Resurgens
Vignette 6: Henry Crawford and George Wickham meet for drinks.
Jane Austen’s beloved characters… brought together… in 21st c. Atlanta
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Resurgens
Vignette 6
The lights were low as Henry Crawford stepped into Atlanta’s St. Regis Bar. He’d never been there before and admired the mahogany paneled walls festooned with evergreen garlands for Christmas. The well-heeled patrons conducted business in polite tones, and glasses clinked behind the bar. George Wickham had said to meet him here at 10pm, but George was always late.
Making his way toward the bar, Henry congratulated himself on wearing his dark suit. The St. Regis catered to a classy clientele, and he appeared to fit in.
“What can I get you, sir?” the bartender asked, wiping down a glass and placing it on a shelf.
“Hmmm… I’m feeling a Dark ‘n’ Stormy tonight,” Henry said.
“Goes with the weather, yes, sir.” The bartender started making the drink while keeping a curious eye on Henry.
Henry glanced up at the mural behind the bar — a fiery phoenix swooping skyward from the conflagration of antebellum Atlanta with the 21st century skyline rising near its wing. “That’s… very specific.”
The bartender looked over his shoulder. “Yeah, the symbol of Atlanta. A phoenix rising from the ashes.”
“Resurgens,” Henry said.
“Sorry?”
“Oh, uh, the Atlanta motto,” Henry said, embarrassed to be touting his education. “‘Rising again.’” Henry could relate to anybody and added, “Wish we could all have a do-over, huh?”
“You’re tellin’ me.” The bartender set the drink on the bar, still watching Henry. “Sorry to be staring, sir, but I know I’ve seen you somewhere before — just can’t place where.”
Henry was used to this. “I have a familiar face.”
“Hold on, you’re that guy on that hospital show! The doctor the ladies are always falling for. You’re really good, man! Hey, does that happen to you in real life? All those women?”
Henry laughed. “You gotta be careful these days,” he said. “I recommend getting consent in writing first — which doesn’t go over real well.”
The bartender laughed. “You’re a hoot, man! ‘Get it in writing.’ Ha!”
The manager walked by, raising an eyebrow at the bartender who promptly reined himself in.
“Would you like to open a tab, sir?”
“Sure,” Henry said, getting out his card.
“Henry, glad you didn’t wait for me.” George approached the bar, late as ever, and handed the bartender his AmEx. “I’ll have what he’s having. Put him on my tab.”
“George, you don’t have to do that.”
“You’re my guest tonight,” George said, surveying the room. “Looks like slim pickings this evening.”
“How was Thanksgiving? Did you and Lydia get together with the Darcys?” Henry asked.
“Yep. Thanksgiving and Christmas: the only times I’m allowed to enter the hallowed halls of Pemberley.”
“It’s so affected to name your house.”
“Yes.” George took his drink and continued, “Twice a year, I play the contrite brother-in-law, bringing the offering of my good behavior to Fitzwilliam Darcy’s altar. I sit there with a smile plastered on my face and watch their family laugh and talk, imagining all the things that could go wrong for them, but never do.” He took a drink to wash away the bitterness.
“Is that why we’re here tonight? You need to blow off some steam?”
“Why else would we be here on a Monday night? Only the most desperate women will be here tonight.”
“What women come here to be picked up?”
“Women looking for rich men.”
“Well, they’re out of luck with you.”
“But since I have a room here, they won’t know that until tomorrow morning.” George took his drink and said, "Let's sit in this corner — we’ll have a view of the room.”
Henry winced at him. His sister Mary came to mind, and he hoped she was never the target of guys like this. “Things are that bad with Lydia?” he asked, following George to the table.
George grimaced and said, “Same as they’ve been since Darcy paid me to marry her. Every moment we spend apart is bliss. She was supposed to be entertainment for one weekend ten years ago, and now I’m stuck with her for life.”
“Why don’t you just divorce her and move on?”
“Are you kidding? Darcy pays my bills! He’s paying for our drinks and my room here tonight. There’s no way I’m giving that up.”
