Beautiful friendship, p.96
Beautiful Friendship, page 96
"Will wouldn't leave her struggling through this alone," Knightley countered.
"He'd want to marry her. No question about it."
"If Caroline's article is correct," Anne said delicately, "he's probably already proposed."
"Another wedding," mused Emma, stars in her eyes. Not stars, Knightley quickly realized. Diamond engagement rings. "I wonder if they'd want to have it at Pemberley? It's been empty for all these years, wouldn't it be great if they were married there? Or would Lizzie want something smaller and more
intimate?"
"Not off weddings yet, are you?" questioned Knightley, his serious eyes softening with sudden affection.
"No," Emma gave a shrug and a small smile. "I just want them to be as happy as we are."
Unaware of the impending ambush, Will quietly slipped into the restaurant.
Emma had selected Koi for the group's reunion, a low-lit, sophisticated space with obsidian black tables, and walls frescoed with art-deco orchids. Tea lights winked in votive cups. And yet somehow seeing four of his oldest friends
huddled together made him feel as if he were edging towards a group of
conspirators. This conversation looked...serious.
"Am I interrupting?" said Will.
"Will!" Emma was the first to leap up. She kissed his cheek with all the enthusiasm of a chat host greeting her headlining interview. "We were hoping you'd show up..."
"Were you?" said Will. He glanced past her to Knightley, Frederick and Anne.
"You said seven o'clock, right?"
Fred cocked a brow and offered a crooked grin. "That is what we said. Want a drink? It's on us."
It was a table for six: Emma and George near the aisle, Anne and Fred seated opposite them against the wall. Which left him the empty seat at the end of the table. Feeling like a plaintiff on a witness stand, Will cautiously slid into his chair. "Maybe."
"How's Lizzie?" Emma plopped back into her seat next to Knightley. "She called and left me a message that she hasn't been feeling well."
"We wish she could be here tonight," Anne agreed.
"So do I," said Will.
It was an understatement. He was immensely grateful for Frederick's return,
chuffed for Anne's pregnancy, thrilled for George and Emma's marriage. And
yet the joyous celebratory mood felt hollow without Elizabeth. Red or white
wine, vodka, gin. Skimming the column of celebratory drinks, not one of them looked appealing.
"And," Emma prompted. "...you've seen her recently?"
"Yes." He skimmed the wine list, wishing he could summon even half Emma's of focus. "She sends her best."
"Her best," Emma pressed on. "And is there any...news you'd like to share?"
"News?" he repeated.
"Of the life changing variety..." she continued.
"Will," Knightley spoke for his wife. "If you don't feel like talking about it, it's none of our business."
"But if it were our business," Frederick continued. "We'd support you. Both of you. No matter what."
"That is true, Will," Anne agreed quietly. "We want you both to know that we'll be here for you."
"Here for me?" Will repeated.
"Everyone might say it's very sudden, but--" Emma cut in, "sometimes sudden is just the nature of life..."
"Nature of life," he echoed blankly.
Suddenly it hit him. The topic they were all dancing around. Sudden, the nature of life, though that seemed a coy, cruel summary from Emma, the glowing girl who claimed to be such a friend. They were alluding to Elizabeth's illness.
"That's not the phrase I'd use." He snapped the drink menu shut. "And Elizabeth doesn't like it when she's the topic of conversation. Especially when she's not around to hear it."
"It concerns you, too, Will," Anne's dark, knowing eyes held a surprising touch of amusement.
"Yes, and it's all over the newspapers," Emma continued. "No wonder she looked distracted on the plane."
"Which imprint?" he frowned. Elizabeth was going to have a heart attack. That was her living nightmare, to have her health splashed across every rag in
Britain. "There are privacy laws--"
"It's in Caroline's gossip column. She implies it more than stating it directly.
But Will, you can hardly hide this sort of thing for long. Wait until tomorrow and you'll both be flooded with congratulations--"
"Congratulations?" he frowned. "For an illness?"
