Chapter Eleven
Why hadn’t he warned them immediately that Elizabeth might be taking a damaging story to the press? After all, he’d summoned them for damage control. They could have visited Elizabeth immediately and persuaded her to stay quiet. Now the damage might already be done. He could imagine the headlines: “President Accused of Sexual Assault.” “Air Force One Love Nest.” “President Darcy: Awkward Loner or Sexual Menace?”
Why hadn’t he sent them to stop her half an hour ago?
He wanted to claim that he didn’t know. But he did. It was because he didn’t care anymore. It was hard to care about anything at all. Darcy hadn’t moved when Hilliard and Fitz returned to the suite, quite a bit less panicked. Good.
“Where is she?” Darcy asked.
“In the press area,” Fitz responded.
Icy fingers of fear crept up Darcy’s spine. Maybe he did care after all. The only thing worse than crashing and burning with the only woman who’d caught his interest in years was performing said crashing and burning in the full view of the media.
“But we don’t think she talked to anyone,” Hilliard said. “Most of the reporters are asleep; nobody seemed to be writing up an urgent story.”
“Did you talk to her?” Darcy asked.
Fitz shook his head. “She was curled up, fast asleep in the last row of the press section. I didn’t want to have that conversation with the press around.”
“Which is probably why she decided to sit there,” Hilliard observed.
Darcy sighed. “Nobody accused her of being stupid.”
“If you like her, I’m sure she’s very smart,” Fitz said. Darcy raised his eyebrows. “What?” Fitz asked. “You like intelligent women. It’s your thing.”
“We’ll have to talk to her in the morning,” Hilliard said.
Darcy scowled. “Just leave the poor woman alone.”
“Sir, we need to know if she’s likely to go to the press.”
“She’s not the type to do that sort of thing.”
Hilliard took a deep breath as if summoning his patience. “With all due respect, Mr. President, I’m not sure you’re the best judge of what this woman would do. You thought she’d like being kissed by you.”
That was a depressingly accurate statement. Darcy waved an irritated hand at Hilliard. “All right, but you have no tact. Send Fitz to talk with her, and let’s hammer out a media strategy.”
***
A hard bump woke Elizabeth. Peering out the window, she was shocked to discover they had landed. The unfamiliar airport was characterized by low-slung red brick buildings and lots of people in military uniforms; presumably it was Andrews Air Force Base, where Air Force One traditionally landed.
The reporters around her were gathering their stuff, chatting softly. A few gave her curious glances, but she studiously avoided meeting anyone’s gaze. Hopefully nobody had noticed her panicked state upon entering the press area the previous night.
Sitting up, Elizabeth stretched, scrubbed her eyes with her hands, and checked the time. 8:32 a.m. She’d planned to fake sleep so nobody would question her; at some point it had become the real thing. However, every time she shifted position, she would wake enough to remember why she was hiding, and her stomach would tense into a hard knot. Fleeing his suite had been the right choice, but she had allowed anger to guide some of her words to him. I definitely could have handled that better.
Was it true that Will had planned to invite her on a date? Had she assumed he was making a pass when he was actually trying to romance her? Her initial impression of him was of an honorable—if tactless—man. Maybe that had been right. Maybe she had horribly misjudged him the previous night.
No. His actions toward George and Jane attested to his character. As did his snide comments about her family. Even if she had been wrong about his intentions, she hadn’t been wrong about their compatibility. Nothing would work between them.
She regretted her manner of rejecting him, but not the fact of it.
It was time to get off the damned airplane and meet Jane’s car. I hope he doesn’t try to talk to me again. What would she say? Just the thought made her whole body twitchy.
The door to the press area finally opened, and the reporters started filing out. However, before Elizabeth could follow suit, Fitz pushed his way into the compartment and pulled her into the front row of seats with him.
He waited until they were alone. “We need to talk.”
She shook her head wearily. “Fitz, I just want to go home. I don’t want to talk to him.”
Fitz blinked. “He’s already gone. The president always gets off first.”
Of course he did. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She stood. “Then I want to go.”
He grabbed her elbow, and she gave him a hard stare. “Are you keeping me here?”
Fitz released her arm like it had burned him. “Of course not; you’re not under arrest.” As Elizabeth edged toward the door, Fitz spoke faster. “But I do want to tell you about Wickham—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“But—”
She held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear anything about Will or George or anyone connected to the White House. I just want to go home.”
