Chapter Three Knots

Lizzy had a backpack on one shoulder―her go-bag―and a large purse on the other. Since the October day was chilly, she wore a leather jacket. Her hair was up and concealed under a plain black ball cap. She had texted Charlie asking him to meet her behind her apartment building to further minimize the chance she would see anyone she knew, anyone who might ask about her hair.

It wasn't exactly that it would be hard to explain, but―as she realized when she looked at herself once more in the bathroom mirror before leaving her apartment―the hair made a statement. It was memorable. Her naturally brown hair, while not mousy, also did not, just by its color, compel attention. As a blonde, Lizzy felt like a mobile lighthouse. The cap helped; she'd put her candle under a bushel.

She smiled at her own phrasing. That English degree hadn't been a waste of time; she did have remarkable expressive resources. Words and phrases. A memory full of books. The resources had been useful a number of times on missions, but mostly they collected mental dust, a neglected library.

A car pulled around―the standard, dark SUV the Company used―and Lizzy saw Charlie inside at the wheel. He waved at her, leaning forward as he did, trying to get a better look. Some of Lizzy's blonde hair had strayed from beneath the cap, alerting Charlie to the L’Oréal fait accompli .

Ignoring him, she stashed her backpack on the backseat and settled herself into the front passenger seat after placing her purse on the floor. Charlie smiled at her, amused, the smile twitching on his face.

"So, you really did it―went blonde."

"You doubted me?" Lizzy was equally tempted to smile and to frown. Instead of doing either one, she yanked off her cap with her right hand, allowing the blonde hair to tumble to her shoulders.

His face briefly froze; he seemed not to know her. Finally, he jerked himself into recognition, response. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel! Let down your hair!"

She punched him hard in the shoulder with her left hand.

"Ouch! Hey, that hurt! I thought you were right-handed." Charlie rubbed his shoulder for a moment before pulling away from the curb.

Lizzy glared at him. "I am. And enough of the Grimm humor. My prince, you aren't ."

As Charlie drove toward the airport, Lizzy put her hat back on and tucked her hair under it again as best she could. She settled back in her seat, hoping to take a few minutes and enjoy the fall color on the trees.

She had no more than gotten comfortable when her personal phone rang in her bag. She cursed under her breath and bent down, digging the phone out of a side pocket. She looked at the screen and sighed.

Mom

Lizzy had been deliberately dodging her mother's calls, knowing, among other things, that her mother was undoubtedly trying to arrange a Thanksgiving visit. A guilt trip. But she would also be calling―as she always called―to nag Lizzy about Lizzy's life and to whine and complain about her own. Mrs. Bennet was not a person who could suffer in silence or suffer alone. Her pain demanded noisy vocalization and faithful, compliant commiseration.

"Shit," Lizzy whispered, putting the ringing phone on her knee and staring at it as if it were poisonous.

"Who is it?" Charlie asked innocently, noticing her reaction.

"My mother." Lizzy had never talked to him about her mother, so the answer was unlikely to explain her reaction. But she couldn't take any time to elaborate with the phone continuing to ring.

She picked it up, answering the call. She gave Charlie a be quiet look as she spoke. "Hey, Mom. How are you?"

"Eee-lizabeth? Is that you?"

Lizzy blew out a silent breath, hoping Charlie did not notice it and would not be more curious. Whenever her mother elongated the “E” at the beginning of “Elizabeth,” it meant she had been drinking. In this case, day drinking . It had been getting worse. Her mother rarely drank to full drunkenness, but she was now rarely awake without being at least a little tipsy.

Lizzy's father had half-listened to and ironically pitied her mother for years. He paid exactly enough attention to and offered exactly enough sympathy for her mother—who was unable to believe anyone could half-listen to her and was tone-deaf to irony—to keep his wife from detecting the steady, tranquil contempt her felt for her. Lizzy understood her father's feeling and sometimes shared it, although she fought against it. After he died, she sympathized with him even more as the weight of her mother's needs settled on her.

"Yes, Mom, you called me."

"Oh, yes, I did. Why are you always so hard to reach?"

"We've talked about that, Mom. My job."

She had never told her mother what she did, about the CIA. She only talked about her work in generalities. Not in lies, exactly…in vagueness. Her mother's self-absorption kept her from asking Lizzy for specifics and could not be trusted with the truth.

"It's government work, you know, and lots of travel. In fact, I'm going to travel again soon." Not a lie but not quite in focus. "I don't know when we'll be able to talk again. You'll have to wait for me to call you. Are you okay?"

"No, Elizabeth." At least the “E” had shortened. "I'm not okay. I'm never okay. Enervated, I'm enervated. Always." Lizzy's mom could never get that word right. She always thought it meant extremely nervous. "My damn nerves are ringing like fire bells. No one understands the torment…"

"Are you taking your prescriptions, Mom?"

Her mother halted for a second, which meant the answer was no, of course. She was self-medicating. Scotch.

"Yes, I am. It's just work. There’s too much pressure, and I can't get good help."

