose and then used her downward
momentum to flip herself up and around, grasping William's neck tightly when she was at last
safely in his arms.
“Yes, something like that,” murmured William, still holding her, trying to ignore the berry stain
across her cheeks and chest. “Then, you kick up and back, and with that leg, piqué back into an
arabesque.”
A simple enough request, Elizabeth performed the series and waited with her leg held behind her
for her next set of instructions.
“This is where Jane has problems. She's supposed to drop to the floor, roll, and essentially finish
in the same pose just on the other leg. I think the momentum of the roll gives her trouble.”
Elizabeth's lips parted into a bright grin. “Ah, well, then it's good you have help from someone
experienced in the finer points of flailing around on the floor.”
“How fortunate.”
“But I will tell you that it's nearly impossible to drop into a roll from standing on pointe. Unless
you intend to ruin Jane's ankle along with her knee, this time.”
“No, I didn't have those intentions.”
“What if she pulled back, rolled off of her shoes, and had Dan pull her forward a bit into the roll?
That would spare her legs and also give her a bit of momentum for the next transition.”
Considering the suggestion, William nodded slowly. “Let's try it.”
It worked. Such a simple change really, yet it made the entire phrase fluid and right. Or, perhaps
it wasn't the step. Perhaps it was Elizabeth that made it right. Jane's movements, while supple,
lacked the nuance of her younger sister's dancing. Elizabeth did just the right thing with her
fingers, her wrists, her chin, her feet, and those vivid, hazel eyes which moved with her body as
if they were appendages themselves. William realized then that, in choosing Jane, he had cast
better and more principled, but that he had still not made the right choice.
“Well,” he said, “let's try this one more time and then get going. The last place I want to spend
Friday night is a dance studio.”
Elizabeth tittered uncomfortably. “Right. Well, I guess you have big plans for the night.”
Something in her voice, the false cheeriness, perhaps, or the whiff of desperation, gave William
pause. He answered cautiously. “No, not really.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Ah. I see.” Nodding, she moistened her lips and lifted the corners, making her cheeks apple.
“All right. Let's try this one more time.”
With his back to her, William cued the music, breathing smoothly and deeply to calm himself.
He sensed that Elizabeth had not come here to dance. He wanted to imagine what she had come
here to do, but he wouldn't let his mind wander far into the deep. It might crush him, to have her
leave with nothing more than a cheery good-bye. For the first time since he had been fired,
William didn't regret leaving Elizabeth behind. He wasn't normally one for self-sacrifice, but
then again, William didn't think his emotions, or his libido, could take much more of her.
The troublesome phrase neared, and William turned away from the stereo and towards Elizabeth,
who had her eyes fixated on him. He cursed himself. He was too old for his heart to skip upon
the mere sight of a woman.
“Ready?” she asked, with a small smile.
William nodded. “Let's go from the dive.”
He counted out the music and Elizabeth stepped into the phrase, with a succinct piqué. They
danced close, far closer than William danced with Jane, or any other dancer of his past or present
acquaintance. Their bodies were inches apart, and William longed to slip his hands around her
waist and press her to him, as he had in his last piece. Elizabeth's movements were in-time to the
music and still as supple as ever, yet William sensed a hesitance in her body. She held his gaze in
the mirror, and he spied that reluctance, and something else there as well.
Then, Elizabeth plunged into the dive and, with his assistance, flipped herself around, the weight
of her back and knees falling into the crooks of William's elbows. Her hands encircled his neck,
bringing them closer. The phrase should have continued into the next arabesque, but Elizabeth
stayed, her nose a breath's length apart from his. She raised her eyes. The music continued.
They were so close. William's gaze dipped to her mouth, contemplating a kiss, but he stopped
himself. Perhaps she had stopped because she had forgotten the steps, perhaps her ankle
hurt...but, no. Elizabeth drew herself closer to him, her eyes dipping to his lips. He felt the
warmth of her breathing on his mouth. They were so close—almost touching—and then, they
were.
Elizabeth's lips moved softly, hesitantly under his, and everything in William froze. She pulled
away soon after, her eyes flitting down in embarrassment.
“I'm going to put you down,” William murmured. Elizabeth nodded, her face turning red. She
looked away, and whispered, “Sorry,” once her feet had touched the floor.
“Don't misunderstand me, Elizabeth,” said William, weaving a hand around her waist and
pulling her to him. “I just didn't want to drop you.”
She turned her face up to him in surprise, and William seized the opportunity to take her lips
again. They came up for air some time later, panting, wild-eyed, flushed. With the task of
breathing out of the way, they dove back into each other. Elizabeth rose up on the tips of her
pointe shoes to reach his mouth, pressing the length of her body into him. William relished the
pliancy of her breasts against his chest, her hands cupping the sides of his face, and her lips
opening eagerly under his. Once the music had faded and the room went quiet, they parted.
Breathing hard, Elizabeth looked up to him, eyes glittering. “That's not going in your piece, is
it?”
William could barely find his voice. “No.”
“Oh.” She seemed pleased by that answer. “Want to come over for dinner?”
“Sure. When?”
“Tonight?”
“Sounds good. Let me get my stuff.”
“I'll go get changed.” Elizabeth tore herself away from him, her eyes dancing with disbelief and
delight.
“Meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes?”
She nodded, and answered with the widest, happiest smile he had ever seen on her face.
Watching her go, William turned towards the stereo and stilled. He saw a person in the mirror,
beaming, eyes crinkled and light, goofy with joy. It took a fraction of a second for William to
realize that it was him. He chuckled, shook his head, and simply let it be.
In retrospect, Elizabeth realized she had made a hasty, foolish, and irrational decision.
How was fifteen minutes enough time to pretty herself after eight hours of dancing? She should
have said twenty.
“Dammit!” she cursed, trying to run a comb through her wet hair. She was now at—she checked
the clock on the back wall—seventeen minutes and counting. Knowing how William hated
tardiness, Elizabeth sped up her pace. Just a dab of lipstick, a spray of body splash, a comb to get
the tangles out. Lurching for her dance bag, she stubbed her toe on the bench.
“Ow, fuck!” Throwing her dance clothes into her bag, she tossed the strap onto her shoulder and
sprinted from the dressing room, up the stairs, and into the cool evening air. William stood at the
bottom of the stairs, leaning against the rail. His clothes, his posture, his air of calm all unsettled
Elizabeth further. Looking at him, she couldn't believe she had kissed him. It all came slamming
back to her. But, there was no time for recriminations now.
“Sorry,” she said, breathing heavily from her run, “I'm late.”
