Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart (6 page)

“Would you like more tea, dear?”

She was still there, of course, sitting quietly in the sagging chair beneath the window.

“Um, sure. Yes. Thanks.” If only Missy were here. She might know whether this was the real thing. I didn’t know enough about Austen to guess. It sure sounded like her work to me. But was it her handwriting? I had no way of knowing. I was the wrong person, the worst person possible, really, to be sitting here trying to decide if this pile of pages was for real. “Have you ever tried to have it authenticated?”

She shook her head. “There’s no need, dear.”

I nodded. If she chose to use a bogus Austen manuscript to try and befriend people… Well, she was obviously a lonely old woman. I couldn’t blame her. I’d probably be just like her someday, luring unsuspecting strangers into my home with the promise of literary secrets and sweets.

“Thank you for letting me read it.” I gathered the manuscript pages into a tidy pile, careful not to damage the fragile paper, and handed them to her across the tea table. “It does almost seem as if Jane Austen could have written it.”

“She did write it.”

I met her bright blue gaze again. Only this time there was nothing bleary or elderly about the way she looked at me.

“How do you know?” Now she was starting to creep me out. And then a sinking feeling lodged in the pit of my stomach. I knew nothing about this woman. I looked at my teacup, afraid I might find some foreign substance swimming in the remains at the bottom.

“There’s no need for alarm.” She set the manuscript on the table beside the tea things. “It’s only that I thought…well, you seem like a nice young woman. I liked you the moment I saw you. I thought perhaps you might help me decide what to do with the manuscript.” Harriet looked at me with a plea in her eyes. “I’ve gotten so muddled in my own mind.”

“It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.” I paused, wondering what I could say that would best ease her mind. “It can be our little secret.”

She shook her head. “No, my dear. Unfortunately, it cannot. Not now that you’ve seen it.”

I leaned down to grab my bag and then rose from the couch. She was a sweet woman, but also a little delusional.

“No one knows I’ve been here,” I said in hopes of humoring her. “Let’s just say this afternoon never happened.” I glanced at my watch. “Besides, I need to get back. There’s a welcome reception at five.” I moved toward the doorway and then paused. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Wait.” Harriet was on her feet in a split second. “I’m afraid I can’t let you simply leave.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. “Can’t let me?” I moved into the hallway, but she was hot on my heels. “Good-bye, Mrs. Dalrymple.” I practically sprinted for the door.

Again, she was faster than I would have given her credit for.

“Miss Prescott.”

I paused, my hand clutching the doorknob in a death grip just as hers pinned my arm. “Yes?”

“This won’t be the end of it.”

“Really, you don’t have to worry.” I had the door open and was almost safely outside. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

She followed me into the small patch of garden that separated her cottage from the road. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. The others won’t like it that—”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Dalrymple. Thank you again.” I took off like a shot down the pavement, afraid that at any moment I’d feel her hand grabbing my arm.

“But, Miss Prescott—”

Even though her distress was clear, I couldn’t stop. Enough was enough. I had to get away before I got drawn in any more deeply. Whoever Harriet Dalrymple was and whatever the truth was about that manuscript, I didn’t have any business getting involved. Certainly I had problems enough of my own.

I kept moving as quickly as I could, one foot in front of the other, the spires of the colleges in the distance guiding me back to sanity.

T
o distract myself from the unsettling experience in Harriet Dalrymple ’s cottage, I decided not to go back to my room at Christ Church but to keep walking until I reached the center of Oxford. I hoped the sight of Sunday-afternoon shoppers might make the world seem normal again. I walked mindlessly, unsure of any destination, until I found myself in front of the famous Blackwell’s bookshop on Broad Street. The dark sign with its gilt letters, the flat front with multipaned windows and blue doors, beckoned me inside, and I went seeking the comfort I’d always found in any bookstore I had ever entered.

Blackwell’s sprawled over five floors and reminded me more of a library than a store. I made my way through the maze of stacks and let the presence of so many printed words and bound pages reassure me. I needed that stability, that sense of permanence, after what had happened at Harriet’s cottage.
Here, in this store, was proof that the older woman’s imagination was just that—a comforting flight of fancy but not connected to reality in any way.

I found the fiction section and the A’s quite easily, and there they were: volume after volume of Jane Austen’s novels in every size, shape, and edition. The slimmer single volumes. Larger compendiums of her collected works. The juvenile writings and the few unfinished novels she’d left behind. Even a thick volume of her collected letters. All known to the world for two hundred years or more. They were real. They were the truth.

I sat down on the wooden bench in the aisle and pulled a leather-bound copy of
Pride and Prejudice
from the shelf, a different edition from the one I already owned, which was now stowed in the bottom of my purse. I reread the first page, mentally comparing the writing with what I’d seen only a few minutes before in Harriet’s cottage. I didn’t even know who to ask to find out if there was any truth at all to Harriet’s assertions, but her belief in the authenticity of the manuscript did trouble me.

“It’s a little late to start reading the book now,” a voice said from beside me.

I looked up. It was Martin Blakely, clad in a tweed jacket and jaunty cap. He must be part-British, to be able to wear wool in such hot weather.

“Hello, Martin.” I couldn’t quite get into the spirit of his teasing.

“May I?” He gestured toward the unoccupied end of the bench.

“Sure.” I scooted over so he would have enough room.

“I don’t mean to intrude, but you seem upset.” His bright eyes were friendly but assessing. “Would a listening ear help?”

I shook my head. “No. But I wouldn’t mind some friendly conversation.”

He reached for the volume of
Pride and Prejudice
that I was holding. “This is lovely. I’ve not seen this edition before.” He examined the book for several moments, flipping through its pages. “Were you planning to buy this one?”

