High Treason
By S. Faith, © 2018, 2019
Words: 1715
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: Bridget and her friends learn of the appalling treatment of their favourite Mr Darcy…
Disclaimer: Really isn't mine!
Notes: Started in summer of 2018, shortly after the scandal came to light.
9 March 2018
10.30 am
Have just thrown mobile across the room (and onto soft cushion of chair). Cannot believe what have just read. Dark days. Dark days indeed.
Who could have thought such betrayal was possible? Unthinkable! Could not make sense of any of it. Immediately jumped up to retrieve mobile in order to ring up Shazzer. Conversation went something like this:
Me [sepulchral]: Shaz, have you heard?Shaz: Only just. My God. Thought it was April Fool.
Me [on verge of tears]: How could this have happened?
Shaz [growling]: I don't know, but I'm moving quickly into the Anger stage of grief. What the fuck could she have been thinking?
Me: She must have lost her mind. Absolutely bonkers. That's the only logical explanation.
Am not sure how will get through these trying times.
Ooh, telephone! Well. Mobile.
11.05 am
Was Jude, as sheep-voiced as she ever was with Richard. "Bridget!" she wailed. "Has the world gone mad?! What is happening?"
"I don't know!" I wailed back. "Feels as if the world has gone topsy-turvy. Up is down. Black is white."
"Wrong is right," she murmured. "I don't know what to think."
"I know!" Felt tears in my eyes. "Surely it is not an overreaction to feel so emotional? I feel personally betrayed."
"Not at all," Jude huffed.
As she said this, heard a gentle throat-clearing. Glanced up to see Mark standing there, leaning against the door jamb, concern playing on his features.
Muttered that had to go and quickly disconnected.
"What's wrong?" he asked in that terse tone he had, one that cropped up when he was worried or angry. Was definitely worry.
Set down my phone. "Not sure you would understand, Mark."
Was exactly wrong thing to say.
He folded his arms across his chest. "Try me," he said.
"I don't mean that." Decided to show, not tell. Reached for my mobile, brought up the browser, then handed it to him. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
He took it as if it were an unexploded ordnance, looked at the screen, then up again to me before continuing to read. Finally he set the mobile down from where I had picked it up. "I see."
His tone had that faint whiff of 'humouring axe murderer.' "Do you, Mark? Do you?"
Mark just sat and looked at me as if he hadn't seen me before. "This is about nostalgia."
Looked at mobile again. Nostalgia? It was about feeling protective: the man that every woman in the country wanted to get off with, from the biggest mini of the whole of the 1990s, getting cuckolded! Felt protective and indignant. Never would have done that to Mr Darcy, given the chance, of course. But never mind that.
Mark continued, "This is to do with Prince Harry."
"What? No! Didn't you even read the story?"
"Of course I did," he said drolly. "But first Diana's youngest son gets engaged, and now this? Everything for which you feel a deep nostalgia seems to be under attack."
Hate when he's right. "Princess," I said defensively.
"What?"
"Princess Diana."
"You're deflecting, Bridget." His tone was unnervingly placid.
Bristling, I said, "It's not about that."
"It's about what, then?"
"It's about the upset to the normal order of things," I floundered.
"I fail to see a difference there," he mused. He smiled again—the barest hint of an upward crook to the mouth—then turned and left the sitting room. Grr. He can be so bloody frustrating.
Ooh. Mobile again.
3.20 pm
"Poor Mr Darcy."
"I know! How could she!"
This time, Tom was ringing up, full of sympathy and rage, as if Mr Darcy were one of our own Urban Family. Felt like old days, pre-Smug-Married-ness, full of Dating War Councils (Mark's term, not mine) and cries of "FUCKWITTAGE!" as chardonnay splashed our drunken, uncoordinated hands. (Of course, Urban Family Smug-Married-ness is not nearly as intrusive or judgmental as, say, Cosmo, Woney, et al.)
"Hard to believe it," he said. "Who is this other guy? Not remotely attractive."
"Particularly compared to Mr Darcy," I sniffed haughtily.
"Apparently they've worked it out, though," he said.
"What? Already?!"
Silence, then suddenly, Tom sounded like the psychologist he's become: "Well, we're only just hearing about it, but it happened something like a year ago."
"A year?!" Was astounded. How did this earth-shattering news not get out for a year? Must have the self-control of a monk or similar. Well. Suppose Mr Darcy did have that, with the fencing and—
"I'm sure they didn't want the attention," Tom said, interrupting my thoughts. "I mean, look at the attention it's getting now. Imagine trying to reconcile with this much public scrutiny."
