Audrey's Mr. Darcy Read online

  Audrey's Mr. Darcy

  by Paula Freda

  © March 7, 2015 by Dorothy P. Freda

  (Pseudonym - Paula Freda)

  Smashwords Edition

  Bookcover photos Licensed

  by Dorothy Paula Freda from iStockphoto

  Poem "How Do I Love Thee"

  by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/How_Do_I_Love_Thee

  This work was published before January 1, 1923, and is in the public domain worldwide.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof. This is a work of fiction; names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  With thanks to my Dear Lord Jesus and his Blessed Mother Mary whose strength, guidance, and her Holy Rosary, are my anchor in this troubled world, I dedicate this book to my husband, Domenick, whose love, patience and kindness over the past 44 years have kept my dreams and view of the romantic alive and vibrant.

  CHAPTER ONE

  He could pass for his twin, but of course, he wasn't. He just had an uncanny resemblance to the actor most associated with the Jane Austen character. He had even been stopped in the street a few times and asked for his autograph. He grew a moustache and a goatee, but it didn't help, because as improbable as it was, his name was William Darcy, from a long line of Darcys that had nothing whatsoever to do with Jane Austen's Mr. Darcy.

  It was inevitable that most women who dated him, insist on comparing him with the character, to their eventual disillusionment. He didn't have an English accent, born and bred in the hamlet of Hicksville, Long Island, New York, a nice town with trees and malls, buses and trains and taxicabs. He wasn't as tall or as confident, or as proud of bearing, and not one hundredth of a percent as rich as the fictional Fitzwilliam Darcy. One disappointed woman actually told him he had no right facially to resemble Austen's Darcy. She suggested plastic surgery.

  Wil tried gaining twenty-five pounds. But that only led to his cholesterol rising. Under strict orders from his doctor, he shed the extra weight. If only he could find a girl who hated Austen's Mr. Darcy. That was as improbable as finding a needle in a haystack.

  Riding the Long Island Railroad to his job in the City as a financial advisor, he kept his head lowered behind his newspaper while he struggled to read with the print hugging his nose. Fortunately, most of the passengers that crowded into the morning express were not fully awake yet to bother with faces and identities.

  He had been riding the LIRR for over ten years, since his employment at the financial consulting firm, and, as had happened several times during those years, five minutes before the train's scheduled arrival at Penn Station, it slowed to a crawl. It took another twenty minutes for it to pull onto the 34th street track. The passengers, grim-faced, most of them now late for work, nearly tripped over each other as they hurried out of the train cars and up the stairs to the central lobby toward the street, or to transfer to city trains or buses.

  Wil's firm was only a block away. He was late, but so were six of his fellow-employees. The time clock would mark him tardy, and note the date and time on his personnel record. At least he'd have company when the department head called him into his office suite to remark on his lack of punctuality. The department head, Jack Habbernacky, was basically a tolerant chap. He rode the trains as well to work and knew when an employee's tardiness was or was not the fault of the railroad.

  Wil entered his cubicle just as his phone rang. He picked up. "Wil Darcy, here."

  Habbernacky's secretary greeted him. "Everything okay?" Heather asked.

  "Yes, I'm fine. The train stalled."

  "Well, you know the routine."

  "Now?"

  "All six of you." she told him.

  "Okay," he sighed. "On my way."

  Habbernacky's suite of offices took up most of the side of the twentieth floor. He'd been with the company twenty years, starting out as a clerk and working his way up to management.

  Wil fell in line with his five co-workers headed for Habbernacky's suite. They reached Heather's desk.

  "Hi, beautiful," Ken Lunden, winked.

  Heather made a face. "You better all get in there."

  "It's that bad?"

  "Get in there," she repeated, pointing with her thumb to the closed door behind her.

  Wil exchanged worried glances with his compatriots. All six filed into the executive office.

