Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart

by Beth Pattillo

  I nodded.

  His gaze locked with mine. “Does the name Formidables mean anything to you?” he asked.

  I gasped. I couldn’t help it. “How did you know—”

  He laughed but looked dismayed. “I didn’t know. Not until I saw your face just now. But I’ve long suspected. And hoped. I told you there were secrets to be uncovered in Oxford.”

  “What do you know about them?” Maybe I was betraying Harriet more than I already had, but the whole thing had become so incredibly complicated, and I needed an ally. I couldn’t sense any malice in Martin, any reason that he might be a threat to Harriet.

  He tapped the page where it lay in my lap. The gesture reminded me of Harriet. “I’ve only heard rumors, I’m afraid. That they are a group conceived by Austen’s sister, Cassandra, who said that she burned all of Austen’s correspondence and other personal papers. Some scholars have speculated that she might not have been telling the truth. That perhaps she was protecting her sister.”

  “Why would it matter if Jane Austen’s letters came to light? Or an early manuscript, like this?”

  Martin rubbed his chin. “A woman’s reputation is a delicate thing. Even the reputation of a literary genius. Or perhaps especially the reputation of a literary genius.”

  “So Cassandra thought the letters and early manuscripts would make her sister look bad?”

  Martin shrugged. “People often make strange choices when loved ones die. Jane Austen’s sister would not have been the first person to make unorthodox decisions in the midst of grief.”

  “But why would anyone think less of her because this early version of Pride and Prejudice came to light?”

  “From what you’ve shown me, it doesn’t have the full genius of her later work. We all choose what of ourselves we want to present to the world,” he said. “Would Jane Austen have been any different?”

  I bit my lip, because I understood that reality all too well. I’d spent most of my adult life convincing people that I was competent, in charge, unafraid, when in fact, I’d been struggling, desperate, terrified. I couldn’t afford to let people see the real me, the Claire who cried at night for her mother and father as if she were a child of ten, not a woman of eighteen. Or twenty-five. Or even thirty-one, to own the truth.

  “So you think she was afraid that people would value her work less if they knew more about her? If they could read her early efforts?”

  “Well, not every early effort, obviously. We have some of those. Lady Susan, the epistolary novel she wrote early on. And her Juvenalia, of course. But those writings were obviously the work of a child. No, there must have been something about this manuscript in particular that she didn’t want people to know. Many things changed in her life in the ten years between the two drafts, after all.”

  “But why didn’t she destroy it herself?”

  “It’s a rare author who could,” Martin said.

  “I suppose so.” I couldn’t imagine setting fire to something I’d worked so hard on, although in the past few weeks, I’d done a pretty good job of annihilating the life I’d spent more than a decade constructing.

  “How much of this have you read?” He nodded toward the page in my lap.

  “Just a few sections. Enough to know that it’s very different from the novel we read for the seminar.”

  I answered Martin, but my mind was focusing on what he ’d said about people making unorthodox choices in the face of grief. After my parents died in the car accident, everyone around me had insisted that I was far too young to take care of Missy. They had argued with me, tempted me, tried to persuade me. But I’d made my own unorthodox decision during my time of enormous grief. And I had never regretted it.

  Never, until now., the voice in my head whispered.

  “So you think this is the real thing?” I asked, trying to redirect my thoughts away from the perilous course they had taken. “A lost Austen manuscript?”

  Martin rose from his chair. “It would appear so. I can only say how much I envy you, Claire. You must have done something to earn the trust of one of these Formidables.”

  I blushed with shame. “And taken very little time to betray it.”

  He reached out and patted my shoulder. “It’s quite a dilemma, isn’t it? To be offered something so spectacular, but only on promise of secrecy? I’m sure I’d want to give it to the university where I taught. Any American school would give their eyeteeth for something like this.”

  I stood up, too, and moved into the aisle. Martin followed, and we turned toward the entrance of the cathedral. “What would you do if you were me?” I asked.

