Darcy in Hollywood

Three days later, Elizabeth arrived early to finish a few last-minute details before the True Colors group arrived but found the set in a frenzy of activity. PAs were sweeping out corners of the soundstage, clearing away empty coffee cups, and stowing unused props. Gaffers were coiling up unneeded cables while someone Elizabeth had never seen before touched up the paint on the living room set.

“What’s going on?” she asked Charlotte Lucas, who worked for the catering service and was busily adding fresh fruit to the craft services table. The Bennets and Lucases had been friendly for years, and Charlotte was one of Elizabeth’s closest friends.

“She’s coming to the set today,” Charlotte said in a tone of awe.

“Who?”

“Catherine de Bourgh.” Charlotte whispered the name as if she didn’t dare to speak it aloud.

“I thought she was shooting tomorrow.”

“She was supposed to,” Charlotte said with a sigh. “But she decided to come today. Tom is in a tizzy.”

“She can’t just rearrange the shooting schedule like that.”

“Catherine de Bourgh can do anything,” Charlotte’s tone of voice suggested the actress possessed nearly godlike powers.

This is just nuts. Elizabeth knew who Catherine de Bourgh was; everyone did. She wasn’t just Hollywood royalty; she was the queen. Or maybe the empress. Her career spanned decades, and she had worked with some of the most legendary directors.

Getting her to appear in this film—even if it was just for two scenes—was quite a coup for Tom, although her presence was undoubtedly Will’s doing. Catherine was his great aunt. She appeared in few movies these days, but it’s not like she needed the money or the exposure. It was yet another reminder of how much Elizabeth’s father owed to William Darcy. I really should think of him more charitably.

Elizabeth’s morning immediately became frantic as she tried to fit her True Colors’ tasks around the desperate need to clean up the set now. When a sudden hush fell over the entire studio, Elizabeth’s first panicked thought was that they had started filming.

But everyone was facing the building’s main entrance where Catherine de Bourgh made a stately promenade toward Tom and Roberta, who formed a kind of welcoming committee. Mrs. de Bourgh wore a floor-length fur-trimmed coat, much too warm for the day’s weather, and a hat with a feather sticking out at such an angle that it might take out someone’s eye.

Bizarrely, she was preceded by a small weaselly man in a suit, who alternated between looking forward as though he needed to clear the way and checking behind him to ensure she was navigating the apparently treacherous floor safely. Elizabeth was reminded of a page in a Medieval court who would announce the arrival of the king and ensure that no peons impeded his progress.

Bringing up the rear of the strange procession was a uniformed chauffeur carrying a large pink-and-green-striped purse from which protruded the poofy head of a tiny dog—wearing, of course, a pink bow.

The procession came to a halt in front of Roberta, who seemed to think she had been thrust into a Fellini film, and Elizabeth’s father, who just seemed bemused. The man in the suit lifted his arm, announcing, “Mrs. Catherine de Bourgh!” as he gestured to her with a flourish.

Tom Bennet lifted an eyebrow. “So I see. And you are…?”

The other man managed not to bow, but only just. “Bill Collins. I’m Mrs. de Bourgh’s personal assistant,” he said as though he were announcing his direct descent from the queen of England. “And this”—he gestured grandly to the chauffeur—“is Cecil B. DeMille.”

Her father squinted at the man. “Your parents actually named you—”

“The dog!” Bill Collins barked. “The dog is Cecil B. DeMille.” It took a special kind of arrogance, Elizabeth reflected, to introduce a dog but not the man holding it.

“I see…er, forgive me, Cecil.” Unoffended by the slight, the dog proceeded to lick his butt.

Roberta was a little braver than Tom. “I don’t believe we have a need for a dog on set.”

“Cecil B. DeMille goes wherever Mrs. de Bourgh goes,” Collins announced. “Did you acquire the gourmet doggy treats on the list of on-set amenities?” he asked Tom.

Elizabeth’s father nodded vigorously. “Yes, although we weren’t able to locate the calamari ones.”

Mrs. de Bourgh sniffed but said nothing. Speaking to producers apparently was beneath her.

“We have a few additions to Mrs. de Bourgh’s list. She will require four pints of lemon Perrier and two ounces of foie gras.”

Tom blinked and then smiled weakly at the older woman. “This is an independent film, you know, ma’am. We don’t have a budget for foie gras. Would another kind of pâté do?”

Mrs. de Bourgh raised one regal eyebrow and then inclined her head toward Collins. “That would be acceptable,” he intoned. Tom looked like he’d gained a reprieve from the guillotine.

Charlotte had come to stand beside Elizabeth, watching the proceedings with wide eyes. “Do you think we should bow?” Elizabeth murmured to her.

Charlotte shook her head very seriously. “Not yet.”