“He pays for you to cheat on his sister-in-law?”
“Henry, he doesn’t personally pay my bills. His secretaries do it. And I have an understanding with one of them.” George winked and took a sip of his drink. “Do you ever see Maria Bertram?”
Maria Bertram: the mother of Henry’s child — whom he never was allowed to see — and the synecdoche for failure in his life. George had deployed her name and knocked Henry off his high horse as intended. Henry would never recover from his worst mistake. Not only had he seduced and impregnated a married woman, but he had alienated his sister and himself from the entire Bertram family, the best friends they’d ever had.
“George, I never knew you had an interest in ancient history,” Henry said, remaining impassive.
“Oh, Henry, please. There should be a hall of fame for that debacle. Your recklessness is a caution to all. I never go for married women.”
“That you know of.”
“Too complicated. And I don’t have any by-blows running around.”
“That you know of.”
“I’m sure they’d let me know.” George took another drink. “I saw Maria Bertram the other day.”
“Did you really.”
“She looked good.”
“I’m sure she did. Like Lydia Bennet, Maria had family she could fall back on. Tom Bertram has paid for the —” Henry paused. “— for our son’s education and got them a condo near the rest of the family. I think she goes to Ed’s church.”
“Oh, that’s right,” George said, pressing his eyes. “Their brother Ed’s a preacher. Henry, only you could have managed such a disaster.”
“Thank you.”
“Here we go,” George said, suddenly distracted. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He leaned forward in his chair like a jackal targeting its dinner.
Two women had entered and stood surveying the room with the serenity of the beautiful. They seemed so familiar with this watering hole that Henry got the impression they were the hunters, not the prey. The Christmas spirit had inspired them to coordinate: one wore emerald green with her blonde mane tossed down her back, and the other had selected red heels with her red dress and red lipstick to complement her waves of dramatic, dark hair. Their gazes alighted on George and Henry watching them appreciatively and continued around the room in which most conversation had paused as the businessmen noticed them. They moved with practiced grace in their stiletto heels, their silk dresses caressing their hips and fluttering over their cleavage. They chose a place at the bar with room for their admirers to approach and ordered drinks. A honeytrap, Henry thought and smiled.
A man from a nearby group of middle-aged business travelers stood to be the first victim, and they favored him with smiles and exchanged a few pleasantries.
“You know who that is, don’t you?” George asked.
“Which one?” Henry said.
“The one in red. That’s Isabella Thorpe — Miss Georgia from ten or twelve years back.” He looked at Henry. “Wait — she was in your class at Westminster, wasn’t she?”
“Two years younger. My sister’s class.”
“You know this woman?”
“We’re acquainted,” Henry said.
“She didn’t seem to recognize you.”
“She’s not here to waste her time on me.”
“Oh, you’ve dated her?”
“No — she’s too smart for that. She’s only in the market for marriage.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard the whole story,” George said, shaking the ice in his drink. “I’m sure you know it better than I do.”
“Probably not,” Henry said, unwilling to repeat it.
George dove right in. “Wasn’t she engaged to some older guy right out of high school? Some friend of her brother’s? And right after she won Miss Georgia, she got it in her head she was too good for him. A woman like that could have anybody, and she knew it. She ended up sleeping with one of the guys from the Tilney family she met at some fundraiser. And he completely ghosted her. Her fiance found out and ended it. She found somebody else who’d marry her and has been upgrading ever since. Started small, then had an affair with somebody richer and married him.”
“Wow, you’re quite the expert on this woman you’ve never met,” Henry said. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it happened, George.”
“No, it’s true. I heard the whole thing from my wife.”
“And Lydia is friends with Izzie and has heard her side of the story? I don’t think that’s how Izzie would describe it.”
“What are you, her dad? I’m just saying what happened. She then had another affair with another guy and married him. That third husband just died and left her millions.” George ruminated on all that money as he finished his drink. “After all that hard work, maybe she’s finally in the mood for romance.”
“She will not be interested in you, George, I’ll tell you that right now,” Henry said, thinking of his sister Mary again and bristling in women’s defense.