“That's okay,” William said, giving her The Look—the one that she had thought so many months
ago was an expression of his disapproval. The one that she realized now was exactly the
opposite.
“Is my place okay?” she asked.
“Your place is perfect.” His voice made her stomach weak.
“Cab?”
He nodded, and they hailed one. Once inside, they sat in an awkward, expectation-heavy silence.
“So, what do you plan on making?” asked William.
“Making?”
“For dinner.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth bit her bottom lip. She hadn't gone grocery shopping in a week. The only food
they had in the house was a variety of condiments and cereals, leftover pizza, and three eggs in
the fridge. “Um...well. I hadn't thought it through that far.”
Unexpectedly, the comment made William smile. He said nothing, however. The remainder of
the cab ride was spent in silence. Elizabeth tried to form a mental picture of the state in which
she had left the apartment that morning. Cringing, she remembered that her bra and underwear
from the day before were still crumpled in a pile on the floor in her room. Neither she nor Jane
had done dishes in two days. She hadn't dusted the coffee table in months.
Instructing the taxi driver which building was hers, Elizabeth dug through her bag to find her
wallet, but William had already snapped a crisp ten dollar bill from his. He handed it over with a
command for the driver to keep the change.
Elizabeth fumbled nervously for her keys and opened the door to her building. As she climbed
the stairs, she realized for the first time how dingy and unimpressive it was. Uneven tile,
fluorescent lights, grimy walls, no elevator. She remembered William's palace and was suddenly
gripped by nervousness. He continued to say nothing.
Reaching the third floor, she looked back at him and smiled timidly. He smiled back.
“Well, here it is. I'm warning you, it's not much,” she said, unlocking her front door and letting
them both in. As Elizabeth feared, they walked into a scene of several days’ worth of bowls and
mugs piled haphazardly in the sink. Elizabeth winced.
“Jane and I don't get much time to clean,” she explained. William merely smiled and shrugged.
“Okay, so let me give you the tour. You've already seen the kitchen...unfortunately. And this is
our living room.”
“It's very...blue.”
“Yeah, Jane painted the walls when I was on tour.” Elizabeth wondered if she shouldn't have
mentioned tour. William looked around noncommittally.
“And this is the bathroom...that's Jane's bedroom. Down there is mine. And that's about it. It's
small.”
Nodding, William looked around, shoved his hands in his pockets, and said nothing. Elizabeth
felt an embarrassed burn rise from her chest to her neck and face.
“Uh...make yourself at home. I'll be, uh, right back.” About-facing, Elizabeth scurried into her
bedroom, shut the door softly, and then raced around the room, hiding her dirty clothes and
straightening the clutter on her dresser. She cursed herself and truly regretted bringing him here.
They should have gone out to dinner! To one of those fancy places that he liked, as opposed to
Chez Rat's Nest, also known as her apartment.
“Ugh,” she groaned, running her hands over her face. She had not thought this through. Counting
to ten and breathing deeply three times, she opened the door and strode down the hallway,
expecting to find William sitting uncomfortably in her living room.
He was standing, however, leaning one arm against the wall. Turning his head towards her
approaching footsteps, he grinned. Elizabeth stopped in her tracks, speechless at the unexpected
greeting.
“I love your choice of artwork,” he said, rapping his knuckles against the tack board where Jane
and Elizabeth hung their calendar, reminder notes, important phone numbers, and...
Elizabeth's mouth fell open, and she went crimson.
“Oh, God!” she cried, dashing over to the board and ripping down the slightly crumpled
magazine clipping of Perfection by Hermes.
William laughed. “No, I like it! You should keep it up.”
“Oh, God. Will you shut up! Oh my God, I'm literally going to die of embarrassment.”
“No, I like it!”
William darted his hand out, trying to snatch the photo from her. Elizabeth scurried aside and hid
it behind her back. Grabbing her arm, William tried to wrest it from her. Elizabeth screeched,
laughed, and backed up against the wall, to prevent him from seizing it. He then pressed both
hands on either side of her head, effectively trapping her. She grinned lopsidedly and giggled.
“Elizabeth,” he teased, with a warning tone, “give me the picture.”
“And if I don't?”
“Good things await you if you do. Trust me.”
Arching an eyebrow, she produced the cutout from behind her back. “You'd better make it worth
my while.”
William plucked the page from her hand, balled it up, and threw it off to the side. Elizabeth
looked on in dismay. He then wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him.
His breath tickled the wisps of hair around her ears as he whispered, “I have the negatives from
that photo shoot at home.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth murmured, feeling her breath catch in her throat. William traced his lips in little
kisses along the line of her jaw, and then, their mouths were on each other's again.
Being pressed up against the wall worked to Elizabeth's advantage; her legs had gone rubbery
and weak, her head was spinning, and if it weren't for the solid mass behind her, she probably
would have collapsed onto the floor in a heap of molten desire. William's fingers slipped under
the hem of her shirt, floating lightly up the skin of her stomach. Sucking in her breath, Elizabeth
groaned into his mouth. For no apparent reason, he pulled away. William took a step back,
looking to the ceiling, his chest heaving furiously.
“What's wrong?” Elizabeth tentatively asked.
He inhaled and then exhaled slowly, finally looking at her. “Nothing. I, uh, think we'd better eat
dinner.”
“Oh.” Disappointment pounded her in the gut. It took her a moment before she could speak.
“Um, okay. What do you want?”
Rolling his eyes heavenward, William sighed. Then, he looked back at her, his eyes boring into
hers, the color in them unmistakable—he wanted her. William was giving her a choice: They
could calmly eat dinner, calmly chit-chat about the weather or work, and then calmly say their
good-byes for the evening. Or, they couldn't.
Elizabeth chose the latter.
“Fuck dinner.”
William agreed wholeheartedly, seizing her by her lower back and pressing her to him. Seeing an
opportunity, Elizabeth jumped into him, wrapping her legs around his waist. They kissed
messily, too excited by the other to concentrate on balance. William pulled away again.
“Bedroom,” he grunted.
“That way,” she pointed, before crushing her lips down on his again.
Once there, William set Elizabeth down gently, before sweeping his shirt off in one fluid gesture.
Elizabeth bit her lip, running her eyes across him lasciviously. Touching him with the tip of her
finger, she traced it down the groove of muscle in his abs. He sucked in his breath.
“Later,” he commanded, stilling her hand. With the same gracefulness he had used to remove his
shirt, William took off hers. He eyed her with a similarly greedy look with which she had stared
at him. Taking her face in his hands, William kissed her gently, which didn't last for long. Soon,
his hands moved from her cheeks, to her neck and collarbone, and then lower, to cup her breasts,
making Elizabeth moan.