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. “There aren’t many holy grails left in the world these days. It’s a shame to keep one hidden if you find it.”

  We stepped through the door onto the wide, paved walkway on Tom Quad.

  “The thing I have learned in my years of study,” he said, “is that ‘truth will out,’ as they say. The question is usually one of timing, not of eventuality.”

  “Huh?”

  He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Follow your heart, my dear,” he said, before stepping back and winking at me. “That’s what Jane Austen would tell you, I would imagine.”

  Follow my heart? I wasn’t sure I even had one anymore.

  “I’ll try. And thank you.” I reached out my hand, and he shook it.

  “Good luck,” he said. “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  “Thanks.” I wasn’t sure whether his words were a blessing or a curse.

  “And if you happen to get your hands on the whole manuscript, I wouldn’t mind a peek at it,” Martin added with a wink. “Strictly in confidence, of course.”

  I laughed, and he turned to walk toward the far side of the quad, away from the dining hall behind us. The night breeze had finally arrived, and I stood outside the cathedral, letting the cool air soothe my confusion and my battered heart.

  If that poor pathetic organ was going to serve as my compass, it was going to need all the help it could get.

  As it turned out, Martin and I weren’t the only ones prowling the environs of Christ Church that night. The gates would close soon, at ten o’clock, but as I walked toward the dining hall, its Gothic arches and high windows silhouetted against the dark sky, I saw someone coming toward me. James.

  “I think we ’re destined to keep running into each other,” he said with his customary stiffness but also a hint of a smile. “I thought you’d gone to your room for the night.”

  “I thought I had too. Where are you headed?” I was curious to know where he had been and if he had been looking for me specifically, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t have to.

  He nodded toward the passageway behind him. “I was sitting in the Master’s Garden, but they roll up the sidewalks pretty early around here. Time to turn in, I guess.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.” Only I didn’t want to go back to my room. Or, more to the point, I didn’t want to be alone. Not anymore.

  “Do you want to sit down for a moment?” he asked, and my heart executed a funny little leap. I wished it would quit doing that whenever I saw him or talked to him.

  “Sure.”

  He glanced around. “Hmm.”

  “There’s not really anywhere to sit, is there?” I knew that the Junior Commons, along with the gate, had been locked up. And the Master’s Garden would have been too. We could have perched on the edge of the quad, but I didn’t want to talk to James in full view of God and everyone.

  He eyed the stairs behind us that led to the dining hall, two short flights with a wide landing in the middle. “Not very fancy, but.”

  James sank down onto a step, which was shadowed by the stone balustrade, and I followed his lead so that we were tucked away from sight, but with a good view of the quad. The tower above the cathedral was now lit up against the night, and floodlights cast eerie shadows against the medieval architecture.

  “Was your package important?”
James asked. “You took off like a shot after dinner.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It wasn’t bad news or anything? Nothing to do with a patient?”

  I looked at him in confusion for a moment and then remembered my charade. I shook my head. His shoulder was just inches from mine, and I was aware of every part of him, even though we weren’t touching anywhere. I was as miserable and as happy as I had ever been in my life.

  How had it come to this? Achingly close to the kind of man I’d always thought out of my reach, in a place I’d never thought I’d actually see, embroiled in a plot straight out of a movie. I’d never felt lonelier and wished suddenly for Missy and my nieces and even Phillip, who was usually grateful to see me but never really glad.

  That thought brought me up short. Was it true? Was that how my brother-in-law felt about me? Here, against the timeless backdrop of Christ Church, I could feel the accuracy of the observation that I’d buried, probably a long time ago, so I wouldn’t have to acknowledge it. Maybe Phillip’s running joke about acquiring two wives for the price of one wasn’t really that funny to him.

  “You’re very quiet,” James said after a long silence.

  I tried to smile but couldn’t. “You’re not exactly a chatterbox yourself.”

