Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart (7 page)

Plain, straightforward goals were always best. Surely I could manage to achieve them over the course of the next week.

I
discovered on Monday morning that the seminar room, like every other part of the college, doubled as a sauna. Some thoughtful soul had opened the windows, but since not so much as a single breeze wafted through them, the effort had been wasted. Dilapidated chairs circled the threadbare rug. Empty bookshelves lined the walls. For a tony Oxford college, the decor left something to be desired. Then again it was a room primarily used by eighteen-to-twenty-year-olds. Perhaps there was some wisdom in the decorating scheme.

“Good morning.” A woman with cropped gray hair and bright hazel eyes rose from one of the straight-backed chairs. “I’m Eleanor Gibbons. Welcome to the seminar.”

“Thank you. I’m Claire Prescott.” I looked around at the empty spaces in the circle. “Am I that early?”

Eleanor glanced at her watch. “Not really. Let’s just say that the atmosphere in the summer is a bit more relaxed than the traditional classroom.”

“Oh.” Great. I slid into the nearest chair and busied myself pulling a pen and notebook out of my tote bag. I’d been counting on a strong dose of traditional classroom structure to help me bluff my way through the week.

“So you’re standing in for your sister, then?” Eleanor Gibbons said.

I nodded. “I’ll try to keep up with the rest of the group.”

She laughed. “You’re already leading the pack,” she said as she glanced at her watch again, “since you’re the only one here on time.”

“I skipped breakfast in the dining hall. I’m sure they’ll be along any moment.”

I’d barely slept the night before, a combination of jet lag and the agitation brought on by the incident with Harriet as well as my conversation with Martin. Not to mention James Beaufort. Consequently I’d slipped out Tom Gate shortly after seven o’clock that morning and found my way up the street to the closest Starbucks. It had been closed, of course. Apparently, Brits were much later risers than Americans. I couldn’t think of a Starbucks in Kansas City that wouldn’t be packed at that hour of the morning.

It had only taken ten minutes of standing with my nose pressed to the glass door for the sole barista on duty to take pity on me and let me in. Another ten minutes and one venti mocha
later, I had found myself on the streets of Oxford, strolling aimlessly in solitary splendor. It wasn’t a bad way to explore the city, as it turned out.

“Would you like to be the first presenter this morning?” Eleanor asked me.

I shook my head. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

She smiled and shook her head just enough to signal her bemusement. “I think you might be surprised—”

But then a shadow loomed in the doorway. James Beaufort.

I swallowed the groan that rose in my throat.

“Welcome,” Eleanor said. He moved into the room as they made their introductions. He hadn’t seen me yet, huddled in the corner.

“Thank you. I’m looking forward to the week.” He was even more beautiful in profile than he was straight-on. I willed myself not to stare. Eleanor looked toward me. “This is Claire Prescott. She’ll be glad of your company. It’s a bad job being stranded with the tutor.”

I wanted to sink through the chair bottom and then through the floor, but the laws of physics were not in my favor. I might as well have tattooed “Dateless and Desperate” on my forehead.

“We ’re already acquainted,” James said as he seated himself two chairs away from me. A friendly if noncommittal distance. I hid my involuntary wince. He was definitely not interested in me.

I pasted a smile on my face. “Yes, we met yesterday.”

Thankfully, voices sounded from the hallway, and in another moment, people flooded into the room. Eleanor moved forward to greet them. First were Rosie and Louise, two New Zealanders in their fifties with short hair and bright smiles, the first one plump and the other one quite spare. I’d met them at the welcome reception the previous evening after I returned from Blackwell’s, and they’d quickly put me at ease. Next came Olga, a willowy Russian who had clearly taken a wrong turn on the way to the Miss Universe pageant. I was instantly aware of how my hair frizzed in the heat.

In addition to the three ladies, Eleanor welcomed two more men. Frank, a middle-aged cardiologist, and, of course, Martin.

“Shall we get started, then?” Eleanor said when everyone was seated. “I thought we would begin with the presentations straightaway. I know you will want plenty of time to discuss them.”

The New Zealand ladies giggled, Martin rubbed his hands together as if anticipating a feast, and James Beaufort’s spine stiffened even more, if such a thing were physically possible.

“I asked Claire if she would start us off,” Eleanor continued, “but she’s feeling a bit shy, so…”

Heat flooded my cheeks. I might as well have been twelve and walking into middle school for the first time, wearing the absolutely wrong outfit.

“If you need me to go first, I can.” Years of unthinking
self-sacrifice gave voice to my words before I was even aware of forming them.

“We’ll start,” Rosie and Louise said in unison with matching gleams of eagerness in their eyes. Louise shivered with happiness. “We’ve been working on this for ages.”

I made the mistake of looking up at that exact moment, and James’s gaze caught mine. The expression there wasn’t hard to read—amusement, irony, a dash of contempt. And to my horror, I returned the look and felt the zing of physical connection flash between us. He frowned at the unexpected spark and quickly looked away. I went back to blushing, which I apparently had down to an art form.

“We’ve chosen to make a presentation on the various incarnations of Mr. Darcy in film and television as well as in the book,” Rosie said.

