Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart

by Beth Pattillo

  Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8249-4793-4

  Published by Guideposts

  16 East 34th Street

  New York, New York 10016

  www.guideposts.com

  Copyright © 2010 by Beth Pattillo. All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Distributed by Ideals Publications, a division of Guideposts

  2636 Elm Hill Pike, Suite 120

  Nashville, Tennessee 37214

  Guideposts and Ideals are registered trademarks of Guideposts.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Pattillo, Beth.

  Mr. Darcy broke my heart / Beth Pattillo.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-8249-4793-4

  1. Americans—England—Fiction. 2. Austen, Jane, 1775–1817. Pride and prejudice—Fiction. 3. England—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.A925M7 2010

  813′.6—dc22

  2009039525

  Cover design by the Design Works Group and Georgia Morrissey

  Cover art by Trevillion Images

  Interior design by Lorie Pagnozzi

  Typeset by Nancy Tardi

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FOR MY EDITOR,

  BETH ADAMS,

  FOR HER PATIENCE, SUPPORT, AND WISDOM.

  The taxi pulled up outside Christ Church and I climbed out of the backseat, but the scorching July heat stole my breath and threatened to press me back inside the cab. I swiped at the sweat dripping down my forehead and righted myself on the pavement. When my sister talked me into taking her spot in a summer seminar on Pride and Prejudice, I’d expected the dreaming spires of Oxford, intellectual conversation, and long walks along the tranquil river. I hadn’t expected to arrive soaked with perspiration and deeply in need of a shower, all because of my sister’s obsession with one Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  The gateway beneath Tom Tower, Christ Church’s main entrance and one of its most distinctive features, would have looked at home with a drawbridge and a moat. A portcullis at a minimum. But the modern inhabitants of the college had made do with some wrought iron as their lone defense against the real world. I paid the driver and wrestled my suitcase from the taxi. It landed on the ground next to me with an ominous thud. I squared my shoulders, took a very deep breath, and moved forward, sweat trickling down my spine.

  “Good morning.” A spry middle-aged man in some sort of uniform stepped forward. “Welcome to Christ Church.”

  He motioned me through the gate, which led to a passage cut through the building itself. It was a good fifteen feet across and paved in cobblestones. To the left was some kind of office. A sign identified it as the Porters’ Lodge.

  “Thank you.” I paused, unsure where to go.

  “Straight through and to the left. You’ll see the registration table.” His face was weathered, but his chipper tone and bright blue eyes spoke of abundant energy. He winked. “Just leave your case here, and someone will take it to your room. Enjoy your stay.”

  Enjoy my stay? I swallowed the bark of laughter in my throat. I was here under duress, against my better judgment, and out of desperation. Enjoyment might be too lofty a goal.

  I followed the porter’s instructions and stepped out of the cool shadow of the gateway into Tom Quad, the heart of the college itself. The walls of the buildings formed a large, open square in front of me, an arena of golden stone punctuated by elegant arches, wooden doors, and mullioned windows. On the opposite side I could see the entrance to the cathedral that gave the college its name, and a raised, paved walkway that formed a square of its own just inside the walls. In the center of the quad, gravel walks crisscrossed, with an elegant fountain, complete with a statue of Mercury, at their meeting point.

  Christ Church. The holy of holies within Oxford University. And the last place on earth I’d ever have thought to find myself.

  That thought renewed the panic that had been lodged in my stomach since I boarded the plane for Heathrow. I turned to my left as the porter had directed and mounted the few steps onto the walkway. My sandals tapped against the pavement, made of the same weathered stone that formed the walls, and the sun beat down on my head.

  I had read that the other colleges within Oxford had cloisters or covered walkways, but Christ Church had run short of funds during construction, and the cloisters had never been completed. Now I felt as exposed as those walkways. No shade, no shelter, no covering. Just me. An unemployed former office manager with a GED, a sports-obsessed boyfriend who might not have noticed that I’d left the country, and a perilously empty bank account.

  No point in panicking right now, I lectured myself as I approached the registration table, a smile pasted on my face. You have at least a week until you have to figure out what to do with the rest of your life.

  The thought was not particularly comforting.

  A steaming cup of tea hardly seemed the best choice for a torrid July morning, but that was all that was on offer in the Junior Common Room. I’d picked up my participants’ folder from an eager, rather pierced student at the registration table and followed her instructions to walk farther along the quad to the student lounge.

  I took the cup of tea from the smiling woman behind the pass-through and looked down the length of the room at the assortment of unoccupied chairs and tables. In my eagerness to arrive, I’d made the mistake of showing up too early. The last thing I wanted was to look like a desperate wannabe.

  I settled at a table next to the windows that overlooked St. Aldate’s Street and tried to look as if I belonged there. My sister Missy had received a grant to attend this weeklong seminar in Oxford as part of her continuing education for her teacher certification, but pregnancy complications had kept her from traveling, and here I was instead.