I shook my head. “No.”

He turned the book back and forth in his hands. “No matter how much is written about Jane Austen,” he said, “she still seems something of a mystery, doesn’t she?”

I shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know enough about her to be a good judge of that.”

He paused. “Take this book, for instance. She wrote the first draft of
Pride and Prejudice
before she was twenty-one, you know. I’ve always found that fascinating.”

My heart leaped. “The first draft?” Just when I’d managed to find a measure of calm, Martin’s words set me on edge again. “What do you mean, first draft?”

He ran his fingers along the book’s spine with a reverent touch. “It was called
First Impressions
then. She finished it in less than two years, if I remember correctly. Her father tried to find a publisher for it but didn’t have any luck. I suppose that was fortunate in the end, since she rewrote it a decade or so later. The rewrite ’s the version we have today.”

He lifted the book in his hand for emphasis while I tried not to swallow my tongue. The coincidence was unnerving.

“Wow. You really are an Austen fan,” I finally managed to say.

Martin chuckled. “You could say that.”

“So have you read this early version? Is it similar?” Even as I asked the question, my chest tightened.

He shook his head. “No copies of it exist. At least, none that are known.”

I couldn’t help the color that rose to my cheeks. Of course it couldn’t be possible, but.

“So
Pride and Prejudice
was her first book?” I asked, eager to distract both him and me.

“No, her second. It came out after
Sense and Sensibility.”

“I can’t imagine someone misplacing a manuscript like that. You’d think her family would have wanted it, at least.”

Martin leaned forward to rest his hands on his knees. “Her sister Cassandra, who survived her, destroyed a large portion of Jane ’s letters. I’ve often wondered whether she might have done the same with
First Impressions.”

My eyes bulged. “She destroyed the work of one of the greatest writers in history?”

“Well, to be fair, she had no way of knowing how her sister’s work would be judged two hundred years later.”

“I suppose not.” Still, the idea boggled the mind.

“The family was very respectable, but they didn’t have a lot of money. Reputation was everything, and a gentleman
would have been tainted enough by engaging in commerce. A lady would have been condemned for it. All of Austen’s books were published anonymously.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fortunately times have changed.”

“Have they?” Martin shrugged. “I’m not so sure.”

Given my recent firing, I thought I might have to agree with him after all.

“I’ve always wondered—” Martin broke off and looked away.

“What? You’ve always wondered what?”

He laid his palm flat over the book. “She began
First Impressions
not long after she met a young man named Tom Lefroy. Apparently they engaged in a very public flirtation and were quite taken with each other. But since she had no money, he couldn’t seriously consider her as a wife. In fact, his family sent him away before the two of them could do anything foolish.”

“You think that her experience had something to do with
Pride and Prejudice?”
I didn’t see the connection.

“She began the book only a few months after the Tom Lefroy episode. I’d be surprised if it didn’t inspire some of the elements in the novel.”

“Such as?” I still didn’t understand.

“A young woman of good birth but not much fortune. A young man who must marry to please his family. Yes, I see similarities.”

“But if Tom Lefroy was the model for Mr. Darcy—”

“I’m only speculating, of course.” Martin nodded. “I’m
simply saying that elements from her own life might have inspired her.”

I found the idea intriguing and more than a little scary. “And that’s why her sister might have destroyed the first version? Because it was too close to what really happened?”

“Perhaps. Though I suppose we’ll never know.”

“Did Austen have other suitors?” I asked. “Why didn’t she ever marry?”

“No one knows. There were vague references to other gentlemen, and her sister once said that Jane had indeed been in love, but in the end, it didn’t work out.”

“Oh.”

Martin glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d better be going. I’m meeting an old friend for tea.”

I looked up and blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to waylay you.”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Not at all. As you may have guessed, I’m a bit enamored of Jane Austen.”

“It’s always good to have a hobby.”

For some reason that made him laugh. “You’re right, of course.” He paused, and the smile slid from his face to be replaced by a very sober expression. “Claire, I don’t mean to intrude or be mysterious, but I feel like I should warn you to be wary. People you meet here aren’t always what they seem. I find it’s always best to be cautious.”

He had no idea just how true that statement was, especially
when applied to me. “Martin? Is there something I should know about?” Was he giving me a specific warning or just feeling a bit paternal toward me?

He grimaced. “I’m sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess. As a father, I still worry about young women out in the world by themselves. Sorry if that seems old-fashioned.”

“I appreciate your concern.” Even if it did make me feel racked with guilt. After all, this was one of the people I’d led to believe that I was a doctor.

“I’ll see you tonight for dinner in the Hall?” he asked.

“Sure.” I smiled back.

He gave me a wave and slipped away between the stacks. I stayed where I was on the bench, thankful for a peaceful moment to consider everything I’d just learned.

Of course there was no way Harriet’s papers could really be the missing manuscript, but what I’d learned from Martin troubled me. To know that such a version had existed.

And might still exist.

I didn’t want to, but I had to admit to myself that there was a possibility that Harriet’s manuscript might be authentic.

The heat. It had to be the heat, and it was frying my brain. I returned the book to the shelf and took a deep breath. Then I squared my shoulders and marched out of the store.

I was not going to let the ramblings of one confused woman ruin my Oxford experience. I had to let it go and not think about it anymore. Lost manuscripts, mysterious women, crumbling
cottages—those were the stuff of fairy tales, not real life. I had learned long ago just how real, and painful, life could be. Now was not the time to forget. I would enjoy my time in Oxford, present Missy’s paper as best I could, and try to quit lying to everyone I met.