Fitz stared at her for a long moment and then nodded. “All right. But can you tell me one thing? Are you going to the media with this?”
Huh? Maybe she was more tired than she thought. Why would she involve the media in one of the most mortifying experiences of her life? She turned his question over again in her head, but it still didn’t make any sense. “The media?” she repeated.
Fitz shifted uneasily, lowering his voice even though they were alone. “Darcy said he kissed you.”
She cringed. “He told you about that?”
Fitz shrugged. “He didn’t have a choice. We need to know if you’ll approach the media with the tale.” She gaped at him. “You know”—he pitched his voice higher—“‘the president grabbed me and kissed me’—”
“It wasn’t like that!” she said indignantly. “I mean, I don’t want—I don’t like the—I don’t want to be his girlfriend, okay? But I didn’t mind the kiss.” Actually, she wouldn’t mind reenacting the kiss. Yeah, she would have fond memories of it—if not the rest of the farce.
“Uh…you’re smiling,” Fitz said, rubbing his chin.
“It was a good kiss,” she sighed. Fitz stared at her quizzically. “Can I go now?” she asked.
He sat up straighter in his seat. “Sure, but who are you planning to share this story with?”
Elizabeth stared at the ceiling as she considered. “Maybe Jane, but I can’t tell anyone else…definitely not the rest of my family. The president doesn’t need that much squealing in his life.”
“Good.” Tension leaked from Fitz’s body.
She ran both hands through her disheveled hair. All she wanted was a shower and a nap—far away from anything presidential. “I don’t want to hurt the president. I mean, I believe in what he stands for, and the last thing I want is to be at the center of some sex-fueled controversy—especially when nothing happened.”
Fitz grinned. “He’ll be relieved to hear that.”
“I just don’t want to see him ever again,” she said firmly.
Fitz flinched as if she’d punched him. “Elizabeth, he’s a really good guy.” He reached out to touch her arm.
The last of her patience evaporated, leaving behind a bundle of raw, exposed nerve endings. Fitz had obtained the reassurance he needed, and now she needed to be left alone. She yanked her arm away. “No. You don’t know me, and you don’t know what happened between us. I don’t need your input.”
He exhaled, eyes focused on the floor. “Fair enough.”
“Is that it?” she snapped.
“Yeah. There’s a porter at the foot of the stairs who will help you obtain your luggage, and we have a limo to—”
Elizabeth interrupted. “No, thanks. My sister is on her way to pick me up.” Without waiting for a reply, she stood and hurried through the door. Hopefully she would never see Air Force One again.
***
During the half-hour wait for Jane, Elizabeth contemplated whether she should have accepted the offer of the limo. The White House staff and press were long gone; Elizabeth stood in front of a red-brick building in the blazing July heat watching the flight crew and various Air Force officers service the airplane.
Finally, Jane’s Prius pulled up in front of her. Shading her eyes with her hand, Elizabeth couldn’t stifle a groan when she saw Lydia in the passenger’s seat. Of course, she loved her younger sister, but she wouldn’t have a high tolerance for Lydia’s particular brand of crazy today.
Jane hopped out of the car to open the trunk and help Elizabeth load her luggage, giving her a quick hug. “I’m sorry it took so long. This place is like Fort Knox. I was worried they wouldn’t admit me at all.”
Elizabeth swung her laptop bag into the back of the Prius. “What is Lydia doing here?” she asked under her breath.
Jane rolled her eyes. “Sorry about that. She locked herself out of her dorm last night.”
“Again?”
“I wasn’t planning to bring her this morning, but she was so excited about Air Force One.” Jane gazed at the plane. “Plus she wanted a chance to ‘ogle cute guys in uniform.’”
Elizabeth exchanged eye rolls with her sister. “At least my misfortunes provide an opportunity for my sister to drool over some beefcake.”
Jane climbed into the car while Elizabeth slid into the back seat. Jane turned to Lydia. “Honey, do you think you could let Lizzy have the front seat? She had a long flight.”
Lydia screwed up her face. “I’ll get carsick in the back seat.” Jane sighed audibly. “I will! If I so much as look at my phone one time I’ll be in danger of puking.”
“It’s fine,” Elizabeth said wearily.
