Undressing Mr. Darcy (5 page)

“When you talk about Lady Susan, her adulterous heroine—”

Austen wrote about an adulterous heroine?

“—it reminds me of a lecture Professor Gibbs gave about how Lady Susan fits all the modern-day criteria for a sociopath. It was fascinating.”

Adultery? Sociopaths? Did Vanessa really know Jane Austen at all? She might have to download this
Lady Susan
.

She put her phone on vibrate while the current Chicago group president welcomed everyone and introduced the opening speaker, Dr. Cornel West.

Dr. West commanded the stage . . . and Vanessa’s attention. Who knew that a man, a progressive, modern, activist, African American professor of philosophy at Princeton—and a Harvard grad—idolized Jane Austen?

With passion and fervor, he leaned over his podium in his hipster glasses. “Jane Austen didn’t go to Oxford,” he said to the crowd, who nodded and smiled. “But
two
Oxfords went through her.”

The crowd clapped, and more than one woman in a gown gave a wolf whistle.

“Austen will teach you how to live,” he said more than once.

“Jane Austen is on
f
i
re
,” he said to the crowd, who rose to a standing ovation.

Vanessa watched in amazement as he brought down the manor house, so to speak. She stood and clapped with everyone. Her aunt turned, spotted her, and smiled.

It felt as if some of his Austen quotes were speaking directly to her at times, and it occurred to her that it might be time that she gave the author another chance.

Perhaps her aunt had been on to something all these years. Was there something beyond the happily-ever-after stories and the demure portrait of a woman in a white ruffled cap that popped into Vanessa’s head every time “Jane Austen” was mentioned?

Julian was up next. Time for another post:

Get your photo with Mr. Darcy in loosened cravat & unbuttoned waistcoat after the #UndressingMrDarcy show—stage left. #JASNAagm #smileforthecamera

This was just one of Vanessa’s ideas for Julian that had taken some persuading via handwritten letter, but the donations already garnered from the photography session had proven sizable.

She turned on her video cam and panned the crowd. She zoomed in on a woman in a blue Regency gown, her hair up in a bun and her gloves pinned at her side with one elbow, texting. Another woman, also dressed in a gown, had a fake stuffed pug dog in her lap.

Men came to these conferences, too. Some in the crowd had dressed in Regency regimental red, while others wore coats and cravats. None, though, looked as convincing as Julian.

She did a final pan of the crowd with the camera, then swiveled it toward the stage, where Paul began to rally the room in anticipation of Mr. Darcy.

Someone, meanwhile, lifted Vanessa’s video bag from the chair next to her and set it on the ground.

“I needed to get closer for this one,” a voice said. The curvy woman, probably in her early thirties, with rosy cheeks and chewing bubble gum, wore gym shoes, white pants, and a white T-shirt. The
I
Mr. Darcy
on her shirt in huge black letters with a gigantic red heart really popped. She didn’t fit the usual Janeite profile.

She leaned in toward Vanessa and whispered as Paul spoke. “Mr. Darcy saved my life, you know.” She nodded, raising her eyebrows high.

Vanessa couldn’t help but notice her suspenders and conference badge, studded with flair. Buttons galore glared at Vanessa with Mr. Darcyisms such as
How ardently I admire and love you
and
Every savage can dance
. Then there were the buttons and stickers proclaiming things such as
Mrs. Darcy
and
Married to Darcy
. She even had Darcy earrings, and Vanessa could see why she must’ve pulled her thick black hair back into a ponytail. It was punctuated with a button:
Darcy’s Baby Mama
.

Seven hundred intelligent people in the room, and Vanessa got saddled with the resident superfan. But maybe she could use a young insider’s perspective.

“I was on the verge of suicide I was so depressed,” she said. “But then, walking home from work one day, on the sidewalk, there it was: a beat-up, paperback version of
Pride and Prejudice.
I took it as a sign, picked it up, went home, read it, and fell in love with Mr. Darcy. He saved my life.” She sighed and held out her hand. “I’m Sherry, a.k.a. Mrs. D.”