  A woman in a grey tailored business jacket and skirt stood looking through the floor-to-ceiling window that extended the width of the room. The shoulders of her fitted jacket were padded. She was a good 5' 8", a few inches shorter than Wil. Her posture was straight, shoulders back, head up. Wil exchanged puzzled glances with the others.

  The woman turned, and Wil swallowed. Joan Crawford? he thought. But on closer inspection, he revised that impression. Her eyes were hazel, and her features softer, her shoulder-length hair golden brown and wavier.

  She smiled at the men. "Good morning, I'm Audrey Lambert, the new head of this department."

  "Good morning, M—" in unison, gazes went to her left hand. "Miss Lambert," they greeted.

  "That's right, I'm a Miss. And to get one thing clear and out of the way, I don't date men." She paused to let the words sink in, then added, "or women." She smiled benignly. "Understood?"

  "Yes, Ma'am," Ken Lunden answered for the others.

  "Great. Now let's get down to business. First, my appointment was impromptu. Two days ago, I had no idea I'd be replacing Jack Habbernacky. Most of the department knows that Jack is in the Reserves. Because of the situation in the Mid-East, he's been called to active duty. I know you all join me in well-wishes and prayers for his safe return."

  "Yes, of course," the men echoed.

  "I am qualified to replace him. Jack ran this department smoothly and comfortably. My job is to make sure it continues so. An official memo regarding Jack Habbernacky and myself will be sent to the whole department. Are there any questions?"

  The men remained silent.

  She nodded her acknowledgment. "Oh, and not to worry about today's tardiness. I heard about the train stalling.

  Amazed, the men glanced at each other. Wil had known Ken for several years, and he could guess what his fellow-worker was thinking. Ken's eyes practically beamed with admiration. The woman incorporated beauty, intelligence, stature, and most of all, unattainability. And Ken loved challenges.

  "Well, then, that's it for now. Go back to your regular duties."

  Wil turned to join the others filing from the suite.

  "Wil," Miss Lambert hailed him.

  He turned back. "Yes, Ma'am."

  "Please, don't call me Ma'am."

  "Yes Ma'— Miss Lambert."

  "Wil, are you aware you bear a striking resemblance to—"

  "Please, don't remind me," Wil interrupted, hating to hear that name mentioned. "It's my curse."

  "I can see why. Never liked that character. Much more preferred Bronte's Mr. Rochester. You know, the Vulcan look," she chuckled. "I shan't remind you of your curse, if that's what you consider it."

  She nodded and smiled at him, and took her seat at Jack's desk. Her desk now. He took her actions to mean he was dismissed. As he left the suite, Wil glanced over his shoulder. He thought wistfully, the needle in the haystack ... finally ... a woman, smart, beautiful, young, single, who wasn't smitten with Fitzwilliam Darcy. And just his luck, he sighed regretfully — she didn't date. Should she eventually change her mind, what chance did he stand with someone with her beauty, self-poise, and confidence.

  CHAPTER TWO

  On his monthly visit to his
favorite barber, Wil lay back comfortably in the chair to enjoy his shave by someone other than himself. Lathered up, prior to his haircut, he motioned to Dave, his barber, to bend low in order that he might whisper something into his ear.

  "What is it?" Dave asked, pausing the razor in mid air.

  Wil motioned to him again to bend close.

  Shrugging, Dave acquiesced.

  Wil whispered, "Monday I start my three-week vacation. I've got a weird request, although you may not think it that weird when I explain why."

  "Go ahead."

  "I've actually met a woman who isn't bowled over by my resemblance to ... you know who."

  "Huh, well," Dave remarked.

  "But she prefers the Vulcan look ... Mr. Rochester ... Bronte's Jane Eyre. Any suggestions?"

  Dave's eyebrows arched. "Vulcan look? You?"

  "Yeah, me, I know it sounds crazy?"

  "I've had weirder requests." Dave said. He paused to think. "I can offer some suggestions. For instance, you'll have to change your hair color. Darkest brown or black. Light brown definitely doesn't do Vulcan."

  "I can do that," Wil said. "What else?"