Mid-kiss, William's hands snaked around to unclasp her bra. Maddening seconds later, his hands
still fussed with the silky material. He broke away, frustrated.
“Okay, how do you get this thing off?”
Elizabeth giggled. “It hooks in the front.”
“And when were you planning on telling me that?” he asked crossly.
Arching an eyebrow, she replied, “I like to see you suffer.”
He arched his eyebrow in response. “I'll have to remember that for later.”
With the dastardly bra finally out of the way, Elizabeth and William fell onto her double bed.
Soon after, no clothes remained. His mouth began a slow descent from the column of her neck to
her collarbone and lower. Kissing the soft underside of her breast, William delicately took a
nipple in his mouth and rasped it with his tongue. Running her fingers down the length of his
solid torso, Elizabeth closed them around the base of his arousal and gently caressed him,
making him moan even as his mouth was enclosed around her. They were hot and numb with
lust, touching each other frantically, with mouths, with hands, with the entire lengths of their
bodies. Soon they reached the point where even those ministrations were futile and frustrating,
and they took the final plunge into each other.
Elizabeth had fuzzy memories of the last time they had been together. Now, with him on top of
her again, inside of her, Elizabeth wondered how that could have been, when this time, she
sensed everything as keenly as a night animal. William's skin smelled faintly of spicy, exotic
cologne. Elizabeth inhaled long, trapped by the scent. Her fingers clutched his skin, as hot and
clammy as hers. With each thrust, her brain was hurled into blinding lucidity. She arched into
him, wild, out of control.
Elizabeth heard herself gasping, crying out in time to the rocking movement of his pelvis. She
squeezed her eyes shut, engulfed by blackness, and only opened them when William groaned in
her ear, “Stay with me, Elizabeth.” She felt everything about William—his strong torso, his
hungry lips devouring her mouth, the timbre of his voice panting words into her ear, his heavy
breathing, the slick of perspiration on the hard planes of his shoulder blades.
William slowed his rhythm, bringing Elizabeth back to him for a kiss that reached the depths of
her mouth. Then, his tempo changed—sharp, swift—signaling that the final coda was near.
Clutching his neck, Elizabeth succumbed, with William soon following.
Moments later, they were panting, spent, and silent. William rolled over and gathered her into his
arms, stroking her hair, and placing soft kisses onto her dampened forehead. They stayed that
way for a long while, with no sound between them except for their breathing. He was stroking
her hair, less out of affection and more out of nervous gesture. Gazing up to him, Elizabeth saw a
worried look cross his face. He looked down to her and smiled, a troubled, half-hearted smile.
Elizabeth propped herself up on an elbow and looked to him quizzically.
“I have to ask a question,” he said then, his voice filling the silence of the room.
“Yes.”
“What was that?”
Grinning lopsidedly, she replied. “Do you not know?”
He shook his head.
“Well, you see, William, when a man and a woman like each other a lot, they want to be close.
And they touch a lot and then the man gets excited and his...”
“I know that much,” he said, laughing. His face grew serious thereafter. “Is this...Do the man and
the woman like each other a lot? Or, is this just sex?”
Elizabeth grew serious. “I don't know. The woman does like the man. A lot. But. She also
realizes that they have a lot of unresolved issues between them. Up until now there's been almost
nothing between them except misunderstandings and prejudices, and those aren't the best
beginnings for a healthy relationship.”
William sighed and rubbed his eyes. Seeing his reaction of despair, everything in Elizabeth went
tender.
“But, the woman isn't stupid. She knows that the past is the past. Despite it all, these two could
be good for each other. The girl isn't so dumb anymore, and the guy has a lot of good things
going for him, too.”
William cracked a weak smile. “Yeah? Like what?”
“Um, let's see. He's kind, even if he comes across as a little severe at times. He's upright and
honest. Loyal to the people he loves. A creative genius, but never satisfied with less than
perfection. Plus, he's loaded and has connections to all of the major players in the New York
dance world.”
William threw his head back and laughed. “You left out the great sex.”
Elizabeth shrugged nonchalantly. “I've had better.”
Then, William reared up and pinned her under him, making Elizabeth giggle. “That's a lie, and I
don't like liars.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“I intend to force a confession from you,” he said, grinning wickedly, inching his hand down to
part Elizabeth's legs.
“You don't intimidate me, William,” giggled Elizabeth.
“Ah,” he said, as his fingers stroked the inside of her thighs. “But I had no intention of
intimidating you, Elizabeth.”
A little later on, William got his confession, screamed loud enough for all of the neighbors to
hear.
The food came sometime around nine. They ate on the living room floor, spreading out boxes of
Chinese food on the newly dusted coffee table. They were still dazed from what had just taken
place, and thus, not much was said between them. Yet, a question gnawed at Elizabeth.
Hesitantly, she placed down her cashew chicken and cleared her throat.
“Perhaps it's wrong of me to ask this, so let me know if you don't want to answer.”
William nodded.
“Um, okay. Why...why wasn't I cast in your piece?”
Tilting his head, William looked at her in confusion. He set down his chopsticks. “You said you
didn't want my attention. That day...in the studio. You said you didn't want me singling you out.”
Elizabeth flushed. “Yes, but you said that I inspired you.”
“You did. You do. But...I just couldn't bear your hatred again.”
“But I didn't hate you! Couldn't you tell from Miami?”
William shrugged and stared down to the floor. “Elizabeth, I had imagined so much before. I
couldn't be sure...and you were just so...silent.”
“I was hurt! I wanted to be in your piece, and you had chosen Jane instead.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “I only chose Jane for you! I wanted to redeem myself. Don't get
me wrong, your sister is an excellent dancer. But she's not you.”
Elizabeth smiled then.
“But that's not the whole truth, either. I also felt guilty about taking away her promotion.”
“You didn't take it away. Boroughs did.”
William shook his head. “No. I convinced Charles to throw away his principles. Jane deserved
that promotion, not Anne. I convinced him to make a wrong decision. I needed to prove to
myself that I had stronger convictions than that.”
“But you didn't have to get yourself fired over Jane,” Elizabeth insisted gently.
William stilled, his whole face tensing. “How do you know about that?”
“Catherine Boroughs told me.”
“Catherine Boroughs?”
“We had, uh, an altercation a couple of weeks ago.”
“An altercation? What does that mean?”
“She pulled me into her limo and accused me of sleeping with you to get Jane a better part.”
“She did what?” he asked coldly.
“You heard me.”
