Jane Austen Made Me Do It (53 page)

Fritz, who had never before laid eyes on Darcy, could, despite his prized professional demeanor, scarcely refrain from staring himself. Far more remarkable than Darcy's transparent wet shirt was the fact that the details of his face and form, while consistently handsome by any standard, were in perpetual flux. One moment he looked exactly as Fritz had pictured him from the first time he had read the Creator's work. The next moment Darcy took on the form of the actor who portrayed him in the infamous and recently criminalized film. And then he assumed the form of another actor who portrayed him in a different film. And then his visage shifted, and shifted again. It was mesmerizing.

All at once Fritz understood that Darcy's outward appearance was the result of the thousands—no, millions—of thought projections of every reader who had ever enshrined him in his or her
mind, plus their collective projection of the actor who played him in the illegal film.

Which, it seemed, was the most powerful and lasting projection of all. For as Darcy settled himself into the witness stand, shivering in the chilly air of the courtroom, the image of that actor's face was the one which lingered for several seconds at a time. Or longer, depending on who the observer was.

But Fritz could not allow himself to indulge in such musings. Darcy was sworn in and, at Tawny's prompting, began to tell his story.

“No matter what I wear, no matter what I do,” said he, “I end up wet and shivering. When I walk in the street, people lean out their windows and dump buckets of water upon my head. In restaurants they douse me with the contents of their water glasses. When it rains my umbrellas always break and my raincoats are inevitably stolen.”

As if to punctuate his statement, an attractive lady in a business suit stood up in court and blasted Darcy with a large, double-barreled water gun.

“Bailiff Norris!” screamed Lady Catherine. “Clear this courtroom!”

Collective sobbing from the female spectators.

The bailiff hustled the struggling water-gun wielder through the doors, then looked at Lady Catherine as if to say,
How am I to eject all of these hysterical women?

“Oh, all right,” said Lady Catherine. “But one more peep and I am as good as my word.”

Collective sighs and smiles all around.

“Continue,” she said to Mr. Darcy.

“My health has suffered as a result,” said he. “A perpetual cold, not to mention the sheer discomfort of being always wet.”

“To what do you attribute this situation?” said Tawny.

“To that infernal scene in the film, of course.”

“Describe it if you will, Mr. Darcy.”

“The actor who plays me bathes in the lake at Pemberley and emerges dripping wet, whereupon he meets with Elizabeth Bennet, much to their mutual embarrassment.”

Much sighing from the spectators. Answered by much banging of Lady Catherine's gavel.

“A scene,” said Mr. Darcy, “which was not in the Creator's original work. As if I would ever bathe in my lake without first ascertaining whether Pemberley had any visitors, let alone prance about my property in a most shocking state of dishabille!”

“And is there nothing you can take to give you relief?” said Tawny, who looked as if she was about to swoon.

Mr. Darcy blushed charmingly. “At home, of course, in private moments, I do find relief in not wearing any shirt at all.”

“Not wearing any shirt at all,” said Tawny, her voice a thin croak. “I see.”

Suddenly there was a loud thud as one lady spectator fell from her bench into a faint.

“Revive that lady!” said Lady Catherine to her bailiff.

“I would happily, Your Honor,” said Bailiff Norris, a bit shamefaced, “but I forgot to have my aromatic vinegar refilled.”

“Again?” Lady Catherine rolled her eyes. “Oh, just take mine.” Which the bailiff did, and attended to the afflicted lady.

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” said Lady Catherine. “I can only assure you that as soon as ever the Court gets its hands on the author of that shocking scene, we shall show him no mercy. It is only a matter of time until we flush out his hiding place.”

“Nothing further from this witness at this time,” said Tawny. “We call Mrs. Darcy to the stand.”

“If you must,” said Lady Catherine with a sneer. “We shall hear from Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

An annoyed sigh from the lady in the Chanel suit, who stood and addressed Lady Catherine. “For the record, Your Honor, my name is no longer Miss Elizabeth Bennet. It is Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.”