Of course she was! Vanessa shook.

“Or do you like one of Austen’s other heroes better?”

Vanessa smiled. “No, no. I like Darcy.” She couldn’t believe she just said that.

“What a smorgasbord of activities for us, huh?” Sherry asked as she leafed through the conference brochure. “I’ve been looking forward to this all year. It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet for people like us, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Vanessa chuckled. She liked Sherry. She liked how she just assumed Vanessa was one of them.

Sherry was right, too, about the conference program. The program committee had painstakingly selected the lecture and workshop topics to appeal to a broad range of fans—from scholars to the moviegoers who had never even read Austen. Even a person as indifferent to Austen as Vanessa could find several of the workshop and lecture topics intriguing. Beyond the lectures about Austen and the novels, you could learn about everything from snuff to Regency dance to “fallen women” of the Regency—mistresses, courtesans, and prostitutes.

Vanessa checked to be sure the video cam was focused on Paul. He was such an adorable and entertaining man, just a little younger than Aunt Ella, but healthier. His antiques auction house kept him busy and traveling. Vanessa wanted to listen to what he was saying, but Sherry interrupted.

“So”—Sherry nodded toward the video cam—“you know this Mr. Darcy? You have—access?”

Vanessa laughed and whispered back. “Access to Mr. Darcy? Yes, I have access.”

She figured she had a live one, so she handed Sherry a postcard with all Julian’s upcoming appearances, even though she’d already made sure that all the conference attendees had the information in their tote bags. She’d designed and printed hundreds of these “invitations” from Mr. Darcy that looked very much like an invitation to a ball, but really just listed his appearances, and Aunt Ella and the hospitality committee found the invitations to be “very clever indeed.”

Sherry gave a toothy grin and her cheeks turned redder as she read the card and then stuck it in her tote bag, which she had decorated with more Mr. Darcy buttons. Snapping her gum, she said, “I’m sticking with you, girl.”

Vanessa heard Paul say, “Without further ado, I introduce to you the master of Pemberley, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

The crowd clapped enthusiastically as Julian sauntered out.

Sherry pointed her finger at Vanessa and mouthed, “Sticking with you, girl,” again because by now the crowd was clapping even louder for Julian, who stood center stage.

“Wow, he is h-o-t,” Sherry said as she fanned herself with her conference program. “You know what I mean? Smokin’. Best damn Darcy I’ve seen yet, don’t you think?”

Vanessa nodded yes, even though she had never seen any Darcys other than the ones on film, inadvertently, at her aunt’s.

As she made sure the video cam was focused on Julian and Paul, the “valet,” Sherry kept fanning herself.

“Mmm-mmm,” Sherry said until the bonneted woman in front of them turned around.

Vanessa looked at Sherry and, with a smile, put her fingers on her lips to shush her, and then pointed to the video cam. She got the message.

When Vanessa pulled out her camera to take still shots for posting later, Sherry started taking pictures with her phone, and Julian’s deep voice dominated the room.

“Welcome. Welcome everyone,” Julian said.

He wore a black top hat pulled low over his forehead, just above his black eyebrows, really accentuating his dark brown eyes. His shoulders looked even broader in an outer coat with a shoulder cape. His white cravat had been lavishly tied and jutted out just enough from his tailcoat to draw attention to his neck and face. He wore flesh-colored breeches, black boots, and leather gloves and sported a walking stick, flicking it back and forth as he crossed the stage.

Even Vanessa had to admit he pretty much rocked this look like nobody else could. He played the rooster in the henhouse very well.

He shot the audience a serious look, rubbed his jaw, paused, and then smiled as he said, “Welcome . . . to Mr. Darcy’s dressing room.”

The audience went aflutter. Sherry pumped her fist and mouthed, “Woot! Woot!” to Vanessa, who realized she needed to be tweeting during the performance, too. She picked up her phone and set it in her lap. She’d received several more replies to the opening dance contest.

“My valet, Nelson, is here to do the honors of assisting me today.”