Lizzy's mother owned a bridal shop in Rochester, New York, where Lizzy had grown up. Her aunt, Christine Gardiner, had managed the shop for years and did most of the work, but somehow Lizzy's mom could never acknowledge the fact. Aunt Christine was a brilliant woman, a college graduate, but she had never needed a job and only managed the bridal shop to have an outlet for her formidable energies. Mrs. Bennet always claimed and seemed to believe that she was running the shop, present daily, taking care of the details. However, the truth was that she swooped in now and then, usually late in the day, and stayed only long enough only to leave the window display in disarray or to offend a customer.

"But isn't Aunt Christine there? Let her handle the hiring if you need someone."

"What I need is for you to come home." The abrupt shift was typical of her mother. "It's been world without end since you've been here…since I've seen you in person."

"I know, Mom. If this trip doesn't take too long, I promise I'll be home around the holidays." More vagueness, conditional promises. But Lizzy did need to go home; it had been too long. "I want to see you and Aunt Christine. And Uncle Hubert, too. How's he doing?"

Of the three, her uncle was the one in delicate physical health. Mrs. Bennet’s health problems, despite her frequent complaints of aches and palpitations and whirrings ( whatever those are ) were all mental. But Uncle Hubert’s heart, like Lizzy’s father's, was problematic. He’d had several stents inserted a few months ago, and they seemed to have made a real improvement. Despite being retired, he’d returned to work as an international banker a few days a week, riding the rising tide of renewed energy.

"Oh, he's fine, always mucking around with other people's money," her mother reported peevishly. Lizzy's father had left her mother ample money and Aunt Christine made the shop profitable, yet her mother always thought of herself as scraping by― to use the phrase she liked. She resented the huge house and the fine cars the Gardiners could afford and liked to sniff about her mere Honda. "I can never seem to get him to take my money on, make my money work for me."

"Mom, you know he doesn’t do work for individuals. He has clients like Exxon and China. His firm begs him to stay on with them because he's so good at that sort of corporate work. He's not what you need. Go to see a banker and get some advice."

Her mother huffed. Having long ago decided she had a just complaint against her brother-in-law, she was not about to yield it now.

"So, you will be home around the holidays ?" This one time, her mother had actually caught the vagueness, the imprecision, even if it had taken her a moment.

"I will, Mom. If work allows it. I promise."

Her mother was silent. Conversations between them usually went in this meandering way, punctuated only by complaints about her mother's nerves, the Gardiners, and Lizzy’s empty promises. "All right, sweetheart, I will hold you to that."

Lizzy thought she could hang up, but then her mother interjected: "Are you seeing anyone? Met anyone?"

This was the other reliable punctuation of their talks: Lizzy's non-existent love life. Shit.

"Anyone? No." Darcy’s shoulders inexplicably filling her mind, an image of him striding down the hallway in Langley. "No one."

"Lizzy..!"

"Look, Mom, I've got to go. Talk to you again when I can. Please don't call me. I'll be busy. I'll call you."

"But, Lizzy, you need to find someone. You know what the Good Book says, 'It's not good for woman to be alone.'"

It doesn't quite say that.

A curious feature of her mother's recent life was that she had joined a local Anglican church and sang in its choir. Lizzy had thought it a net positive…until her mother started taking to (mis)quoting scripture. It was disconcerting.

"Lizzy, you're not listening."

"I've got to go, Mom. Bye!"

Charlie did not ask any more questions about the call, for which Lizzy was grateful. She would never have answered the phone within the hearing of almost any other agent, but she felt comfortable― comfortable enough, anyway ―around Charlie. There had always been a sort of sister-brother dynamic between them.

She did notice that his expression had grown somber. She wondered about his family, whether the job had taken a toll on it as it did on almost all agents' families. The sister-brother dynamic was not strong enough for Lizzy to ask without any invitation. Is his love life as non-existent as mine?

"So," Charlie said after a quiet few minutes of driving, "what did you make of Darcy?"

She did not face him but answered immediately, needing no time for deliberation. "An ass. Arrogant."

He smiled and nodded his head. "He comes off that way. Did even as a boy. Around strangers, it's like he's a statue. A disapproving statue. As if Rodin had sculpted him: The Frowner. But he's not . At least"―Charlie’s clear eyes clouded a bit―"at least he used not to be…"

“A statue, or disapproving?” Lizzy quipped in question. He just blew out a breath.

They arrived at the private tarmac used by small government jets. The wind was blowing as they parked. Darcy stood on the tarmac, large and frowning, dressed in a Bible-black turtleneck sweater, jeans, and black leather boots. It was a change from the black suit he had worn in Langley but made Lizzy remember it.

His wavy hair was waving in the wind. As she reached to open her car door and he stepped toward it, reaching out, she realized that he had not shaved. A heavy blue afternoon shadow colored his cheeks and chin. She pulled on the handle as he pulled the door open. She stepped out, facing him, and took off her cap.

Darcy blinked as if staring into a sudden riot of white light. He took a step back, and Lizzy smirked inwardly. "Told you I would be blonde…"

He stared, dumbstruck. "But—" he started, stopped. "But so blonde! Like Jean Harlow in Red Dust. "

The remark drew Lizzy up short. Harlow. Starlet and harlot, at least in that film "You're an old movie fan?"

