Liz didn’t mind Charlotte’s competitive spirit—she knew the affection underlying it—but Caroline Bingley caught Liz’s eye, and Caroline’s demeanor contained no similar warmth. “So much for family shorthand, I guess,” Caroline said.
The game proceeded much the way it had begun, with Lydia and Kitty making guesses that were as off-color as they were inaccurate; when the answer was The Sound of Music, they shouted, “Hemorrhoids!” and “Blow job!”; for Dwight Eisenhower, “Dildo!” and “Threesome!” Her younger sisters’ vulgarity was not a surprise to Liz; indeed, she herself, more than Jane or Mary, could enjoy a dirty joke. However, the difference between Liz and her youngest sisters was their lack of deference to context. Among near strangers, Liz would never have been so artlessly, fearlessly crude. But Kitty and Lydia were always themselves, in a way Liz found both appalling and admirable. They would discuss pubic hair at the dinner table, text in church, refer as unabashedly to their hangovers as Liz would have to a stubbed toe. Perhaps, Liz thought, their nonchalance about judgment or consequence reflected the greater leniency Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had shown them; their parents had, when Liz and Jane were children and teenagers, still been concerned with bedtimes and then curfews, with grades and chores and thank-you notes. Whereas on a recent afternoon, when Liz had asked Lydia if she had any stationery Liz could use to belatedly write to a publicist who’d taken her to lunch in New York the week Mr. Bennet had fallen ill, Lydia had said she didn’t own stationery. “Then how do you thank people?” Liz asked, and Lydia said, “For what?”
But the aspect of Lydia and Kitty’s crassness most noteworthy to Liz was their lack of concern that it would adhere to them. They were such pretty girls, with long blond hair, like Jane’s—Liz and Mary were brunettes—and their bodies, per their dedication to CrossFit, were superbly toned. Plus, they were young still, their skin creamy, their eyes bright, no matter how late they returned home on how many nights. Did they not wonder if shouting about dingleberries might in some way detract from their dewy beauty, conjuring an incompatibly, uncomplimentarily vivid image in audiences’ heads? It appeared they did not.
Yet even as Liz felt gripped by embarrassment, she also felt embarrassment’s opposite, a liberating kind of resignation. Her sisters were people who never passed up an opportunity to talk about sex, shit, or combinations thereof; if her family horrified Darcy and Caroline, so be it. It was mostly for Jane that she felt regret, should the evening compromise Chip’s impression of her.
It was during the third round of the game, on Jane’s turn, when the indecency reached its apotheosis. The clue, as it turned out, was “Jingle Bells,” yet, with great enthusiasm, Lydia kept repeating, “Alabama Hot Pocket! Alabama Hot Pocket!” Liz ignored her, and together she and Mary ultimately guessed the answer, but after the turn was finished, Stephen said, “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
Lydia and Kitty dissolved into laughter. Liz stood. “Does anyone need another drink?”
Stephen said to Lydia, “Whisper it in my ear?”
“Oh, please,” Charlotte said. “No secrets. Just say it.”
Liz rolled her eyes at Lydia and Kitty as she passed them en route to the kitchen; once there, after opening a new bottle of wine and refilling her glass, she checked her phone. She’d received no interesting emails and no texts at all. Sporty was shipping on Monday, so she knew Jasper would be working most of the weekend.
“I think Caroline is having the cabernet,” a male voice said. “Does that sound right?”
When Liz looked up, Darcy had entered the kitchen and was standing at the counter holding two open bottles side by side.
“I have no idea.” Liz watched as he poured, then she said, “Actually, she must have been drinking the other one, because I just opened that. Here.” Liz took a step forward and reached for the glass Darcy was holding; in one long slug, she finished its contents. When the maroon liquid was gone, she returned the glass to the counter. “Problem solved.”
“That glass was mine,” Darcy said.
“Oops,” Liz said. “Are you worried about my B-minus Cincinnati germs?”
After Darcy refilled the same glass, he looked at her, took a sip, and said, without smiling, “I have confidence in my immune system.” As he poured from the other bottle into Caroline’s glass, he said, “You might recall that it was you yourself, not I, who assigned you a grade of B-minus.”
“I was empathizing with your plight—looking at the world from your perspective.”
“I see.” Everything about him—every inflection of his voice, every expression he made—oozed superciliousness.
“For what it’s worth, my sisters aren’t representative of all people from Cincinnati,” Liz said. “Lydia and Kitty happen to have exceptionally bad manners.”
“I’m well aware that your sisters have exceptionally bad manners,” Darcy said, and Liz immediately regretted her quasi-apology.
She said, “So where are you from that’s so superior to here?”