William frowned deeply, his eyes narrowing and growing fierce with anger. He stood sharply
and walked away.
“William?”
He had gone to his bag on the other side of the room, pulling his cell phone from within.
Elizabeth leapt up.
“Who are you calling?”
Putting the phone to his ear, William ignored the question. Elizabeth heard the phone ringing.
“Anne? Put your mother on...”
She wrenched the phone from him. “Hi, Anne. He'll call you back.” Elizabeth hung up the phone
and glared at him.
“What the hell!” she yelled.
“Boroughs thinks she runs this city! She has no right to tell you or any...”
“I know that! That's why I told her to fuck off!”
William stared at Elizabeth, speechless for a moment. “You told who to fuck off?”
“Boroughs!”
He blinked. “You told Catherine Boroughs to fuck off?”
“Yes, that's what I just said.”
“And what did she say back to you?”
“Oh, I don't know. How I was going to hell for fucking the choreographer or something like that.
I told her it was none of her damn business what I did in my personal life and that was that.”
“When was this?”
“Two weeks ago. Right after you'd announced you were leaving.”
Then, William laughed. “That must have been why she called me.”
“She called you? What did she say?”
He shrugged. “I don't know. I hung up on her.”
Elizabeth smiled, feeling just how similar they were in all of their dissimilarities. “Come on, our
food's getting cold.”
They returned to the coffee table, William staring at Elizabeth with a look she could only
describe as goofily impressed.
“What?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I have no words.”
Elizabeth smiled triumphantly and bit into the edge of the second egg roll she had ordered that
evening.
William woke up with a stiff back. Dazed, he looked over his surroundings—avocado walls
plastered with pictures of dancers and New York City, neatly arranged clutter on a white wicker
dresser, ivory curtains on a window that looked out to a neighboring building. Rolling onto his
side, he smiled down at the woman next to him. Half of her face was hidden in the pillow, her
bare shoulder peeking out of the sheets, her breathing slow and even. He remembered the night
before, still disbelieving what had happened.
She liked him. A lot. That's what she had said. They had stayed up talking until two in the
morning, ironing out the many misunderstandings between them. He had told her everything—
why he had chosen Jane, how Catherine Boroughs had been furious and threatened to withdraw
her money unless he reneged, how he had refused and been subsequently fired by Sir William,
desperate to keep Boroughs' money with the company. Elizabeth had seethed with rage at the
idiotic artistic director, but as William had told her of his dreams for his new company, she
calmed and listened eagerly.
They had stayed up later, laughing at their stupidity, kissing, and making love one more time
before, truly exhausted, they had fallen asleep naked on her bed.
That had been only six hours ago, William realized, checking the clock. Yet, he not merely felt
awake, he felt alive. He ran his fingers across the smooth strands of hair falling over Elizabeth's
shoulder. Moaning softly, she sighed deeper into the pillow. William kissed her exposed
shoulder and slipped from the bed, donning his clothes.
He wondered briefly where Jane was and then remembered Charles had mentioned something
about his parents' ranch that weekend. William grinned like a cat. Silently leaving Elizabeth's
bedroom, he pattered down the hall, sizing up his weekend now that Elizabeth would be in it.
The clock on the microwave read 8:21. Elizabeth might sleep for another hour or for another
three hours. He realized he knew next to nothing about her daily habits, but now, hopefully, he
would be afforded the chance to learn. Suddenly, he realized she would be sizing him up as well,
and he didn't exactly paint a pretty picture. William was still wearing yesterday's clothes. He
hadn't shaved. Nor did he have a toothbrush. Frowning, he rubbed his stubbly chin and realized
he was in no condition to begin his first day of being with Elizabeth.
Calculating the driving distance between Spanish Harlem and the Upper West Side, William
figured it would take him thirty minutes tops to get home, get a change of clothes and some
toiletries, and get back to Elizabeth's apartment.
Grabbing his bag, William made for the door and then realized that Elizabeth might wake up and
think she had been deserted. He returned to the living room, grabbing a sheet of paper from a
notepad, and began penning a quick memo detailing his whereabouts. Just as he signed it “Love,
WD,” he heard a loud thud from Elizabeth's room and a subsequent cry of curse words. William
set the pen down, peering in the direction of her bedroom curiously. Suddenly, she flung open
the door and charged out in a mismatched t-shirt and pair of sweatpants, and sneakers half on her
feet. Elizabeth beelined to the kitchen area, completely oblivious that he still stood in the living
room.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she muttered to herself. “Where are my fucking keys?”
William looked to the coffee table, where Elizabeth's keys lay next to the remote.
“On the coffee table,” he replied.
Elizabeth's mutterings went silent, and she raced back into the living room, her hair wild around
her face and her eyes wide.
“I thought you left!” she cried.
He shrugged. “I'm here, as you see.”
Elizabeth's shoulders slumped visibly and she rubbed her face, groaning into her palms.
“And where were you off to so early this morning?” he asked.
“I was off to chase you down!” she yelled, not from irritation, but from diminishing fear. “I
thought you'd left.”
William was about to protest that he wouldn't have left her alone, when he realized that was what
he had, in effect, done after their first night together. She looked at him with hurt eyes.
“But you're about to leave.”
“I have to go home,” he explained.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, her face going glacial. “Fine. Leave. Bye.” She turned and disappeared
back into her room.
Unable to help himself, William laughed. What a talent they had for misunderstandings!
Following her to her room, William leaned against the door frame and raised an eyebrow at her.
She sat on her bed, staring catatonically at the floor.
“Aren't you going to ask why I'm going home?”
“No doubt I did something in my sleep that wasn't up to your rigorous standards.”
William laughed, producing a glare from Elizabeth. “Well, maybe. Either that, or I didn't want to
spend the rest of the weekend in the same dirty clothes.”
Elizabeth snapped her eyes over to him, glancing at his clothes. She opened her mouth to reply,
but didn't, simply blinking mutely. Then, she groaned and flopped back onto the bed, covering
her face with her hands. “Oh God, I'm so stupid!”
“No,” chuckled William, “I should have told you where I was going.”
Uncovering her face, Elizabeth frowned at him pathetically. “Any other normal person would
have asked! Why do I always do this? Are you sure you want a girlfriend who's this stupid?”
It was the first time any mention had been made of the word “girlfriend.” William's heart lurched
at the word. “I'll take whatever you can give me, Elizabeth.”
She half-smiled. “So are you saying that I'm stupid?”
William laughed and joined her on the bed. “No, I'm saying that being with you is going to do
wonderful things for my interpersonal communication skills.”
“That's so romantic.”