He continued to stare at her hair… her …and didn't answer. Lizzy glanced at Charlie, who had gotten out and was watching the scene eagerly, chuckling. After another pause and with a spark in his eyes that might have been irony, Darcy glanced at Charlie, too. "Let's board. I'll brief you on the plane."

He looked back at Lizzy, now composed, his eyes dark again. "Still not voluptuous, though."

Soon the plane was in the air and heading for Chicago. Darcy had three files, a copy for each of them, on a small table. He handed one to Charlie and one to Lizzy. " My file on George Wickham."

Lizzy took her folder and opened it. Surprisingly, it was not thick.

Inside, on the top of the few pages, she found a surveillance photograph. Wickham. The shot was a good one. It showed him head to toe, walking. He was elegant—elegantly dressed without seeming a dandy. Slim, but with broad shoulders. His face was narrow, his features fine. He was handsome and knew it, lived secure in that knowledge. The smile on his face was the smile of a man used to creating responses in others. Artful and masterful.

Lizzy studied the photograph for a few minutes, disquieted by it.

Darcy said nothing, letting her and Charlie investigate their files.

She put the photograph aside and thumbed through the papers. They detailed the various places where Wickham had lately been: Berlin, London. The information on his activities in those cities was dense, detailed, and professional.

But nothing in the file predated Berlin.

Lizzy was still smarting from Darcy's comment about her not being voluptuous, which had put her in a mood to quarrel, find fault. "Why is there so little in this file beyond Berlin? Did he just come into existence spontaneously in Germany? How did you find him there?"

Darcy passed over her question. "We're focused forward. I know where he's heading in Chicago. There's a woman there, fabulously wealthy, and I suspect she is a crucial part of The Wicker Man's network. Lady Catherine de Bourgh."

House of Lords. For a moment, Lizzy thought Darcy was joking. " Lady ?"

"Yes, she's a Brit. Her husband, much older than her and now dead, was Lord de Bourgh. After his death, she transplanted herself and his fortune to the States, to Chicago. Many years ago.

"She has a massive house north of the city, a mansion she calls Rosings. She rarely leaves it except for selected cultural events, concerts, and operas. Art’s the centerpiece of her life―her public life anyway. Even though she doesn't leave Rosings often, she manages to exert an enormous influence on the cultural life of the city. Her money often leaves Rosings, even if she rarely does herself.

"Wickham has no notion that anyone is suspicious of him. His confidence is his greatest weakness. His cover is the wealthy playboy on vacation—and takes everyone to believe that. The CIA was able to tap his calls in D.C. After buying his airline tickets, Wickham made a call to Rosings and spoke to Lady Catherine, arranging a visit. On the phone, it was all perfectly innocent. They supposedly met when she visited England a few years ago and kept up a friendship. People who move in her circles gossip about them sleeping together and call her Cougar Catherine . She's certainly his type in look”―Darcy glanced at Lizzy―“but not his type in years."

Lizzy was still puzzled about the brevity of the Wickham file, but she let it go. "Okay, so what's our play?"

"Lady Catherine is hosting a party the day after tomorrow. I've been able to insert you into the guest list. Your cover is as Fanny Prince. You're a librarian, working for the Chicago Public Library. Lady Catherine always…condescends…to invite a few folks from the CPL to her gatherings. She's one of the CPL's largest private donors. She likes to sprinkle a few commoners―educated commoners, of course―among her aristocratic set."

Charlie was laughing in his seat.

"What?" Lizzy demanded.

He pointed to her head. "If you were in a library, you'd have to shush your hair."

She blushed and glared at him. She had been so focused on the honeypot portion of the mission that she hadn't thought about her cover. And Darcy hadn't helped her, warned her.

When she turned back to Darcy, he was laughing, too, but shaking his head. "No, I think it will help. With that hair, she's not going to seem too much like a librarian. There's a suggestion of something else, something… suggestive . Possible items of interest in her card catalog."

The two men kept chuckling. Lizzy crossed her legs and arms, glowering, appreciating neither the remarks nor the shift into the third-person discussion of her.

Darcy stopped chortling and held out the third file for her. "Here’s the information you need on the CPL, your job. I figured, with your background and education―Haverford, literature―you can sell it. I'll accompany you as your plus one , your boyfriend, Ned Moreland. American. I can do the accent."

She nodded, not quite paying attention to the words that followed you can sell it. It was the first time he’d indicated any confidence in her ability to do the job. She uncrossed her arms and accepted the file from his hands. He had said his last words in a completely convincing mid-Atlantic American accent.

And then the rest of his words registered. "My boyfriend ? Won't you get in my way?" She made sure the question sounded professional rather than a complaint.

He shook his head. "No, if I know Wickham―and I believe I do―my presence will help, not hurt. It may be necessary. He prefers theft to purchase. Taking you from me will…add spice, interest. He likes his women to be…well, dropping their duties with their panties, if you'll forgive my phrasing. He'll want to prove to you—and to me—that you're not mine."

His eyes held Lizzy's for a few seconds, and then he turned his gaze out the window.