Lady Catherine turned red. “Miss Wolfson,” she said to Tawny, “I warned your client long ago that her name would never be mentioned by any of us. Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted in my own courtroom?”

“Your Honor, please,” said Tawny, her hands in a supplicating gesture.

“Very well, but I am most seriously displeased!” With a chilling glare at Elizabeth, she motioned her toward the witness box. “You may approach, Miss Ben—Mrs. Darcy.”

As Elizabeth Darcy was sworn in and repeated her name, Lady Catherine winced.

“Mrs. Darcy,” said Tawny, “please be good enough to tell us why you are here today.”

Elizabeth nodded. “As if it were not disagreeable enough for one's husband to be always drenched in water, just imagine you are at table with your husband, and suddenly he sports vampire's fangs! Or begins to joke about hunting the undead. Or attempts to perform acts that—” and here she turned a deep crimson red—“that no gentleman, let alone a gentleman married to a lady, would think of without blushing.”

“That will be all!” said Lady Catherine, to which the spectators groaned their disappointment. “The Court is well aware of the prurient nature of some of the defendants' works, but we needn't dwell on their unfortunate effects.” She scowled at the defendants, who cowered. “You are dismissed, Miss Ben—Mrs. Darcy. And Court is adjourned.”

As the Darcys were escorted from the courtroom by Tawny, and Fritz's clients hastened home to savor their last days of freedom,
the room emptied, and Fritz remained in his seat, head in hands, pondering his strategy. But what could he say that would make any difference, even if Lady Catherine would allow him to do so? His defendants were just as doomed as the screenwriter the Court had tried in absentia.

“I have to think of something,” he said aloud, surprised at the echoing of his voice in the now empty courtroom. Instinctively he turned toward the prosecution table, as if Tawny were there watching him, mocking him for his outburst. But it, like the rest of the vast room, was empty. Except—what was that on the floor beneath her chair? He got up and moved toward the small rectangular object. Someone had left a wallet behind. And that someone, he saw as he picked up the wallet and opened it, was Tawny Wolfson.

As for Tawny, now opening the door to her apartment, her impending victory was Pyrrhic. For how could she continue to indulge in watching that most infamous film once the case was won? She had not allowed herself a single glance at it ever since taking on this case, but it silently beckoned to her every night from its locked drawer in her bedroom desk, just as it did tonight as she shrugged out of her jacket and kicked off her shoes, yearning for the sweet release it always delivered. If Lady Catherine or, even worse, Fritz Williams, knew that she had such contraband in her possession, it would not only throw her case, it would be nothing short of career suicide.

She reminded herself of the silent promise she had made when she took on this case: As soon as she won she would destroy her precious copy and burn every Creator-inspired book she owned. There would be no more wet-shirted Darcy emerging from the lake, no more Darcy fencing away his passion for Elizabeth, no more peeks into Pemberley's marital bedchamber, no more glimpses into the mind of its brooding, noble master.

How would she bear such unhappiness? To what would she look forward after another bone-numbing day tilting at windmills and keeping our libraries safe for future generations? How would she live in a world without sequels, continuations, or adaptations?

Could she not put off that bleak future, for just one more day?

And then, almost as if guided by some unseen force, almost as if not in her own body, almost as if she were watching herself, Tawny unlocked the drawer, carried the movie to the player, and turned it on. A glass of wine, a fire in her fake fireplace, and she was ready to forget everything. Everything except Darcy and Pemberley …

Fritz stood before the door to Tawny's brownstone, wondering if he'd lost his mind. He'd been relieved that there was no phone number in the wallet, relieved further when he learned that her number was unlisted. He thought of waiting till court the next day, but wouldn't she worry when she saw the wallet was missing? And wasn't he dying to see where his fair goddess lived?

But how would she greet him? Would he get a glimpse of her lair as she stood glowering her contempt in the doorway, mumbling a resentful thank-you before she slammed the door in his face? Would she be fully dressed, or clad in a robe? Would he catch her so off guard that she would beam her gratitude at him?