  He lifted a hand toward the rest of Christ Church, a view partially blocked by the stone sides of the staircase. “Something about this place lends itself to contemplation,” he said.

  “Unfortunately, I think you’re right.”

  He laughed then, soft and low, and I felt another tingle of awareness ripple through me. I hadn’t expected this at all. Hadn’t planned for it in any way. But here I was, for whatever reason. Was I hoping for a great romance? Or was I merely looking for an escape from the mess I had made of my life?

  He reached over and took my hand. I jumped at the contact, and he started to pull away, but I gripped his hand tightly. “Sorry.” The word sounded breathless. Probably because it was.

  “Claire—”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you believe in fate?”

  A knot formed in my throat, thick and hard. “No. I don’t, actually.” I couldn’t afford to believe in it, but I didn’t tell James that. No, the only thing I believed in was the randomness of life. Tragic, random events that defined one’s life and shaped one ’s character.

  Even though it was dark, I could tell he was smiling. “A true empirical scientist, hmm?” He squeezed my hand. “I suppose they drill that kind of thing into your head in medical school.”

  “What about the business world? Shouldn’t you be as logical as a Vulcan in order to succeed?” Touche.

  He was quiet then for a long time, and it was enough for me simply to sit there on the hard stone of the dining-hall stairs, his hand wrapped warmly around mine. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone over the age of seven had held my hand. I couldn’t remember Neil ever having done so.

  The bell in Tom Tower began to chime the hour. Ten o’clock. I felt like Cinderella at the ball, as if at any moment, the magic might end. Maybe the wisest course was to end it myself. Nothing could come of my infatuation with James. Even if he was attracted to me, what we felt was simply the grown-up version of a summer-camp romance. It couldn’t be worth throwing away my relationship with Neil.

  “I’d better head for bed,” I said, pulling my hand free of his. “I have to present my sister’s paper in the morning.” In the twists and turns of the day, I’d almost forgotten.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he said with a touch of good-humored irony in his voice.

  We stood up and took the shorter route beneath the stairs toward the Meadow Building. And then, unexpectedly, he pulled me into the shadow of the staircase.

  “I wasn’t expecting this,” he said, sounding almost apologetic. “I didn’t plan—”

  And then I felt his lips on mine. In the darkness, I hadn’t seen them coming. But they were there, and they were warm, warmer than the night, and soft and firm at the same time. I’d been waiting for that kiss, wanting that kiss since the moment I saw him in the doorway of the Junior Common Room, and now it had finally happened.

  He was good. I had to give him that. As abrupt as his manner sometimes was, his kissing wasn’t. Slow. Thorough. Thrilling. I should have been ashamed and distraught and kicking myself from one end of Oxford to the other for what I was doing to Neil. But instead I just kept kissing James until he groaned and set me away from him.

  “Stop.” His voice was raspy.

  “I…” My vocal chords refused to cooperate. I paused to clear my throat. “I didn’t start it,” I choked out eventually.

  That quieted him for a long moment. “No. You didn’t.”

  I could feel frustration and something darker emanating from him in waves. And then I wondered why he seemed so upset about a kiss between two people who had spent as much time together as we had in the past few days. He didn’t know about Neil, so I figured it couldn’t be that.

  “It’s late.” I took a step backward and wished that I could see his face in the darkness. If I could just see his expression, I’d know better how to handle such a moment. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.” Even though my breath still rattled in my chest from the intensity of that kiss.

  “Claire, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.”

  He was dumping me.

  “The only impression you were giving me was with your tongue,” I shot back, unable to keep the irritation from my voice. I knew that I was beneath him, but he shouldn’t have been thinking that. Not when I’d told so many lies to put myself up on his level. He should have been on his knees, thanking the heavens that I so much as noticed him. Not telling me what big a mistake it had been to kiss me.

  “Claire—”

  “I think it’s time to call it a night.” I spun on my heel and prayed I wouldn’t walk straight into a wall in the darkness. Where was the moon when you needed it? “I’ll see you around tomorrow.”