Unwilling to ignore this challenge to his manhood, George said, “What do you want to bet? I’ll make the stakes low for you. Two hundred dollars says she’ll come upstairs with me.”
“Let’s make it three hundred. She’ll turn you down flat.”
“What’s it to you?”
“You’re notorious, George. She knows better than to get mixed up with you. Or me,” Henry said.
George smiled. “You’re going to lose — and Darcy will thank you for covering the drinks tonight.” He lifted a finger for the waiter, and they placed another order.
Another two pigeons had gathered around Isabella and her companion, and Henry turned his attention to the nearby table where the remaining marks laughed and talked.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Henry said under his breath, staring at one of the men who looked up and locked eyes with him. Henry looked away first.
“Is that Tom Bertram?” George asked. “He looks… functional. I thought he was in rehab.”
Henry didn’t know where to look. “He’s been back for months,” he said.
“Looks stable now. Though he’s in a bar, which seems… inadvisable. How’s he doing?”
“What? How should I know?” Henry said, acutely uncomfortable.
“Surely you’re in touch, given your… family connection,” George said, smirking.
“Turns out you’re wrong.”
“Really. When was the last time you spoke to Tom?”
“I don’t know, ten years ago, maybe?”
“Oh, then this is awkward for you.”
“A little.”
“He keeps looking at you.”
“Yep, thanks.”
Isabella Thorpe’s voice wafted their way. George caught the scent and returned to the hunt. “When is she going to get rid of these guys?”
Henry watched Isabella’s alluring smile and remembered that look from a theater production they’d done in high school. At that time, the script had called for a kiss — something his high school self never could have achieved offstage. As he watched Isabella play the coquette again, he had the sense this was the last act in a play that had started all those years ago with her pretending love — and would end with… something else. Was this a tragedy or a comedy?
“George Wickham, how are you? It’s been a while,” someone said, and Henry looked up to find Tom Bertram standing over him, extending his hand to George.
George rose to shake it, and Henry followed suit, struck speechless by the encounter. Would Tom expect him to say something about Maria and his son? Should Henry acknowledge that they hadn’t spoken in ten years?
Tom and George exchanged pleasantries, and then Tom turned to Henry.
“Henry.”
“Tom.”
There was an awkward pause while George looked back and forth between them until Tom said,
“It was orange juice — what I was drinking.”
“OK,” Henry said. Another pause.
“At Christmas… maybe we’ll see you,” Tom said.
“Oh — uh. OK.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Tom turned to George. “Great to see you. Y’all have a good night.”
George and Henry remained standing, looking at each other as Tom walked out with one of his guests.
“What just happened?” George asked.
Henry couldn’t form a coherent thought but felt as if the air were easier to breathe than he remembered.
“You haven’t talked to Tom in ten years, and the first thing he says to you is, ‘It was orange juice?’ Why does he care if the guy who knocked up his sister knows whether he’s on the wagon or not?” George said.
Henry hazarded a guess. “He just started seeing my sister this week. He’s letting me back in, maybe?”
“Tom is dating Mary?” George said. “Plot twist! That is so… Shakespearean. Will he impregnate your sister, do you think? Like a revenge plot?”
“I don’t think so…” Henry said, his mind churning. He looked up to see the blonde in the emerald green dress walking out with one of the men from Tom’s table. The remaining admirers stood around Isabella Thorpe so closely that Henry could only see a flash of her red dress or the shine of her dark hair.
George turned to look at the bar and said, disgusted, “Tom distracted me, and now I have to wait for them, too.” He resumed his seat and motioned for the waiter. “Oh, well. It’ll be entertaining to watch a master at work. I wonder how she’ll get rid of them.”
The men around Isabella laughed in a wolfish tone familiar to Henry, and he caught sight of her face, wary of her company. His new ease of breathing gave his thoughts focus as he watched her wrap her gauzy stole around her shoulders, obscuring her bosom from their elevated view.
One of them said, “It’s too early to close up shop, darlin’,” and tore the wrap away, exposing her again. The men hooted and whistled, and one grabbed her wrist as she tried to snatch the shawl back.