In your dreams, pal.

Come on. Push the buzzer, you coward. Do it.

He did. And there was no answer. He pushed it again. And again.

If he could just get inside the building, push a note under her door, lay his cheek against that door, maybe even feel the doorknob that she touched every day with her sleek, black-leather-gloved hand. O, that I were a doorknob that I might touch that glove …

He eyed the other buzzers. Pushed one, then the other, still another, and was about to flee down the front steps when the buzzer buzzed, long and insistently.

This was it, this was his chance. He entered the vestibule and, taking the stairs two at a time, sprinted to her door. Yes, her door. He rested his cheek against the cool wood.

Wait a minute—what was that sound inside? There were voices within. If she was home, then why hadn't she answered when he rang? And who was that in her apartment? Fritz could hear two voices—they were faint, but one was a man's, and the other a woman's:

“I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.”

“I am,”
said he.

“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not.”

His breath caught. Could it be? It was. There was no denying it. Tawny was inside her apartment, at this moment, watching the very film against which she had railed in court this afternoon.

Fritz stood very still, barely able to breathe as the implications of what he was hearing took hold. Tawny's watching that film not only went against every legal code of ethics, every oath she had taken as a lawyer. It also would make his case, his unwinnable, quixotic case, turn in a second.

He would report her, and his clients would win.

He would report her tomorrow, of course he would; his obligation to his clients left him no other choice.

But what would happen to Tawny? Her career, her life, would be destroyed. Perhaps she would even be consigned to the dungeons.

Then again, she could deny it. It would be his word against
hers. Still, if he, a lawyer with a spotless reputation, swore in open court to what he had heard through her door, with the wallet in his hand as a sort of proof, she would never wash off the taint of scandal. Even if Lady Catherine decided to clap him, not her, in irons.

Any way he looked at it, his disclosure would do Tawny irreparable harm.

Oh, why had he come here tonight? Why had he taken this case? Why did he, of all people, find that damned wallet?

But he did find it. He did come here tonight. And there was no turning back. He, of all men, would bring untold suffering to the woman he loved.

For his discovery was the only thing standing between his clients and prison.

Unless … He rummaged in his briefcase for a legal pad and scribbled a note.

And there it was, under Tawny's door the next morning as she was hurrying off to work, almost obscured by the white carpet.

She snatched it up and read it:

“Found your wallet. Will return it in court after the lunch recess.” It was signed Fritz Williams, with the date and time below the name.

The date and time?

“Oh my God,” she said, her legs suddenly so weak and wobbly she nearly fell against the wall. “Oh my God.”

She loosened the top buttons of her blouse and collapsed onto the sofa in her entranceway. He had been outside her door last night while she was watching the film. He had heard. He knew. And he wanted her to know it.

He'd expose her, today, this morning, in open court. She'd be ruined. But why leave her a note? Why not just blindside her?
Why mention the wallet when he was about to get her disbarred? Why hadn't the damn super fixed the damn buzzer?

She was still clutching the note, which was now crumpled in her fist. She opened it and reread his words.

“Found your wallet. Will return it in court after the lunch recess.”

And all at once she knew. He was giving her a chance to admit to what she had done herself. He was giving her the option to throw herself upon Lady Catherine's mercy, such as it was, in chambers. He was finding a way to delay her public humiliation.

He, Fritz Williams, the man who found her very existence an affront to his sensibilities, was being kind. To her.

As the courtroom filled, Fritz, who was the earliest to arrive, tried to steady his breathing. Any moment the floral scent of Tawny's perfume would herald her arrival. What would be her first move? He'd had all night to imagine the possibilities, from blatant denial to public confession. She'd had only the past hour or less.

There it was, that intoxicating scent. He closed his eyes, then willed himself to glance mock-casually over at the prosecution table. She looked up from arranging her files on the table and met his gaze. Gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Then looked away. There was none of her usual iciness. Finally, she was acknowledging him as a human being. And it was on this day of all days.