  Missy had assured me I’d love it. A lot of people came to Oxford and took these courses just for fun, she said. All I had to do was take notes and present her paper, and Mr. Harding would count it toward her in-service hours. The principal of Missy’s school had been extremely accommodating. So had I, because here I was, a fish out of water on the other side of a really big pond.

  The folder the young woman handed me was thicker than I’d expected. Joining Notes. I leafed through its contents as I waited for my tea to cool to the point where it wouldn’t burn my tongue. Pages and pages of instruction on how and where to conduct myself while at Christ Church. Be on time for classes and meals. Jackets and ties for gentlemen invited to dine at the head table. Use of the Master’s Garden, normally reserved for faculty, was included as part of our program, as was access to the famous Bodleian Library.

  Then there was information about Oxford. A map of the college and its environs. And, finally, a list of attendees.

  I scanned the page, which listed all the participants in the different seminars being held that week. As I read, my stomach tightened into a series of knots that rivaled my late mother’s attempts at macramé. Next to each name was listed “Occupation.” I’d known I was going to be out of my league, but I’d had no clue just how far. Several doctors, even more lawyers. Stockbrokers. Professors. A couple of business owners. A judge. Participants who viewed the combination of education and travel as a recreational activity. By the time I made it to the bottom of the list, I was thoroughly intimidated. There, at the bottom, was my siste
r’s name. Missy Zimmerman. Teacher.

  I swallowed the sigh of relief that rose in my chest. As a last-minute substitute, I wasn’t listed. Nowhere on the paper did it say Claire Prescott, Unemployed Pediatrics Office Manager with No College Degree.

  And then the realization hit. No one here knew anything about me. For the next week, I could be anyone or anything I wanted to be.

  I blew on my tea to cool it as the idea took root in my mind. The temptation was overwhelming. For more than thirty years, I’d always been exactly who people needed me to be. A dutiful daughter. An even more dutiful big sister. A hard worker, so I could provide for Missy after our parents died, put her through college, and pay for her wedding. A devoted aunt to my twin nieces. I had never objected to being any of those things or playing any of those roles. But I had never chosen them either.

  A sudden movement to my right pulled my attention from the list in front of me. I looked up and saw a tall, dark-haired man framed in the doorway of the Junior Commons.

  Thank goodness I didn’t have the cup of tea in my hand at that moment. I jerked as if I’d just touched a hot stove. Every bit of oxygen in my lungs disappeared. It was only by some stroke of luck that I didn’t slide to the floor beneath the table in a faint. More sweat beaded on my forehead, but this time it had nothing to do with the heat.

  Whoever he was, he was the handsomest man I’d ever seen in my life. He took two steps into the room and surveyed the paltry occupants. An older gentleman, probably retired, sat by the door. A young man with floppy blond hair and white ear-buds lounged in the corner. And then there was me.

  To my surprise, he crossed the room until he was standing next to my table. Clearly I was the least of the three evils in the room.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.

  I slid my cup and saucer over. “Sure. I mean, no. I mean…” I stopped before I could embarrass myself further.

  “I’ll take that for a yes.” At first I thought he was teasing me, but he didn’t smile. He lowered himself from his considerable height into the chair next to me, and my heartbeat accelerated even more. “James Beaufort,” he said with a nod.

  “I’m Claire Prescott.” I didn’t know whether to extend my hand, but since he didn’t offer me his, I gripped the handle of my cup instead.

  He glanced around the room. “Not much of a crowd so far.”

  “No.” Now my tongue had as many knots in it as my stomach did. Why in the world had he chosen to sit by me? I tried to think of some brilliant conversation starter. “The tea’s very good, though.” Okay, not exactly brilliant.

  He glanced down at his cup. “Too strong.” He dismissed my opinion, and I cringed. He wasn’t the most pleasant man I’d ever met. A shame, given that he had the face of an angel beneath that dark, wavy hair.

  “Have you been to Oxford before?” I asked. The question was the one surefire opening gambit I’d thought up on the plane.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  A dead end. “Me either.”

  After that fruitless exchange, silence descended, snuffing out any hope of a conversational flame. I sipped my tea, even though it burned my tongue, and wondered why in the world he didn’t get up and go find more interesting company. In desperation, I turned back to the Joining Notes and started to reread them.

  “Where are you from?”

  His voice startled me. Fortunately my cup wasn’t quite so full anymore.

  “Kansas City.” Even as I answered, I knew how boring it sounded. Most people thought of my hometown as a stockyard that happened to have some houses in the vicinity, when in reality it was a lovely place, with wide, curving boulevards and elegant fountains. “What about you?”

  “Manhattan.” Not New York City. Much more specific. And much more expensive.

  “What do you do there?” If I glanced at the sheet on the table in front of me, I could find out for myself, but at least it gave us something to talk about.

  “I’m in publishing. Family business.”

  “Oh.” Ivy League, no doubt. Probably only read Nobel Prize-winning literature and biographies that could double as doorstops.

  I lowered my gaze again. Just looking at him made my teeth hurt, he was so yummy. How unfair that such a beautiful man couldn’t be more pleasant.