Jane pursed her lips but said nothing as she steered the car toward the exit. Elizabeth considered the range of neutral topics. “I’m grateful I made it back in time for Mom’s birthday.”
“She’ll be happy,” Jane said.
“Yeah.” Lydia twisted around in her seat so she could meet Elizabeth’s eyes. “So does Air Force One have gold-plated bathrooms and barf bags with the presidential seal?”
Elizabeth managed to restrain an eye roll. “It wasn’t as luxurious as I expected—and more crowded. It was actually a lot like a regular airplane, but with more security.”
Lydia bounced in her seat. “Did the president chat you up? Did he ask you to dance again?”
“There’s nowhere to dance on an airplane.”
Lydia gestured impatiently. “You know what I mean! He totally wants to do you.”
“Lydia!” Jane exclaimed at the same time Elizabeth screeched, “What?”
“C’mon, Lizzy.” Lydia smirked. “He was totally checking you out during that ball thing.”
Warning klaxons sounded in Elizabeth’s head. She had to throw Lydia off the scent. “What are you smoking? This is the man who called me stupid and ugly.”
“He can change his mind. Did he make a pass at you?”
“Of course not. Don’t be silly, Lydia.” Elizabeth winced as her voice squeaked into higher registers. Everyone in her family agreed that she was a lousy liar.
“I don’t believe you!” Lydia sing-songed.
“This the president we’re talking about!” Jane scoffed. “On Air Force One!”
Elizabeth struggled to piece together her disjointed thoughts. “Nothing happened. I barely saw him.”
“Hmm.” Lydia made a moue of disappointment. “Although I guess it’s just as well. After he stole George’s inheritance like that.”
Oh no. “What about George? You met him once at a ball.”
“Yeah, sure,” Lydia agreed hastily.
Elizabeth recognized that tone of voice. “Lydia, have you been hanging around—?”
“Lizzy’s jealous!” her younger sister chorused.
“No, I’m not. But he’s a lot older than you are.”
Lydia snorted inelegantly. “Like anyone cares about that sort of thing nowadays. Besides, he’s cute. Double besides, we’re just friends.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Happy?”
She should pursue it, but instead she sank back into her seat. Nothing Elizabeth said would affect Lydia.
Double besides?
***
It was an ordinary white business envelope, with an ordinary flag stamp in the corner and hand addressed to her. That alone was enough to make it stand out. Most of the mail Elizabeth received was bills, credit card solicitations, and advertisements. However, it was even more extraordinary because of the return address: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C.
Everyone knew that was the address of the White House, and there was only one person who would write to her from there. Unless Fitz had sent her a customer satisfaction survey about her trip on Air Force One.
Elizabeth stood by the mailboxes in her apartment building’s lobby for a long time—staring at the envelope, not sure if she wanted to open it.
It had been a week since her ill-fated trip on Air Force One, and she’d been aggressively trying to avoid any thoughts about it. About him. The efficacy of the avoidance strategy was…limited, however. She zombied her way through the workday, her mind caught up in debating whether she should have behaved differently in the presidential suite. At night, she stared at the ceiling for hours before falling into a restless sleep.
I was right to reject him. I was. The guy was proud and difficult, seemingly incapable of navigating a conversation without insulting her family. Still, it was hard to forget the way he moved through the corridors of Air Force One…in those jeans…or that kiss…
He is pretty damn hot. But that is just a superficial attraction. And that hardly mattered since medical science still hadn’t found a way to do personality transplants.
But maybe her words had been unnecessarily harsh and unpleasant. Some nights she figured she was just one of a line of women parading through that suite. Other nights she was haunted by the wounded expression on his face and his protestations that he wanted to date her. Which William Darcy was the real one?
Every night she wished she’d listened to what Fitz had to say about George Wickham. If Elizabeth hadn’t been so angrily desperate to get off the airplane, Fitz might have said something revelatory. Of course, it wouldn’t have changed anything, but…. she couldn’t help wondering…
Chastising herself under her breath, Elizabeth took the elevator to the ninth floor and let herself into her apartment. Sitting at the kitchen table, she regarded the letter from the White House like a ticking time bomb.
Finally, she took a deep breath and tore open the envelope with trembling fingers. The letter inside was handwritten in the same scrawl as the address on the envelope. Elizabeth’s hands shook so hard that she had to lay it flat on the table to read.
