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“I can do both,” Darcy snapped at his friend. Then he turned to Hilliard. “I want you to work up a media strategy to help us avoid congressional hearings.”
“Yes, sir,” Hilliard said. “But—”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to make a call.” He gave the two men pointed looks until they both hurried toward the door. After taking a deep breath, he picked up his phone.
Chapter Seventeen
Elizabeth had been in motion the entire time Charlotte read the statement. The adrenaline fizzing in her blood compelled her to pace in front of the television in her parents’ family room, forcing everyone on the sofa to peer around her. Miraculously, nobody complained. It helped that her mother was upstairs sleeping off another Xanax, and Lydia was still MIA.
For the fifteenth time she reached for her cell phone for some distraction and again recalled that—overwhelmed by calls from the media, friends, and acquaintances she barely knew— she had left it behind in her apartment. When the press conference was over, her father clicked off the television from his easy chair.
“I think Charlotte did a good job,” Jane said stoutly.
“Yes, and that was a well-written statement,” Elizabeth’s father said.
“Thank you. Of course, Charlotte helped me write it,” Elizabeth said. “I just hope it’s enough.”
Jane gave Elizabeth an encouraging smile. “Hopefully it will change some minds.”
Mary folded her arms and scowled. “I doubt everyone will believe it. Some people are determined to think the worst of the president, and the rumors play right into that idea.”
Elizabeth sighed and sank onto a recliner. Writing the statement, getting the language just right, organizing the press conference, and handling all the questions had been an enormous effort. Now that it was over, her adrenaline had abandoned her, and she was ready for a nap.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” her father smiled at her, “all of this will blow over eventually.”
Kitty nodded enthusiastically. “In five years nobody will be talking about it.” Elizabeth wasn’t comforted.
At the sound of the doorbell, her father frowned. “I’m not expecting anyone.”
Mary stood. “It might be the press. They’d kill to get a quote from Lizzy.”
Her father grunted. “If those reporters don’t agree to get off the property, I’m calling the police.” He and Mary marched toward the front hall like street toughs ready for a fight.
“Just give them the sales pitch for cookies on-a-stick,” Kitty called after them. “They won’t be able to run away fast enough!”
Elizabeth huddled in the recliner, imagining all kinds of miscreants who might lurk behind the door. She strained her ears, but heard no sounds of shouting or pitched battle. Her father soon returned looking rather baffled. He was followed by a vaguely familiar older woman whose gaze raked the room disdainfully.
“Lizzy,” her father said, “this is Catherine de Bourgh, President Darcy’s aunt. She said you met before.”
What the hell was she doing here? Elizabeth gaped at the woman, who was eying her mother’s collection of unicorn figurines with a curl in her lip. Elizabeth’s shoulders tensed, feeling like they were hunched around her ears. Nevertheless, she gestured to the sofa. “Please, take a seat.”
Mrs. de Bourgh gave the sofa a sidelong glance as if she suspected it might harbor Ebola. “I don’t believe I’ll be staying that long.” The older woman sniffed. “Your house is quite a bit smaller than I expected.”
“Yes, well,” said Elizabeth’s father with a shrug, “we thought about buying a new one, but we are rather attached to the neighborhood.”
“I don’t see why you don’t tear down this house and build a new one then,” Mrs. de Bourgh drawled. “How in the world can your family make do with anything less than eight thousand square feet? Especially with such an excessive number of daughters.”
Apparently, she hadn’t expected a response because she continued, “And, if you tore down, you could rid yourselves of those hideous lion statues at the end of the drive.”
John Bennet looked stricken. “But they’re covered in real fake gold leaf!”
Mrs. de Bourgh regarded him like a particularly stupid kindergarten student. “Yes. You have identified the precise problem. And those turrets”—she gestured to the top of the house —“so gaudy!”
“But the style and color of the turrets were designed specifically to match the lions.” Her father sounded bewildered by the criticism.
“Good. Now you’re beginning to see the problem,” Mrs. de Bourgh said in a slow, patient voice.
Her father gaped like a fish but said nothing.