  "Your hair style. Let your hair grow longer, at least over your ears and the nape of your neck."

  "That's plausible," Wil said.

  "You can darken your eyebrows and your eyelashes. Although if the dye gets in your eyes, it burns, not to mention, it might damage your eyesight. They do have mascara for men."

  Wil shifted uncomfortably. "I'll just stick to the eyebrows. What else?"

  "Can't do much with the nose. Unless you break it a certain way to give it a hooked appearance."

  "No, thanks."

  "You might grow a moustache and dye it the color of your choice. That would make you look older, about ten years. My wife has seen all the movie versions of that book, and conned me several times into watching it with her. Rochester is often portrayed in his early forties."

  Dave thought a bit more. "Your clothes, of course, dark tailored suits that hint at England's 1800s without appearing out of date. At least you're tall enough, so you won't need elevator shoes to add to your height. They're quite common today, made with the heels inside the shoe so no one can tell you're wearing lifts. But like I said, you're tall enough. Unless the girl is taller than you."

  "Oh, no, she's shorter by a few inches. A nice height. Compliments her figure. Anything else?"

  "Well, there are your own personal characteristics. Rochester is dark, mysterious and brooding. Unless you have a crazy wife hidden away in your attic, think you can fill his shoes?"

  Wil read the controlled laughter in his barber's gaze, but decided to ignore it. "Maybe, we'll just start with the hair and the moustache. I think I can do the clothes. After you've finished the shave, got time for a dye job?"

  "I'll make the time," Dave said, accepting the challenge. "This should be interesting."

  "Don't gossip about this. Keep it private," Wil warned.

  "Women gossip; I share information with my customers, when they ask."

  "Well, don't share this information, at least until I can laugh about it with you."

  "Okay, fair enough," Dave agreed, resuming the shave. "So, what color dye would you like?"

  The shaving foam, especially around Wil's mouth had begun to soften and melt with the heat from his breath as he spoke. He opened his lips with determination to shape his reply. Minty melted shaving cream seeped into his mouth. "The blackest one you have," he sputtered. Dave fell back, coated with a fine spray of foam and spit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The alarm clock on Wil's nightstand buzzed repeatedly, rudely interrupting his dream. "No-o-o, no not yet ..." he groaned. "Not fair," he mumbled, opening his eyes drowsily. What a dream! Audrey had just accepted his marriage proposal ... well, actually Rochester's proposal. He sighed heavily, recalling how beautiful she looked in the eighteenth century sprig muslin gown.

  Yawning sleepily, he pushed the covers away, straining the striped pajamas at the seams as he stretched his arms and legs. The warm, inviting smell of coffee percolating in the kitchen prompted him to sit up. Despite that he disliked nightly setting up the automated coffee pot to start brewing a few minutes before his alarm went off, the extra effort was worth waking up to a fresh cup of hot coffee. Wil climbed out of bed, did another stretch, and rubbed the top of his head, scratching at a slight itch. He stood up and went into the bathroom.

  Not fully awake, he showered, dried himself, and took out his electric razor. He opened his eyes fully, stared into the mirror over the sink, and gasped, falling back. A wet straggly mustached Rochester stared back at him.

  What had he done to himself!

  Three weeks later, when he re-entered the office, first one co-worker, then others, gazed at him wide-eyed, wondering who this man was. Wil feigned a smile and greeted them. "Hi, guys." He hurried to his cubicle.

  As recognition set in, shock replaced the facial queries. Ken bounded up and shot around Wil's cubicle. He stared at him for a moment, reassuring himself that it was Wil. Then rasped, "What the hell did you do to yourself?"

  Wil wasn't about to tell the worst gossiper and womanizer in the office about his plan. "Just felt the need for makeover. What do you think about my new image?"

  Ken hesitated answering, but managed "It-it's different all right. I mean, the jacket has appeal, the eighteenth century look. You can get away with almost any style today."

  "It's not completely eighteenth century. Sort of a mix between modern and old. I didn't want to appear as an actor with a costume."