Dear Ms. Bennet,
Please forgive me for contacting you this way, but a letter is harder to delete or ignore than a text or email. Do not fear that this is a renewed attempt to change your mind. You made your opinion of my character perfectly clear, and I respect your decision. I merely wanted to defend myself against some of the accusations you leveled at me on Air Force One. I am distressed at the thought that you are laboring under a delusion, and—at least for my own peace of mind—I believe it is important that you know the truth. For this reason, I implore you to read the rest of this letter.
I don’t know exactly what Wickham told you regarding his relationship with my family, but I can relay to you the truth of the matter. He is the son of my father’s business manager, and we played together as children. However, his parents indulged him as a child, and he grew up without much discipline or direction in life. His father paid for the very best private schools and colleges, but he never applied himself to his studies and left college after six years of wasting his parents’ money.
My father had always been fond of Wickham and blind to his faults. When my father passed away, he left a substantial sum of money to Wickham in his will. Naturally, I was inclined to follow his instructions despite my reservations about Wickham’s character. I was prepared to write him a check, but Wickham requested instead that I give him a property in Manhattan that my family owned. He claimed that he had fond memories of it from our childhood days. I consulted my sister Georgiana, and we agreed to give it to him even though its value far exceeded the amount my father had bequeathed him. At the time, we hoped the stability of a home in New York would help him establish himself in a career.
Wickham promptly sold the property for an enormous profit and then proceeded to indulge in years of dissolution: drinking, gambling, and other unsavory activities—supported by the proceeds of the sale. Needless to say, I was unhappy about this turn of events but felt we had done what we could for him. We were simply grateful that Wickham was banished from our lives.
Unfortunately, that was not the last encounter we had with him. Two years later, having wasted all his money, Wickham showed up at my sister’s apartment in New York City. He tried to seduce her—no doubt hoping that he could somehow get his hands on her inheritance. Georgiana resisted his advances, but he said some horrible things to her that left her quite shaken. After that incident, I threatened him with a restraining order if he should ever come near Georgiana again. Since he was considering involvement in politics, he decided not to risk legal repercussions.
I wanted to reveal Wickham for who he is, but I was in the process of gearing up for my senatorial bid, and Georgiana felt that the story would my hurt my candidacy. Although we were undoubtedly the victims of Wickham’s schemes, she had no desire to draw attention to his past association with our family or, truth be told, to herself. She’s very shy and doesn’t particularly like the scrutiny that comes from being a presidential sister. So I let the matter drop, which perhaps I should not have done. It allowed Wickham to later insinuate himself into the Republican party and use his supposed “inside knowledge” of me as a springboard to secure the nomination for a New York City congressional district.
Although Wickham and I have often been at the same events, he has not attempted to speak with me over the past few years. Hilliard believes he is waiting for a good opportunity to attack me, so I was understandably disturbed when he sought you out for conversation at the Carlisle Ball. I wish I had inquired of you what he had said, but a penchant for gossip is not an attractive trait in a president.
I swear to you that this is the whole and truthful story of my relationship with Wickham. Fitz can verify all the particulars should you wish to inquire.
As to the business with Bing, I do not wish to violate his confidence. However, I can say that he was under the strong impression that your mother had pressured Jane into pursuing a relationship with him. Caroline’s discovery that your family’s company is struggling seemed to support this conclusion. In addition, your sister’s interest in Bing seemed rather tepid; I never had the impression that deeper feelings were engaged.
Bing, on the other hand, was on the verge of becoming emotionally invested in your sister. I did not encourage him to break up with her; that was his decision. But I did not dissuade him from the course either. It seemed highly probable that he would be badly hurt if your sister was primarily interested in his money. Of course, you know your sister better than I do, and perhaps I was wrong about her degree of emotional engagement.
I cannot deny the other accusations you leveled at me. I have said intemperate things I later regretted. My disparaging comments at the state dinner were patently false. Nothing could be further from the truth.
However, you cannot deny that your family displays a certain…exuberance that isn’t often exhibited at the kind of formal events we have attended together. While you and Jane are the souls of tact and propriety, the same cannot be said for the rest of your family. Unfortunately, as president, I must consider such things. Since I had considered asking you to date me, I was concerned about how your family’s behavior would reflect on my presidency. Perhaps it was wrong of me, but I feared that your family would not perform well with the spotlight of the media shining on them.