"That's really not the word I would use to describe it," said Emma with a puzzled frown of her own. Illness, what a word for it. She thought Will would be thrilled at the prospect. He'd raised Georgiana for most of her life, after all.
"Morning sickness passes afterall. I'm sure you'll get excited once the shock wears off. And you know I'd help with all the preparations, planning Elizabeth's baby shower and helping her register for the wedding. I thought you were an
old fashioned guy, Will. I just assumed a marriage would follow---"
"Hold on," Will pressed on, his moodily furrowed brow morphing into true confusion. Showers. Baby. Marriage. "You think Elizabeth is pregnant?"
"She's not?" Emma replied, crestfallen.
"Will," Knightley leaned forward, "You mentioned an illness. What's wrong with her?"
"A lupus diagnosis, and a week's stay in the hospital." Will leveled him with a frank look. "What makes any of you think that she's pregnant?"
Sheepish, Emma pulled a folded newspaper insert from her purse. "This."
The Daily Dirt with Caroline Bingley. Quickly, Will skimmed the piece.
The column's trademark was its cocktail of lowbrow celebrity and highbrow
society, and the two were given equal weight in the weekend copy. The intro
contained a few lines about a torrid onset romance between movies stars. Next came some finger wagging over a London rockstar's excessive habits, followed by a cringe worthy passage about young Tye Bertram that read: (with that grin and those hands, young, rakish Sir Tye could make more than his violin sing).
Wasn't Tye Bertram on the young side for twenty-eight year old Caroline?
Although he suspected any age was the right age when inheritance came into
play. The very thought made him sincerely wish Georgiana musical
conservatory was some sort of sheltered convent school. As for the final
paragraph...
Lastly dear gossip guys and gals, I leave you with this puzzle: which budding ballerina tried to snag herself one of the biggest fish in the landed gentry pond, only to find herself in too deep? A very naughty ballerina is getting pulled from the stage. Rumor has it that she's expecting a baby! It's certainly one way to hold a powerful man's attention when nothing else will (three guesses who the Heir in Question is, gossip readers?!). Look for this ballerina's unexplained and indefinite departure at the British Opera House. Meanwhile, her wealthy and
powerful lover will be debating how to cope when a certain disapproving Lady X discovers the news!
"I thought she was implying--" said Emma.
"That Elizabeth's the ballerina, I'm the heir. Disapproving Lady X is my aunt, Lady Catherine."
"And on the front page of the arts section there's a press release from the opera house," Emma continued. "Lizzie's on leave. We knew for her to leave the ballet, even for a short time, it had to be something serious..."
"It is serious," Will sighed, tossing the clipping onto the table. Caroline's snide implication should have left him furious-it certainly didn't make him happy.
There was no doubting that it would anger Elizabeth. But with the weight of
Elizabeth's health on his shoulders, Caroline's childish games barely left a dent.
Elizabeth's career could be much more easily derailed by her own body than by any false notions some back page gossip columnist implied. "Emma, her illness is so serious it could have killed her more than once..."
Emma blanched. "Lupus?"
"Yeah," he exhaled.
"Will, is there anything we can do for her?" Anne questioned, her delicate eyes flooded with worry. The look that was mirrored by her husband's boldfaced
concern. "We would have visited her in the hospital, if we'd known."
"I know," acknowledged Will. "But this isn't like the stage, Anne. She doesn't like to have everyone's attention, not when it comes to this."
"Welcome to Koi," a waitress's bland declaration was enough to drag him from his thoughts, "what can I get you?"
As for Anne, she observed Will's distraction with a frown of concern. And as much as Will liked all four of them, he allowed himself a degree of brotherly honesty with George and Fred that they wouldn't get when she or Anne were
present. More aware of this truth about him than he was, it was Anne who
spoke up next.
"I'm going to head to the loo while you order," Anne said at last. "I think there's an eyelash in my eye. Emma, would you mind coming to help remove it?"