Julian pronounced “valet” with a hard
t
at the end. Even though Vanessa spoke French and knew the French word required a silent
t
, she suddenly took a liking to the English way of saying it. Va-let.

Julian made a flourish with his hand. “Nelson?”

Paul took a bow and everyone clapped.

Julian began to pace the floor in his sexy boots and Vanessa had to scramble just to keep the video camera on him.

“Now. No doubt many of you are concentrating on my—ahem—” He paused to great effect, giving his coat a swoosh and the audience a flash of his breeches. The audience laughed. “My—hat.”

He tipped his hat to the assembly, and Nelson readied to take it from him, but Julian was bluffing, garnering yet another laugh from the audience.

He was a master at working the crowd!

“The beaver hat is a staple in the gentleman’s wardrobe, and a gentleman certainly wouldn’t be seen riding a steed without one.”

Vanessa didn’t want to visualize him riding a horse, but there it was, stuck in her head now, thanks to him.

“Hat production is integral to the British economy, and it employs many workers, from carders who comb the fibers to highly skilled journeymen and master milliners. Hats are made for all manner of occasion, from fashion to the front lines.”

She had never thought of the legions of people who must’ve been employed to make something so simple as a hat, and she needed to post something but—

Julian took off the hat, sending some dark hair tumbling forward, and held it out for the audience to admire. A far cry from an Abraham Lincoln–style top hat, this “beaver hat” had a style all its own.

“The hats are crafted with the undercoat of a beaver and quite impervious to the—lovely English weather. Beaver pelts were imported from Russia and Scandinavia, but due to overtrapping, hatters have turned to a place we call the American Colonies. Perhaps you’ve heard of them?”

Once again, Julian scored a laugh.

“Beaver pelts were the first great commodity to come out of the Colonies, and upwards of thirty thousand pelts a year are exported.

“The beaver fur holds up well under successive dousings, and these high-quality hats can really take a beating and still retain their elegant and handsome shape.”

Along with everyone else, she smiled at his undertones, but she appreciated the education—a perk seldom received from most of her clients.

“Nelson? If you please?” Julian handed Paul his walking stick and then the hat, which now held a history. Paul took them offstage.

Julian ran his fingers through his black hair. “A gentleman no longer wears a powdered wig as our fathers did. We keep our hair short on the sides, sideburns squared off, and combed forward, rather like a classic Roman statue. Indeed, the style is known as ‘à la Brutus’ or ‘à la Titus.’”

Vanessa straightened in her chair as soon as she realized she was twirling her own hair around her finger.

Paul returned to the stage as Julian slid off his brown leather gloves, finger by finger.

“A gentleman’s gloves,” Julian said as he paced the stage with Paul following, “need to be prepared afresh every day. They get rather gritty with all the riding and traveling from Pemberley to London.”

Poof. Her brain provided a snapshot. Him. On horseback again.

“These gloves for outdoor use are made of calfskin, and ideally a gentleman owns no less than six pairs of gloves, to be worn at certain times throughout the day. Each with distinctive material and cut for each unique use.” He handed the gloves to Paul, who bowed and whisked them offstage.

Vanessa looked at Sherry, who nodded her head in approval and smirked. She whispered, “Uh-huh. That’s what I’m talking about. He’s taking it off!”

Vanessa sent out a post:

We have seen the pale flesh of Mr. Darcy. He has removed his riding gloves. #UndressingMrDarcy #JASNAagm

“My greatcoat,” Julian continued, “is made of wool. It is caped to keep me warm and to repel the rain.” He gestured toward the wool capes that bracketed his shoulders. “The caping has the added effect of broadening a gentleman’s already broad shoulders.”

A slight murmur rippled through the audience as Paul removed Julian’s greatcoat.

Sherry leaned in to Vanessa and whispered, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Vanessa snapped a pic and leaned back. Maybe it was because she had to look up at him on the stage or maybe it was his most revealing breeches tucked into riding boots or perhaps it was the way he all but strutted onstage . . . but she suddenly felt starstruck. Every woman in the room had her eyes on him.