It may not be fair, but in politics, perception matters. Even such trivial things as a girlfriend’s family can make a difference in how congressmen view me and whether they adhere to my legislative agenda. I did overcome such reservations, however, and grew most eager to pursue a relationship with you. Of course, all that debate hardly matters now. Our paths are unlikely to cross again.
I thank you for reading this letter and have only one request: please do not share it with anyone, particularly not the media. It contains information that could be injurious to many people other than myself.
Please accept my best wishes for your future happiness.
William Darcy
For a long time, Elizabeth stared at the letter where it rested on her kitchen table. She had been right that it was a time bomb, and it had exploded all over her life—shattering many things she thought she knew.
She read it again, trying to absorb all the information despite feeling that her brain cells were scattered all over the kitchen floor. Of course, it was conceivable that the whole letter was a lie, but everything in it was entirely consistent with Will’s behavior and the events she had witnessed. Little things he had done and said now made sense.
Oddly, the revelations about George Wickham were the least surprising aspect of the letter. In hindsight, the congressman’s tale had been full of inconsistencies that she should have noticed. He’d been eager to badmouth the Darcys and vague about the details. Perhaps Elizabeth would have noticed if she hadn’t already been predisposed to dislike the subject of his gossip. I was so confident about my powers of discernment, and that lulled me into believing George’s pack of lies. Her throat was tight and thick. What a fool I was.
Elizabeth’s heart grew heavy over the revelations about Jane and Bing’s relationship. No doubt Fanny Bennet had said something that suggested she was encouraging Jane to date Bing for his money. How was Bing to know that Jane and Elizabeth laughed at their mother’s obsession? Nor had it ever occurred to Elizabeth that Jane’s serene demeanor would lead anyone to doubt the depth of her love. Evidently, Jane and Bing hadn’t had a frank discussion about their feelings and the future of their relationship. That could hardly be blamed on Will.
As for the rest of it…Elizabeth was forced to concede that she had not sufficiently considered to what extent his role as the president would circumscribe his life. Of course, he was concerned about how the Bennets’ impropriety would reflect on him. Even Elizabeth cringed at Fanny’s and Lydia’s antics, and she wasn’t in the media spotlight. Yet he had overcome these reservations and had wanted a relationship with her despite the risk of public humiliation.
He must really care for me.
This was the letter’s most shocking revelation: the depth of Will’s feelings. He had not been attempting to seduce her; he had been expressing a desire for a deeper relationship.
And I ruined it.
“You may be the most attractive, interesting woman of my acquaintance.” When he had uttered those words, Elizabeth had viewed them as run-of-the-mill flattery. But every woman wanted to hear a man speak such words about her. I heard them from the President of the United States—and didn’t take it seriously.
With 20/20 hindsight, his behavior was entirely consistent. He had demonstrated his growing interest by seeking her out at the ball and the summit…inviting her to the dinner and offering a ride on his plane. Only her preconceptions about his personality had led her to misinterpret every gesture…and reject him as cruelly as possible.
If someone had plunged a knife into her breastbone, it could hardly have been less excruciating. It was difficult to breathe around the pain in her chest. He had every right to experience bitterness, but instead he had written a gracious, even-handed letter, demonstrating quite some strength of character.
All this time her perceptions had been backward. She thought the funny, charismatic side of Darcy was an act—a mask he used to charm her just like he charmed voters. He was rarely that relaxed in public but was notoriously reserved. Perhaps the proud, reserved man was the true mask—which Will dropped when he was with her.
Groaning, she covered her face with her hands. Few other women had been offered that gift. And she’d thrown it in the dirt and stomped on it with both feet. Almost certainly he wanted nothing more to do with her, and yet he risked exposure to the media by sending a letter that wished her future happiness.
He would never know that Elizabeth shared his attraction—an attraction that could have bloomed into something even greater if she hadn’t actively attempted to stifle it. That kiss…
A hot tear splashed onto the table. Followed by another one. She didn’t even really know why she was crying. Over the missed opportunity of a relationship with the president? The embarrassment at how badly she had misinterpreted the situation? Or was she sorry about the harsh way she had rejected him? There were so many regrets to choose from.
Elizabeth stared at the clock on the opposite wall, weighed down by the decisions that had led her to this point. But ultimately it didn’t matter; it was too late to change anything.