Considered for a moment how much my mum fussed and fluttered about Mark when we were on the outs (which hasn't been in v long time, thank God), how that made me feel. Tried to multiply in own head what that feeling would be like by hundreds. Thousands. Millions. Ugh. V difficult computation.
"I suppose," I offered lamely.
Have disconnected from Tom, and not feeling cheered. Feel as if he does not fully understand the extent of this betrayal. To be honest, not getting much sympathy from Mark, either. Maybe is some kind of defect in male brain.
10.00 pm
Post-supper, Mark reading bedtime story to Billy; Mabel already fast asleep. Enjoying the rest of the bottle of lovely wine Mark opened for dinner. Still feeling v sad about Mr Darcy. Hope he has good support system in place to help him. Maybe he's down at pub? Would Mr Darcy even go to a pub? Of course, is not really Mr Darcy. Bet he is in a pub.
10:15 pm
Maybe should send note to offer support and understanding. Never hurts to send note.
Dear Mr Dar
Dear Mr Fi
Dear Colin,
Have just heard about your recent trouble and wanted to offer
No, no. Too formal.
Sorry that your Italian wife
No, no no no.
Sorry you've been hurt this way, but you know, if you'd only dated someone close to your own age
No, no, don't want to lecture; not place or time.
Please feel free to reach out if you have any suicidal thoughts
GAH!
11:45 pm
Was Mark, come to bedroom, reading over my shoulder and giving me a start: "Bridget, what on earth are you doing?" He was smirking a little, obviously looking at what I was doing. "Are you writing him a letter?"
"I just thought it would be nice for him to know he has allies at this trying time," I said defensively.
He sat beside me, put his arm around my shoulders. "You're so thoughtful."
Thought he was patronising me, but then gave me what felt like a v sincere kiss. Mmmm.
10 March 2018
8.45 am
OH MY GOD.
Thank God for Mark. Feel as if would have actually posted letter if not for him.
Had got up to finish the wine—waste not, want not—and to further compose the letter. Had got a pretty good start while Mark was sleeping.
"What are you doing?" came his voice from beside me.
Felt strangely protective of letter baby. "Nothing."
"It's that letter, isn't it?"
"No!" I said, then admitted, "Yes."
"Oh God, I was joking," he said. He held out his hand. "Let's have it, then."
Pulled diary close to me. "No. You'll laugh. You'll just think it's silly."
"I promise that I won't."
To his credit, he did not laugh. An absolute stoic when he needs to be. In retrospect, he probably nearly burst a vein holding his laughter in.
My dear, dear Colin,
Just heard the news. Absolutely shattered. Are you holding up under the weight of betrayal? Miss Bennett never would have done this to you. I have my own Mr Darcy now but I'm sure there are many, many, many women who could help out if things don't work out in the end.
Men have so much trouble talking about their feelings, but maybe talk with your friends. I'm sure it'd help. It does help with me. Or it has in past. Go down to the pub. Have a few pints and just let it all out. Oh, though, that might be hard if there are cameras around. Maybe a private club? Or a friend's house? Whoever is your Bingley. Please think about it.
With love and genuine affection,
Bridget
Going to go have coffee and hope to sink into the earth, never to be seen again.
9.30 am
Mark handed me coffee without a single word, just a heart-meltingly warm smile. Children eating their breakfast, looking like little cherubs. We ate and laughed and talked about how their week at school had been and when the children were finished, they ran off to play. Only then did I make any reference to The Letter:
"Thank you for not laughing."
"Thank you," he said, "for remembering my existence and not offering yourself up to the man in his time of need." He was clearly very amused, though.
"I would not turn my back on the man I love." Then clapped my hand over mouth. Was so mean, yet so true.
He clasped my hand and squeezed. "It was a work of art, your letter," he said. "On par with your Christmas card fiasco. Excepting of course that you didn't actually post this one."
Could do nothing but groan at the embarrassing reminder.
"Actually, darling," Mark went on, "he might have liked to have heard from you again after your card. And the interview."
Covered my face with my hands in my mortification. Felt him pull them away, and when I met his gaze there was only the kindest tenderness. Of course there was. Knew he was only teasing me. His teasing is always meant in a loving way, as is my teasing of him. As he says, if we can't laugh at ourselves…
"I love that you care so much," he said. "It does you credit."
"I'm ridiculous."
"A little," he conceded, "but I love that about you."
Smiled back at him. Would never tire of hearing him express his feelings. He'd come such a long way.
Thought back to Christmas card fiasco, and realised that I had, too.
The end.