Anne slipped her hand from Fred's, and was about to push from the table in a graceful movement when she felt her husband's hand on her shoulder.
Wentworth's knowing eyes brightened as he leaned in to whisper, "You could have joined MI5, you know that?"
A hint of a smile was all the answer Fred received---silent and discrete,
befitting of the agent she could have been. Yet again, his wife amazed him. The captain's attention shifted to Will, wishing his friend could have the luxury to enjoy the feeling of new love unencumbered by fear. As strong as Fred thought himself, he'd be a wreck if something happened to Anne. An absolute wreck.
"Will," Frederick interrupted his thoughts.
Tearing his gaze from the scene at the bar, "Yeah?"
"Tell us about Elizabeth," said Knightley. "Who's her primary physician?"
"Hurst."
"Hurst's a smart man," Knightley assured him. "Not exactly friendly, but he knows what he's doing."
"I hope so. These pills she's taking..." Will frowned. They'd looked strong enough to knock out a heavyweight, and dire enough to come with a nuclear
hazard warning. "I hated leaving her..."
"She asked you to?"
"Demanded it," Will grumbled, glancing at the drink before him. Thoughts of Elizabeth had been distracting him since he'd left her. Had he ordered this? Or had Fred or George requested a restorative bit of---this looked like Scotch---for him? Whatever the case, he took a swig of his drink, letting it warm his throat in silent frustration. "You think I should call her? Or I could just head back now?"
"No," said Fred. "It's too soon. She asked you to leave."
"Fred's right," Knightley agreed. "Calling her now will only make her angry. If she needs you, she'll ring you."
"Yeah, but..." He raked his hair back, disgruntled.
"She probably won't feel good enough for that phone call anyway," the doctor advised.
Will strummed his fingers on the table, a steady, worried rhythm. "I should head back there."
"Will," Wentworth warned, while Knightley guided their friend back to his seat. "She needs a little time to herself."
"Give her awhile longer, Will," Knightley advised. "Just long enough to know you respect her privacy. That way, when you knock on her door again she'll
welcome you back."
"I won't need to knock," said Will, rubbing tension from his neck. Or trying to, anyway. The tension lingered. "I have a key."
Fred's eyebrows shot up. "Since when?"
"Since she got sick," Will said. "I offered to live there."
"You're living with her?" Wentworth and Knightley spoke in tandem. Fred followed up with the question, "What about your place?"
"She doesn't want to live at my place. She wants---" Will's mouth thinned as he watched the votive on the table flicker and sputter. "She wants to be well again.
And that's what I want for her. More than anything."
"We know," said George quietly, resting a hand on Will's arm. "So you're staying with her until she's healthy again?"
"I don't know," he allowed himself an honest exhale. "The next two to three months, at least."
"Two to three months?" Fred whistled, before exchanging a quick look with Knightley. "Will..."
"Yeah?"
"I get staying there when she can't manage daily chores. She's sick. She needs someone keeping an eye on her," Fred continued. "But once she starts to feel better..."
Will lifted his glass to his lips, studying his two oldest friends. Worry registered in both. And a hearty amount of skepticism. What could have been a salutary
gesture seemed more like defiance as he downed the last swill of scotch
lingering in the glass.
"What about it?" Will questioned.
"You love her," said Frederick, "sharing quarters with her won't be easy."
"Yes," Will acknowledged as he slid the glass back onto the table, "but I can handle it."
"You say that now. Because she's fragile." Knightley agreed, leaning forward.
"Try it after a month-or however long it takes before she looks and acts like the Elizabeth you're used to. Try living under the same roof as someone you love and can't touch, and tell me how patient you feel in the middle of the night."
"Speaking from experience?"
"You bet I am," said Knightley. He still remembered before Emma had moved to London permanently, when she used to jet in for a weekend photo shoot and spend the night at his Notting Hill townhouse. As much as he loved the
company, there were times when he thought if he had to watch her prance around in one more nightgown, he'd go mad. "No matter how much self control you think you have, Will, Fred's right. This won't be easy."