Henry stepped toward the group, but George held his arm. “Hold on, Henry. Let’s see how she handles it. I’ll swoop in and save her in a minute when she’s really desperate. Her gratitude will be overwhelming.”
Henry pulled his arm away and said, “Bet’s off.”
“If you sabotage this, you owe me three hundred bucks.”
“I’ll Venmo you,” Henry said.
He approached the men and slapped one on the shoulder with camaraderie. “Hey guys, thanks for keeping her company, but it’s time for us to go. Sorry I took so long, Izzie. You ready?”
“Yes, Henry, thank you,” Isabella said with dignity.
“I’ll take that, sir,” Henry said with a charming smile, holding his hand out for the stole. The man who held it seemed uncertain whether he’d been cheated or caught. His leer melted into a pout as he handed the wrap to Henry, who lay it around Isabella’s shoulders and gave her his arm. “Good night!” Henry said to the group and escorted Isabella out of the bar through the marble and gilt foyer to the porte cochere.
Henry stood there in the cold with the most beautiful woman he’d ever known still on his arm, uncertain what to do next. The vision of his sister being subjected to that treatment had spurred him to action, and that same sense of protection now prevented him from capitalizing on his advantage. Besides which, the strange conversation with Tom had sparked an idea, suggesting a way back from the solitary life he led.
“Thank you, Henry. That was a masterful performance. Your Emmy is well deserved.” She paused before saying, “What now?”
“Hmmm,” said Henry, still uncertain how to proceed. He turned to look at her, nearly his height in her three-inch heels, and lost track of time, gazing at her. She wore a scent that invited him closer. As he leaned in, he became aware of the bellmen and made a decision. “What’s your address?” he asked, getting out his phone.
“I don’t take men home with me.”
“Oh, you prefer the St. Regis?” He opened the Uber app. “I’ll just see you to your door. It’s late.”
She looked at him like she’d heard it all before — and then she made a decision. “2880 Rivermeade Drive.”
Henry typed it in, saying, “Rivermeade? Those are nice houses over there.”
The driver would arrive in two minutes. He felt her shiver next to him and put his arm around her shoulders. He remembered that her elderly husband had died recently and said, “I’m sorry for your loss. I heard your husband passed away.”
She pinned him with a skeptical glance, presumably to deflate his mockery, but he looked at her with sympathy.
“Thank you,” she said before searching through her handbag for a place to hide her emotion.
He couldn’t drag his eyes away. Her beauty had deepened and ripened since high school. His eyes caressed her hair and the line of her face as she looked back up at him.
“Why are you staring, Henry? You’ve seen me before.”
“You’re bringing to mind a poem I haven’t thought of in a long time,” he said. “Do you remember this from Mr. Morgan’s English class? When he read it aloud, I thought someone had written it about you — until I saw it was Byron.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that is best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”
“It’s been a long time since someone quoted me poetry, Henry.” Isabella blushed but held his gaze. “You’re very good at this,” she added to remind him of her immunity to charm.
Or to remind herself? Henry wondered.
Henry wasn’t in the mood for banter. Something too important was happening, and he didn’t want to lose it. In a moment, he had risen from the ashes of a night out with George Wickham, sparked to life by Tom’s hinted invitation to Christmas, and now found himself rejuvenated in Isabella’s presence.
The car pulled up, and he opened the door, assisting her into the back seat. She slid over to make room for him, but he leaned in and said to her, “Don’t come here anymore, Izzie. You’re too good for this. Go home,” and closed the door, waving the driver on.
Resurgens.
Next Jane Austen Short:
Find Jane Austen’s characters in her novels:
Henry Crawford and Tom Bertram in Mansfield Park
George Wickham in Pride and Prejudice
Isabella Thorpe in Northanger Abbey
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This is so fun! I often write romantic banter in my fiction, too. And I love the phoenix up there—naturally. Also, "I don't take men home with me" is a line that doesn't get said enough in fiction or reality.
Terrifically told story!