  "The dark hair and moustache add years to your thirty. You were that sick of resembling—"

  "Yes, I was!" Wil interrupted, hating to hear that name.

  "Well, I suppose, no one can accuse you of that resemblance, now."

  "Who, would you say, I remind you of now?"

  Ken thought a moment, then said flippantly, "An eighteenth century undertaker with a moustache."

  Wil felt his heart drop into his stomach.

  "Thanks." He sat in his swivel chair and faced his computer. "I've got work to do. See you at lunch."

  Audrey was an early riser and normally in her office by eight o'clock, a full hour before official starting time. During the past month, her face had grown familiar to her staff. She had achieved a healthy and productive rapport with them. Wil Darcy was scheduled to return from his vacation. She'd only had a week to observe his work standards before he'd unexpectedly requested to utilize his accumulated vacation time, citing personal matters needing his immediate attention. Hired immediately after graduating college, Wil had worked for the company ten years. According to his personnel records and Jack's work logs, Wil had proved a fine asset to the company. Customers reported him as courteous, intuitive, and creative. His advice on financial matters had helped many a client to improve the smooth running of their firms and achieve company longevity and increased profits. Wil's Personnel records also noted that his personality rarely, if ever, conflicted with any of his co-workers. He never put anyone down. But at the same time, as Jack wrote in his work logs, "...Wil Darcy didn't follow mass opinions. He relied on his own thorough research and insights. His analysis and recommendations to clients on improving the atmosphere, organization, how to reduce costs without impairing working conditions, achieve clear strategic direction involving acquisitions, divestitures and partnerships, etc., made him invaluable to his own department..."

  Audrey acceded to his request to utilize his accumulated vacation time without asking him to explain those personal matters needing his immediate attention.

  She was glad to hear her secretary's reply that Wil had returned to work and was busy in his cubicle catching up with his clients. Audrey was curious about the personal matters that had needed his immediate attention; strictly as any office manager would want to know, for the continued smooth running of her department. But how to ask him without intruding on his privacy?

  She buzzed her secretary
. "Heather, would you please ask Wil Darcy to come to my office."

  She noticed the slight pause in Heather's reply. " ... Yes, Miss Lambert, right away."

  "Heather, is everything all right?"

  "Oh, yes, all is fine."

  Audrey could not dismiss that something in her voice. "Are you sure?"

  "Well ... I don't know quite how to put it, but you'll see when he comes into your office. I'll buzz him right now." Heather hung up."

  Audrey straightened in her seat, bracing herself for something unexpected. She kept her gaze fixed on the door, waiting for it to open. When it did, her neck craned forward and her mouth fell open.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Audrey closed her mouth and peered at the man standing in front of her desk. It was Wil; she could tell by his eyes, a warm chestnutty brown, and their expression, hovering between timid and resigned, but hopeful. As for the rest of him, at the moment she struggled with propriety not to burst out laughing. Whatever had he done to himself?! She hoped it had nothing to do with her remark about Bronte's Edward Fairfax Rochester. In Greek Mythology Vulcan was the god of fire, volcanoes, metal working. Brown and broad-shouldered, he was often depicted with a hammer in his hand, and worshipped as the God of blacksmiths, since he made weapons for the Gods.

  It was clear to her that Wil's interpretation of the word Vulcan was that of a dark predatory vulture, circling above a dead carcass, not unlike her own interpretation during her high school years when she had first read the novel. But Rochester used that imagery near the end of the story to describe himself as no longer worthy of Jane when she returns to him after he was disfigured in the fire.

  Audrey composed herself, sat back and smiled benignly. "Mr. Darcy, I hope you had a restful and pleasant vacation. You've been missed both by staff and clients, and it's good to have you back."

  "It's good to be back," Wil said, trying to decipher her reaction to his new image. Her expression told him nothing. It might as well have been Jack welcoming the old Darcy back to work. He was left only with one choice. "Miss Lambert, tell me the truth, what do you think of my new image?" He braced himself.