  Let me ex—

  “Good night,” I called over my shoulder.

  I found the other opening beneath the stairs that led to the Meadow Building. His room was in the opposite direction. If I heard any footsteps behind me, it meant he was coming after me. I listened for them, even though I begged myself not to, but there were no footsteps except for mine.

  I hurried across the gravel courtyard and made a beeline for the door of my staircase. I felt every one of those flights of stairs in my legs, and by the time I reached the top, I didn’t have enough breath left in my lungs to cry the tears that wanted to escape.

  Happy endings were for other people. I’d known that since I was eighteen years old. I scrambled to the top of the stairs and then stopped short.

  The door to my room stood open, and inside I could see my belongings flung wildly around the room.

  It was sometime after midnight before the security officers and other assorted Christ Church employees finished looking over the chaos in my room and taking their reports. Not that I slept much after that. I kept double-checking the lock on the door and wondering which of the likely candidates had ransacked my room in search of the manuscript. Mrs. Parrot? Eleanor? Or someone else entirely?

  I skipped breakfast in the Hall the next morning. I would have done anything to avoid seeing James, even sacrifice my morning’s ration of caffeine. While everyone else was filling up on eggs, toast, and black pudding—well, maybe not the black pudding—I darted across the quad like a fugitive from justice and arrived at the seminar room half an hour before we were due to start, the manuscript pages still tucked safely in my purse.

  Given the state of my luck, I wasn’t surprised to find Eleanor already there.

  “Good morning.” I nodded, stifling a groan, and then went to sit in the farthest chair possible.

  Without looking up, I reached into my bag and pulled out the manila folder that held Missy’s paper. I flipped it open and pretended to read, pretended to be engrossed, actually,
but the truth was that I couldn’t make any sense of the words on the page. They might as well have been in Sanskrit, for all the sense they made to me.

  “Claire, I’m glad you’re here early,” Eleanor said.

  I still didn’t look up until I heard her rise from her chair and move toward me. I had a brief mental image of frying pans and fires, with me leaping back and forth between them, before Eleanor settled stiffly into the chair next to me.

  “Yes?” I decided to play innocent.

  “I meant it, Claire, when I asked you to leave my mother alone.”

  “I’m not doing anything to hurt her,” I said, but I couldn’t help the defensive tone in my voice. “She’s a very nice lady.”

  “You’ll only agitate her by listening to all her mad theories,” Eleanor snapped.

  “You don’t believe her, then?” I wondered that her own daughter hadn’t bothered to do as much as I had, asking Martin Blakely or someone like him to pass judgment on at least a portion of the manuscript. Besides, Eleanor’s attitude didn’t mesh with what Harriet had told me about her daughter’s desire to get her hands on the manuscript.

  Eleanor’s face tightened and then drooped into lines of dismay. “She ought to give up the cottage and move to a facility where she can receive proper care. But no, she won’t budge. She has to be near the college.”

  I studied Eleanor’s face, trying to figure out whether she was lying.

  “Maybe she just wants to be near you?” I barely spoke the words above a whisper, but they sounded loud in my own ears.

  Eleanor’s head snapped up, and her spine straightened. “My relationship with my mother is none of your affair.”

  “I know. You’re right.” After all, who was I to be giving her, or anyone, advice about how to conduct herself when it came to family dynamics? “It’s only that, well, she seems more lonely than demen…” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word.

  “She has dementia,” Eleanor protested. “The doctors confirmed it.”

  “Maybe she does. But she ’s as lucid as most people I’ve ever met. Most of the time, anyway.” Having lost my mother at such an early age, I couldn’t understand Eleanor’s attitude. I would have given anything to have my mother living in a picturesque cottage up the road. Or a hovel, for that matter. The living part, not the quality of the house, was the key factor. “What if you’re wrong about her theories?”