“I try.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Communication skills, huh?” She smiled sheepishly up at him.
William returned the smile. “Would you like to come home with me? We could grab brunch,
maybe take a walk through Central Park, then come back here?”
Her eyes brightening, Elizabeth nodded and bounded up from bed. “Do I have time to get
ready?”
“Of course.”
“Great, I'm going to take a shower,” she said, breezing past him. He followed her with his eyes.
Suddenly, she stopped in the doorway and turned, smiling coyly. “Wanna come?”
William smiled back in assent of an offer he couldn't refuse.
Idly stroking Elizabeth's waist as she dozed in front of the television, William finally began to
feel his own content exhaustion from the events of the weekend. It was Sunday evening,
normally the night he sprawled into his leather recliner, listening to Coltrane, in his plush, finely
decorated den, reading The New York Times.
That night, he lay cramped into a sofa, barely big enough for one, much less two, watching a
fuzzy episode of The Simpsons. Yet, William wouldn't have traded that moment in a small,
cluttered Harlem apartment for anything.
That weekend, he had discovered the joys of small beds, cramped shower stalls, and eating meals
on the living room floor. Despite priding himself on his orderliness and punctuality, William had
found the utmost pleasure in waiting for a woman he adored to get ready in the morning.
If he had been charmed by the small part that he knew of Elizabeth before, William was now
captivated by the promise of seeing the more intimate goings-on of her life. He had listened,
fascinated, as she'd bubbled on the phone to Charlotte, apologizing for her suspicious absence on
Friday night. Elizabeth talked to herself often and hummed. William liked watching her brush
her hair, the almost erotic way she cast her head back, the look of pure bliss that swept across her
face as the brush went through her hair. She smiled and chatted with cashiers at the deli, almost
unheard of in his circle of New York natives.
William called New York home. Except for summers in Miami, and the few years he had spent
choreographing in various cities, he had never lived anywhere else. He felt he knew every nook
and cranny of the city, every cafe, every bench in Central Park. Yet, being with Elizabeth that
weekend had made him see his city differently. William had been so aware of Elizabeth's every
expression and reaction that he felt as if he were experiencing New York through her eyes.
They had lazed on the Great Lawn in Central Park after brunch on Saturday afternoon, making
out, something he would have never done months ago. Elizabeth had forced him to take the
subway back to her apartment and teased him relentlessly the entire way there, laughing as he
gawked like a tourist at the train evangelist, making his way down the aisle preaching
redemption. They had made spaghetti together. Rather, Elizabeth had done most of the cooking.
William just made the garlic bread and then stared at her with puppy eyes as she chopped onions
and garlic like a cooking show hostess.
And, of course, there had been sex—the gut-shaking, seeing-stars kind and the whispered,
reverent kind, too. William's knees still burned from their last go on the carpet several hours ago,
the consequence of which, now had Elizabeth dozing on the couch, curled into the shape of his
body, breathing slowly. Her hair fell over his forearm, and she smelled like green apple body
lotion. In her t-shirt and sweatpants, she was the sweetest thing he had ever laid eyes on, and it
made him smile like a cat on a sunny windowsill.
William heard a key turn in the lock of the front door. Moments later, the door opened, and he
heard a loud exhalation followed by the lugging of bags.
“Lizzy?” Jane called. “Oh my God, I have enough apples to last us until next year.”
Elizabeth didn't stir, and William didn't want to wake her. Kissing her hair, he bid farewell to
their enchanted weekend, but glowed with the anticipation that there would be many more to
come. He heard Jane heft up a plastic bag onto the counter, the sound of hard apples thudding
against each other.
“And, Charles' place was so nice. They had horses and everything. Oh, thanks for doing the
dishes. I'll do them next time.”
Still, Elizabeth did not awake. William wondered if he should wake her, or at least answer on her
behalf.
“Lizzy?” Jane called out. William heard her footsteps on the tile before she appeared in the
doorway of the living room. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.
“Oh! Mr. Darcy!” Her face took on a tinge of bafflement as she saw the choreographer curled up
so intimately with her sister on the sofa. William merely smiled, put a finger to his lips, and then
pointed down to Elizabeth.
Still frowning in confusion, Jane nodded slightly. She stared at the scene for a few seconds
longer and then retreated to the kitchen. William let her go, figuring all of the explaining could
come later. Right now, he had only a few minutes more of a sleeping Elizabeth to enjoy, and he
intended to enjoy them thoroughly.
Chapter Twenty-eight
William sighed in frustration, stared down to the carpet, and then swept the red, lacy bit of fabric
from the floor. Frowning, he strode down the hall, down the stairs, and into his den, where
Elizabeth reclined with her feet on the arm of his leather sofa, with Austin dozing blissfully on
her stomach.
“We have a problem.”
Lowering the crossword puzzle of Thursday's New York Times, Elizabeth peered curiously at
William. He waved her underwear in his hand.
“You didn't say that last night when you were taking them off of me,” retorted Elizabeth, with a
fine arch of her eyebrow.
William sighed. “You know it's a pet peeve of mine...”
“Oh, no,” Elizabeth cried, in mock-horror, “something in William Darcy's life isn't tidy and in
order. The world has begun to spin backwards on its axis!”
Rolling his eyes, William walked into the den and stood over Elizabeth. He hooked a finger
under her impertinently raised chin, and lowered his face down to hers.
“Little girl, do you know what the consequences are of not cleaning your room?”
“Ooh, yes, please,” moaned Elizabeth.
Glancing quickly down to the crossword puzzle, William smiled devilishly. “48 across—
Derbyshire.”
“William!” Elizabeth cried. “I told you to stop doing that!”
“Next time, pick your underwear up off of the floor,” William said, straightening himself.
“Next time, I won't even let you take them off of me.”
“Empty threats.” William laughed, walking to the door.
“You won't be saying that when you're forced to sleep in an empty bed!”
Chuckling to himself, William strolled out of the den, his irritation dissipating. Staying mad at
Elizabeth was an exercise in futility, and he had learned to give that up a long time ago. Crossing
the hall and going back up the stairs, William returned to their room. He paused. They didn't
even live together, but it was their room. Since when had it ceased to be his? With his hands on
his hips, he scanned the master bedroom. Perhaps since she had painted the wall behind the bed
the same avocado color as her bedroom. Since she had bought him the fabulous purple orchid
sitting on his nightstand. Since they had gone to Saks together and bought colorful throw
pillows. Since she stayed over so often that two drawers in his armoire had become filled with
her socks, t-shirts, and jeans and a corner of his bathroom counter had become occupied by her
moisturizers and makeup. And since he started finding her panties strewn on the floor.