"We just want you to go into it with your eyes open," Frederick agreed.
"I appreciate the concern," Will assured his friends. "But I haven't even kissed her since Pemberley. I can handle this. Trust me."
Meanwhile, Emma and Anne had run out of excuses to delay their return and
were making their approach.
"Will, Anne and I were discussing ways we could help," Emma declared as she slid back into her seat. "We were thinking we could bring over meals at least a couple of times a week so you don't have to do all of the cooking?"
The irony of this statement from the girl who couldn't cook didn't escape her.
Menus she knew, though, and she held up one now. "Do you think she would want something from the dessert menu tonight? That way she could feel like
she took part in our get together? They have a great chocolate cake, and I'd love to get her something. Do you think she'd want company tomorrow? I
could stop in for tea?"
Across town, Elizabeth would have declared that dessert would go uneaten,
and the tea would have to wait. Not just tonight, but tomorrow. And the day
after that. Once Will had left, she was relegated to face two pills and a tall glass of water. Dizziness and fatigue had lingered after her hospital release, that was to be expected. As was the knowledge that in the first few days of her drug
regiment, she would feel worse, not better.
There was a laundry list of side effects with this drug cocktail, and as no two bodies were the same, some patients could tick off some side effects and not others. She'd been through this process more than once in her life, knew how her body would respond to it. It always hit her hardest at the start of the
regiment, a swift, thorough decimation of her body's immune system, and her
own internal equilibrium. In her memory, it was a powerful drug, with violent side effects. And she had one still, quiet hour to prepare herself, silent and steady as she changed from her dress back into comfortable sweats. She was
grateful for the silence, and the stillness. Grateful for the calm before the storm struck.
And strike, it did. An hour after swallowing her medication, she fled to the bathroom. And stayed there. So much for dinner; she'd enjoyed it while it
lasted. Her one consolation was that after all this time gripping the toilet, there was nothing left in her stomach to rid herself of. And with Will gallivanting around with their friends, she could have this moment in private.
Elizabeth's stomach roiled. She lay on the bathroom floor now, feeling too
wretched to move. Sweat beaded on a hot brow, but the floor was cool, a lime-
glazed tile that had probably been the height of fashion back in 1954. To modern eyes, the color offended more than it cheered, and in her current state the effect was downright psychedelic. The tile pattern blurred, lines tilting into waves as nausea rocked her again.
If her stomach was in a storm-ridden sea, her head was in a construction zone.
Pain, as pointed as an iron tip, drilled into her temple. Every burst of light from the window above caused a wince.
"Breathe. Breathe." she begged herself. Even after changing her clothing, the cross around her neck stayed. She touched it now, a gift from her late
grandmother when she was too young to understand its meaning. The cool
metal and clean lines spoke to her of mystery and death. Suffering and
resurrection. Miracles.
That was what she needed when she felt like this.
Pain itself couldn't kill her, but it could make her cry. It did now, evoking silent, frustrated tears that streaked down her blotchy cheeks. It seemed her system could only endure so much of the sensation before it crested and faded out. Just as a wave peaked before the drop, the pain slowly, slowly, loosened its grip.
Loosened from her torment, her clammy hands pressed to her forehead as her
compact bathroom came into focus once more. The moon, too, was on the
ascent. She could see a glimmer of it flashing in the mirror.
A full moon in darkness, and a smooth road to the front door Wasn't that the old saying her father always chanted? For a man of letters, he could be as
superstitious as an old wise woman. Her father, silent, craggy, eyes as gray as his hair, and his coat that smelled of sea salt.
"There's my bonny girl," her father would murmur by her bedside when she felt ill, "stubborn as the day is long but sweet as a honeypot. You're not going to let this lick you, are you, lassie? We Bennets are strong, none of us are quitters."
She shut her eyes, allowing herself a slow, deep inhale. No, she wouldn't quit.