  “Which seminar are you attending?” I asked. There were six or seven occurring simultaneously during the week. I pegged him for continental philosophy. Or the ruins of Roman Britain.

  “Pride and Prejudice.” He didn’t look too happy about it. My eyebrows shot up. “Me too.”

  He scanned the list of participants. “I don’t see your name here.”

  “It ’s not, actually. I’m taking my sister’s place. I’m taking notes for her and presenting the paper she wrote.”

  “She’s ill?” The lines around his mouth creased in concern, which made him seem a bit more human.

  “Not exactly. She ’s expecting a baby. Minor complications, thank goodness, but she can’t travel anymore.”

  “Are you a Darcy fanatic too, like most Austen fans?” He arched one eyebrow.

  “Fanatic? Hardly.” I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “But my sister is a true believer.” I raised my cup to my lips and took a sip. “You?”

  “Darcy’s not my type.” His expression was so impassive that I couldn’t tell whether he was joking or serious. “But Jane Austen books are selling so well—we can’t afford to ignore them.”

  “So you’re hoping to develop a sudden affection for all things Austen and make a fortune off of it?”

  “At least an understanding of her appeal.” He swirled the tea in his cup as if considering whether it was worth his while to drink any more of it.

  As suddenly as James had appeared in the doorway, another figure materialized next to my chair.

  “Ms. Prescott?” The young woman from the registration desk. “There you are. Your luggage has been taken to your room, if you’d like to unpack.”

  “Thank you. I would.” Salvation in the form of a perky girl with more holes in her body than anyone really needed. I turned to James. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Of course.” He rose when I did. For a rude guy, he could exhibit decent manners when he tried. “I’ll see you later.”

  I nodded and followed the young woman out of the Junior Commons, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed at my escape. I wasn’t used to attracting notice from a man like that, and I certainly wasn’t accustomed to having that kind of spine-tingling response to a guy. James Beaufort was way out of my league, but at least the scenery at the seminar was going to be as gorgeous as the Oxfordshire countryside.

  A wiser woman would have sensed at that moment that trouble was coming. A more experienced woman would have guarded her secrets—and her heart. Sadly, as I made my way up the four flights of stairs to my room, I was neither wise nor experienced.

  By the end of the week I would be.

  The Great Hall at Christ Church was straight out of a Harry Potter movie. Literally. They’d actually done some filming there. But the dining hall didn’t need digital special effects to impress and overwhelm me. I took two steps inside the door and stopped, trying to keep my jaw from hanging open.

  Portraits of prime ministers, statesmen, literary giants, and other assorted famous alumni lined the wood-paneled walls. Massive fireplaces punctuated the longer walls, and above the dark paneling, huge expanses of stone supported the high arches and the mullioned windows I’d noticed when I first entered the quad. High above, the ceiling arched like a cathedral, heavily beamed and dotted with gilt ornaments. At the far end of the room, a raised dais, covered with a red carpet, held a long table and substantial chairs.

  The long rows of tables in front of me were topped with snowy linen and dotted with small, elegant lamps. If I hadn’t been starving, I would have turned tail and run. Instead, I kept breathing, moving forward, until I spotted the elderly man who had been in the Junior Common Room earlier. />
  “May I join you?” I forced myself to say. I knew from experience that I got along very well with older people. For one thing, I would just as soon listen as talk, and they usually had lots of interesting stories to tell.

  “Please do.” The man nodded to the seat across from him.

  “Thank you.” I slid into the chair. “I’m Claire. Claire Prescott.”

  “Martin Blakely.”

  I shook his extended hand, careful to offer no more than a slight squeeze to the fingers crumpled from arthritis. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Martin smiled at me with such kindness that I was able to relax for a moment. “I noticed you in the Common Room this morning,” he said. “Which seminar are you enrolled in?”

  “Pride and Prejudice. What about you?”

  “The same.” He nodded with approval. “We’ll be classmates, then.”

  Thank goodness. I needed for the Jane Austen seminar to be full of safe elderly people like Martin, not arrogant, handsome distractions like James Beaufort.

  “I’m afraid I’ll be the slowest one in the class,” I said in the lightest tone I could manage. “I’m new to Jane Austen.”

  Martin nodded soberly, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “So you’re not hopelessly in love with Mr. Darcy yet?”

  I shook my head a little too emphatically. “No. That would be my sister, not me.” But even as I said the words, I was aware of forcing the smile on my face. “Besides, I think my boyfriend might object.”

  Boyfriend is an odd word, really, for describing the romantic partner of a woman over thirty years of age, but that’s what Neil was. With the emphasis, I sometimes thought, on the boy half of the equation.

  “He let you out of the country without him?” Martin shook his head and made a tut-tutting kind of noise, but I could tell he was teasing me.

  “To tell the truth, I’m not sure he’ll notice that I’ve left. It’s baseball season.” I tried to maintain that same light tone, but now the strain in my voice was obvious.

  “A sports nut, is he?” Martin eyed me thoughtfully, and I tried not to squirm.