He was just nearing the point in their relationship where the sight of her lacy underwear, either
on or off, didn't turn him into a slavering sex-fiend. Things had been good from the beginning,
but especially since the New Year, William and Elizabeth were finally growing comfortable with
each other.
It had taken a while, however. Their first meetings at work after their weekend together,
especially, had been awkward situations, with two of William's core principles warring against
another. He hadn't known how to reconcile his distaste for disguise with his staunch demand for
professionalism. How should he have faced Elizabeth in the halls? Should he have kissed her or
nodded coolly? Both had seemed wrong.
On Tuesday, he knew they would meet. On Monday, he strategized. William had decided on a
warm nod and smile. That would communicate enough to her without being sappy or
inappropriate.
And then he had seen her, walking down the hall, laughing with Jane and her chatty friend,
Lydia. Elizabeth didn't notice him at first, but when she did, the words died on her lips, and she
smiled at him. Jane stared smugly, Lydia strangely, and he, like a fool.
They had greeted each other shyly, and then Jane, angel that she was, had pulled a slack-jawed
Lydia away.
“What are you doing after rehearsals?” he had asked her, feeling very much like a cottonmouthed teenager.
“Having dinner with you,” Elizabeth grinned.
“Great. Five thirty, then?”
“Five thirty it is.”
Then William realized the fatal flaw in his strategy: He didn't want to nod, he wanted to kiss her.
And so he did. Right there, in the hall, in front of all of the company. The dancers around them
stared in incredulity. William didn't care, and Elizabeth didn't seem to, either. That evening at
dinner, she told him that the gossip had reached the locker room before she had.
William smiled and shook his head. What had he been doing? Nodding, he remembered that he
had come upstairs to search for his bow tie and cummerbund. Now that Elizabeth had all but
moved in and replaced his things with hers, he didn't know where he kept anything anymore.
He heard the doorbell through the bedroom intercom. Seconds later, Elizabeth, who refused to
use the expensive room-to-room intercom system, bellowed from below, “I'll get that.” William
frowned. It was Saturday morning, and they weren't expecting anyone. Leaving the bedroom,
William stood on the landing to the stairs, listening for who was at the door. He heard Elizabeth
open it and gasp.
“Oh my God, Jerome, what are these?” Jerome was the ancient doorman, who had worked in the
Darcy Building since William's boyhood.
“Card's addressed to you, darlin'. They were just delivered.”
“Oh, wow. Thank you.”
“You have a good day, now.”
“Yes. Yes, you, too.”
Nearly bursting with curiosity as to what had produced such a reaction from Elizabeth, William
descended the stairs and made his way into the foyer to find Elizabeth, her torso, mouth, and
nose hidden behind a mountain of lilies. From the shape and light of her eyes, he could tell she
was beaming.
“From G!” Elizabeth exclaimed.
William smiled. “That was nice of her. Is there a message?”
Setting the enormous arrangement on the kitchen counter, Elizabeth plucked a card from atop of
the flowers and read.
Dear E,
Congrats x 1,000,000! Sorry I couldn't come tonight, but I'll see you and Dub soon for spring
break.
Love,
Georgiana Inez Darcy (aka G)
P.S. Did you like the CD?
“That was so sweet of her. I should call to say thanks,” said Elizabeth.
“I'm sure she'd be happy to know you liked them.”
“Where should we put them?”
“Up in the bedroom?” William offered.
Nodding, Elizabeth grinned and lifted the arrangement. William followed her up the stairs and
into the master bedroom, where Elizabeth sat the flowers on the dresser.
“All of this fuss being made over me,” giggled Elizabeth.
“You deserve it.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Do I? I feel bad that Jane never got the same treatment.”
“She had bad timing.”
“And a less than god-like boyfriend,” she said, approaching William and slipping her arms
around his neck.
“God-like?” he teased, flashing a smile.
“You haven't been chosen for the pantheon yet, Dub.” Elizabeth pecked William on the lips and
then unraveled herself from his grasp. “And I have a hair appointment in thirty minutes. Eek! I'm
so excited! It's like the prom I never went to.”
William couldn't suppress a smile. “Okay, Prom Queen, you'd better go before you're late.”
“Oh! Yeah. See you at seven.” Snatching her bag from the chair in the corner, Elizabeth kissed
him quickly on the cheek before calling out her good-byes. William listened as she cooed
farewell to Austin and then closed the door softly behind her. Sighing, he looked around his very
green room and smiled. It was the first time in his nearly thirty-year dancing career that he was
looking forward to a Netherfield Gala.
As her hair stylist pulled out another hot roller, Elizabeth smiled dreamily into the mirror. The
night promised to be perfect. Perfect dress, perfect weather, perfect career, perfect boyfriend.
The dopey grin hadn't left her face since she had awakened that morning.
For the past six months, since she had begun seeing William, everything had been perfect. The
beginning had been strange—growing accustomed to the fresh wave of locker room whispers,
the confused stares of William's upper-crust New York acquaintances, and her own amazement
at dating a man whom she had idolized for years, loathed passionately for months, and pined for
secretly for several more months thereafter.
In all honesty, in the beginning, she had not expected them to work so well together. Elizabeth
had believed it would take tremendous effort to lighten him up and that their day-to-day lives
would clash like French fries in a French restaurant. She had thought William could never
withstand her teasing, her casual good humor, her propensity for the dramatic. But to her
surprise, he adored best all of those qualities which Elizabeth had believed she would have to
hide from him. William met her silliness with understated wit, her fits of exaggeration with
reasonableness, and her bubbling eagerness with a sedate air of contentment. She made him
laugh, and he made her think.
Not that William was all level-headedness and logic. With choreography, especially, he often
over-analyzed, lost himself, despaired. Elizabeth marveled that, with nothing more than a quiet
embrace or stroke of his cheek, she could settle him.
It had surprised her when, in one of these moments of despair, days before the premiere of “New
York State of Mind,” he had buried his face into the crown of her head and beseeched Elizabeth,
“Be with me for the premiere. Be backstage with me.”
Nodding, Elizabeth had answered with a soft kiss to his cheek.
“The critics can hate it,” he added, his voice uncharacteristically tender and insecure, “as long as
you like it.”
William needed her. He often jokingly begged her to give up Ballet Theater and to come dance
with his company; he would make her prima ballerina and let her act like Caroline Bingley, if
she wanted. Elizabeth understood, in spite of his teasing, that every time she turned him down,
he was secretly disappointed. For the meantime, however, Elizabeth knew that she belonged in
Ballet Theater. She wanted to find her bearings in the ballet world without the name of William
Darcy pinned to her leotard like an audition number. And she was grateful because, despite how
desperately William wanted her dancing for him, he respected those wishes and even encouraged
them.
He had become her mentor, guiding her through variations and dance steps after-hours in the
studio. William wanted her to succeed, not to live vicariously through him or to make her his
token Tallchief or LeClercq, but because he loved her and wanted to see her happy. It was
enough. William made her want to succeed, not only for the glory and gratification that she
would reap, but to please him, as well.
And so it was to William that Elizabeth had first revealed the happy news, three weeks earlier.
She had sat in William Lucas' office, speechless, stunned. Finally, when reality sunk in,
Elizabeth laughed. At seeing the corps girl's strange reaction, Lucas chuckled, too, and then sat
back in his chair with a self-satisfied and expectant expression on his face.
“Elizabeth, love, do you not want to be a soloist?”
She had nodded her head furiously and laughed some more. “I do! But, this is so, oh my God, I
can't believe...this is unreal. Thank you!”
Lucas had thanked her in return, embraced her, and wished her luck as she embarked for the
upper echelons of the company. Leaving the office in a daze, Elizabeth had stayed a moment in
the hall, collecting herself, wondering if this weren't some cruel practical joke orchestrated by
Caroline Bingley. She looked down the hall, to one of the last doors, to an office newly vacated,
which had been William's. No, suddenly Elizabeth had remembered how hard she had worked
since returning to New York—all of that money spent on Pilates, all of those hours in the studio,
alone or with William, practicing, refining everything. They had paid off. But, she had never
expected that her return would come this soon.
She had shot down the stairs like a bullet. Down to the basement floor. Elizabeth had grabbed
her wallet from her locker and sped outside to the pay phones. Dropping in some change, she had
punched in William's cell phone number and waited for his voice.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Guess what?”
“El?” he asked in that endearment only he used. “Where are you calling from?”
“From the studio. Guess what?”
“What?”
“No, you have to guess!”
William chuckled and then paused. “You've been promoted to soloist.”
“Yes!...Wait, how'd you know?”
“Well, it's the second week in February, and there's no other reason for you to call me at this time
of day,” he chuckled.
“I could have called to say 'I love you.'”
“You're not Jane.”
Elizabeth just laughed. “But can you believe it? Soloist! Lucas just told me. And they're going to
announce it at the Gala!”
“That's great, El. Congratulations.” His voice was so calm, but she could sense the greater
emotion behind his words. Elizabeth imagined that he was beaming on the other side of his cell
phone. She beamed back, proud of herself, but more satisfied by the obvious pleasure in his tone.
“Big night, tonight?” the hairstylist asked, jarring Elizabeth from her reverie.
“Yeah. Work function.”
“Ooh, very nice. I thought maybe you were getting married, judging from that big smile on your
face.”
Elizabeth bit her lip and grinned. “It's an important work function.”
The hair dresser nodded knowingly and smiled in the mirror. “Well, then. We're going to have to
make you ravishing, aren't we? We wouldn't want to disappoint him.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Am I that obvious?”
“Just a little.”
“Actually,” explained Elizabeth, “I'm getting promoted.”
“That would also explain the smile. And so you're the guest of honor tonight?” The words came
out slightly muffled as the hair dresser held three bobby pins between her lips.
“Yes, something like that. More like I'll be the guest everyone's scrutinizing the most tonight.”
“Some people make it a hobby to criticize and judge others, don't they?” joked the stylist.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “What else is there to do at a black-tie party?”
The woman laughed. “You’ve got that right. Don't worry, I'm going to make you gorgeous. Get
everyone fired up and jealous of you.”
Elizabeth smiled. In the past year, she had done a commendable job of firing up choreographers,
principals, artistic directors, billionaires, and nearly all of her colleagues without the aide of a
gorgeous hairstyle. That night would bring her face-to-face with many whom she had no desire
to see, mainly Catherine Boroughs. Elizabeth would be surrounded by William's bourgeois peers,
who patronized her and made her feel unworthy of him. She had chosen a taller pair of heels that,
for all of their cuteness, would kill her feet, especially given that she had developed a monster
blister the day before in rehearsal.
Yet, despite it all, Elizabeth remembered the prior year's Netherfield Gala, with all of its
promise, disappointment, and humiliation. She could remember it now and laugh, the time felt so
far away. She had been a foreigner to herself then. A year ago, she had been indignant and
foolish, but Elizabeth had come far since then, thanks to William.
“There,” the hair stylist proclaimed, holding a mirror behind Elizabeth's head for her to see the
up-do, “how do you feel?”
Admiring herself, Elizabeth grinned into the mirror. “I feel perfect.”
“Jane,” Elizabeth called from her room.
“Yeah?” answered her sister from hers.
“I need your opinion.” Elizabeth treaded to Jane's room, taking small, penguin-like steps to
prevent stamping on the hem of her dress.
When Elizabeth reached the doorway of Jane's bedroom, she turned and looked over her
shoulder. “Shawl or no?”
Jane gasped. “Oh, Lizzy! That dress!”
“Too slutty?”
“No, it's perfect. Oh, it's gorgeous. When did you get that?”
Elizabeth turned around to face her sister and grinned. “William gave it to me for Valentine's.”
“The man's got great taste.” Jane shook her head.
“It's my taste, actually. But, I can't afford my tastes and, fortunately, he can.”
Jane giggled. “You shouldn't joke like that. People might think you're only dating him for his
money.”
“Like they already don't?”
Jane looked whimsically at her sister and sighed. “Aw, man. Why'd they have to promote me last
summer? My timing sucks.”
Swallowing down a surge of guilt, Elizabeth frowned sympathetically. “Don't think like that.
You have half of a year on me. I'd trade that for the Netherfield Gala any day.”
Jane shrugged her assent reluctantly. Going over to her, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around
Jane's shoulders and squeezed them.
“Janey, it's just a bunch of rich people. They don't care about me anymore than they care about
their next good cause. Besides, you look beautiful, as always.”
“Not as nice as you,” Jane pouted. “I'm going to give real meaning to the expression 'Plain Jane'
tonight.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Aw, Janey. Tonight, you can feel what it's like to be me all of the time.”
Jane playfully rolled her eyes at her sister's silliness. Elizabeth kissed the top of Jane's head and
was about to turn away, when the glimmer of a precious stone made her stop.
“What the heck is this!?” she asked, grabbing Jane's left hand.
Looking up, Jane colored and then laughed.
“'Plain Jane,' my ass! What is this?” Elizabeth repeated.
Jane sighed and turned to face her sister. “I really wanted to wait to tell you...”
“You're kidding! You're kidding, oh my Lord! Did he ask you to marry him?”
Jane nodded, with a huge grin on her face. “I wanted to wait...”
“When?” asked Elizabeth, her eyes glittering.
“Valentine's Day.”
“Valentine's Day! Valentine's Day? And you waited almost three weeks to tell me?”
“Well, you've been so happy, and I didn't want to take away from that,” Jane explained.
Elizabeth sighed. “Oh, Jane. No, that was wrong. You should have said something. We could
have been happy together.”
Admired her ring, Jane smiled and whispered, “I've really wanted to wear it.”
“I would, too. Damn, that thing is huge!”
Jane only giggled. “Don't worry, Lizzy. We won't say anything until after tonight.”
“Jane, I don't think you could hide that ring if you wanted to.”
“Should I not wear it?”
“No, wear it. And if anyone asks, be honest. Oh, Jane, congratulations! I'm happy for you and
Charles.”
“Thanks, Lizzy.” Jane squeezed Elizabeth's hand and smiled into her eyes. For a brief moment,
the two sisters simply gazed at each other. Feeling suddenly teary, Elizabeth looked away first.
“Now, come on and get ready. The boys will be here in ten minutes.”
“Oh, crap. I haven't even put on my makeup yet.”
Elizabeth walked slowly back to her room, disbelieving, but happy for her sister. The past year
had perhaps been just as hard for Jane—with her jilted promotion and subsequent rejection by
Elizabeth—and she deserved her happiness. Elizabeth entered her room, closed the door, and put
on a Chopin CD, something she always did when she needed to collect her thoughts. Jane
married? The notion was so strange. Elizabeth still felt sometimes as if she were twelve years
old, Jane thirteen, and that they were still dancing together in an unknown dance studio in
Kalamazoo, Michigan. Elizabeth paced. She sat on the edge of her bed, but feeling unsettled,
went to the window and peered to the small section of street not hidden by the opposing building.
It was not jealousy. Those days were over. Months ago, an announcement like this might have
devastated Elizabeth—losing a sister, a roommate, a best friend to Prince Charming. But
Elizabeth had nothing to envy. Leaning her forehead against the glass, she smiled softly, a bit
sadly. She was happy for Jane, but felt like something had ended.
A knock on the door stole her from her thoughts.
“Are the boys here?” she called out.
The door opened. “They are.”
“William,” she said, turning abruptly, “I didn't hear you come in.”
“Jane answered the door,” he replied, his eyes roaming down the length of her body. “Christ, El.
You look...”
William's words trailed off there, and Elizabeth laughed. “Any compliment will do.”
He smiled, his eyes looking bright and youthful. “That's the best gift I've ever given myself.”
Elizabeth laughed again. “Ah, your motives become clear. Are we leaving?”
“Apparently, Jane is still getting ready. What are you doing in here?” William said, pacing
towards her. He looked around and frowned. “Chopin? What happened?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking.”
“Contemplating your big night?” Reaching out, William stroked her cheek.
Elizabeth smiled and looked out of the window. “Not really.”
“No? What, then?”
“My sister's getting married.” She turned her eyes back to him.
William nodded. “I heard.”
“You heard? When?”
“A week ago. Charles let it slip. They didn't want to say anything until after tonight.”
Elizabeth sighed in frustration. “So you were all in on it, then?”
“Not 'in on it.' They wanted to wait, and it wasn't my place to say anything.” William paused.
“Are you angry?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, just surprised. My sister's getting married. Jane Bingley. That
sounds weird.”
Laughing, William replied, “She might keep her name for the stage. Plenty of dancers do that.”
“It's not about the name, William.”
He sighed gently. “Didn't you ever consider the possibility that this might happen?”
“I did. I just didn't think it would happen so soon.” Elizabeth shrugged, her face taking on a tinge
of melancholy. “I wonder when they'll have the wedding.”
“Charles told me they're thinking of having it before the fall season premiere.”
“Before the fall season!” cried Elizabeth. “So soon? Our lease on the apartment isn't up for
another year! Crap.”
Then, William laughed. “Ever the practical girl.”
Accepting his criticism, Elizabeth chuckled in spite of herself. “Sorry, this is a lot for me to
digest—Jane married, and me living with another roommate.”
“I'll try not to take that as an insult.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “What does that mean?”
“What do you mean 'what does that mean?' Why would you need a roommate?”
“How else am I supposed to afford the rent?”
“Elizabeth,” William said, in what she called his “Who's The Boss?” voice.
“No, William, I'm not letting you pay my rent.”
“I don't want to pay your rent.”
Elizabeth frowned and scanned his face. It took her several seconds to finally understand his
meaning. When she did, her eyes widened. “You mean, live together?”
William nodded.
“I thought you didn't like it when I left my underwear on the floor and didn't clean my dishes.”
“I don't like it.”
“I...I just didn't think we'd live well together.”
William frowned. “Because you don't clean your room?”
Elizabeth nodded. “And don't do the dishes or the laundry.”
“Yes, you have a point. Forget it.”
Elizabeth punched him playfully in the stomach. He laughed, but quieted soon after. William
searched her eyes, before raising his forehead in expectation.
“I love you, and the underwear and dishes I can get used to. Move in with me, El.”
Elizabeth considered his offer. “When?”
“Whenever.”
She licked her lips and stared up at him. Then, she smiled lopsidedly. “Are you sure? If I take
you up on your offer, your entire universe may implode on itself.”
William enfolded her in his arms and kissed her forehead. “Like it hasn't already?”
Chuckling, Elizabeth kissed his jaw. She breathed him in, the scent of wool, of his cologne.
Closing her eyes, she nuzzled the skin of his neck. “All right, then. I'll move in. But Elsa's going
to really hate you for it,” she joked, referring to William's housekeeper.
William smiled and rolled his eyes at her. Saying nothing, he lifted her chin, smiled down into
her face, and then kissed her.
“Hey, you two!” called Charles from the living room. “Stop making out. The limo's waiting.”
William and Elizabeth laughed and untangled themselves from each other.
“You're wearing my lip gloss,” giggled Elizabeth, rubbing his lips with her thumb.
He smiled down to her, a large, silly smile, and pecked her lips once more. Straightening his
tuxedo jacket, he took Elizabeth's hand. “So, are you ready to be crowned queen of the evening?”
Smiling, Elizabeth grabbed her purse off of the bed and nodded. “I've been ready for ages,
William. Come on, let's not keep them waiting.”
The End.