She shot Eleanor Gibbons an apprehensive look, and a knot formed in my stomach. My sister’s obsession with Mr. Darcy was clearly shared by many women.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Eleanor said, and the anxiety disappeared from Rosie’s face.

“Right. Well, then, we’ll just begin.”

She nodded to Louise, who reached into the bag next to her chair and pulled out a laptop. “We don’t have a projector,” Louise said, “but if you would all just gather round—”

“Gather round?” James said, sotto voce. His eyebrows climbed northward.

Rosie heard him but missed the sarcasm in his tone. “Rather than read a paper, we’ve made a video.”

“A video?” Now Eleanor’s eyebrows arched as well.

“It ’s not terribly long,” Rosie reassured her, missing the point entirely. “Less than ten minutes.”

Eleanor nodded with some reluctance. “Very well. Let’s see if we can arrange ourselves.”

We managed to clump the chairs together so that everyone could have a view of the screen. Somehow I wound up next to James, his upper arm pressed against mine as we squished together.

“We hope you enjoy it,” Louise said gravely. She pressed the relevant keys and then scooted to stand behind the group.

Images flashed across the screen, accompanied by some gentle strains of instrumental music, and I recognized the pictures instantly. Mr. Darcy in all his depictions, from nineteenth-century pen-and-ink illustrations to Sir Laurence Olivier in the black-and-white film version. Then the modern-day incarnations—Colin Firth and Matthew Macfadyen, as well as other lesser-known ones. A woman’s voice—I couldn’t tell whether it was Rosie or Louise—provided the narration, and I desperately wished Missy were here instead of me.

“Mr. Darcy has undergone a variety of transformations in his existence,” she began.

I wanted to flee the seminar room, but I had to stay and take notes for Missy. I swallowed the words I would have liked
to say to my sister at that moment and focused instead on the pictures on the screen.

Physically, all the various incarnations of Mr. Darcy were different. Some tall, some shorter. Hair in various shades—although mostly brown. Noses of every shape. Soulful eyes, clear eyes, blue eyes, brown. Some chins pointed and others round. And yet all the pictures managed to capture some innate quality of Darcy-ness.

I thought then of the pages I’d read at Harriet’s the day before. They hadn’t included any mention of Mr. Darcy. What might Austen’s original version of the character have been in that first effort? I’d always known he was a figure who transcended the novel that gave birth to him, but why? Because I certainly didn’t get it. What was it about Mr. Darcy that made women swoon and sigh two centuries later? He wasn’t the only compelling hero in the literary canon. Yet somehow he had captured the feminine imagination.

“So you see,” Rosie’s or Louise’s voice concluded, “Mr. Darcy’s place as an iconic hero will never be usurped.”

Usurped?
I made the mistake of glancing at James, and when our eyes met, that same palpable connection jumped to life between us again.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” I whispered to him as Louise put away the laptop. The others began to stand up and move their chairs into the original circle. “What did I miss?”

James snorted. “A lot of beefcake.”

I barked with laughter and then turned away to hide my smile. Martin was looking at me with that twinkle in his eye, as if he knew I’d been woolgathering. I refrained from looking at Eleanor to see if she ’d noticed my inattention as well.

The discussion that followed was genial but not very enlightening, and Eleanor’s frustration was clear. I felt immensely relieved, though, and grateful for the standard that Rosie and Louise had set. Feeling far less intimidated, I even managed to contribute a thought or two of my own to the conversation. Still, I was relieved when Eleanor glanced at her watch and gave a signal for the midmorning break. Half a morning down, and only four and a half more to go. Perhaps there was hope for me yet.

At the end of the morning, I had intended to hurry from the seminar room as soon as Eleanor dismissed us, but good manners required me to compliment Rosie and Louise on their presentation. Their informality had lifted a great weight from my shoulders, even if their subject matter wasn’t my cup of tea.

By the time I escaped the heat of the seminar room for the even hotter atmosphere of the quad, my classmates had scattered. Near the door to the Junior Commons, I saw James and Eleanor in conversation. At first I thought it was a friendly chat, but they both looked very intense, and Eleanor’s spine was extremely rigid. Most likely James was simply being his
arrogant self. I turned to make my way to the Hall for lunch but hadn’t taken two steps before I was stopped by Eleanor Gibbons calling my name.

She had left James standing alone on the walkway and was hurrying toward me. “Claire? Might I have a word?” Her hands fluttered, one of them clutching what appeared to be a letter.

“Yes?” Had I done something wrong? Made some faux pas in class that I wasn’t aware of?

She stopped a few feet in front of me. Her mouth opened and closed twice before she finally spoke again.

“It’s…um…well, it’s rather a delicate matter, really.”

I couldn’t imagine what sort of matter, delicate or otherwise, might involve me, much less throw Eleanor for such a loop.

“Is everything okay?” The question sprang easily enough to my lips. Over the years I’d asked it multiple times a day—of Missy, of my co-workers, of pretty much anyone in my general vicinity.

Eleanor lifted the letter. Then, as if thinking the better of it, she crumpled the piece of paper in her hand. “Yes, yes. Everything’s fine. It’s just—” She drew a deep breath. “I understand you’ve made the acquaintance of one of our local eccentrics.”

“Eccentrics?”

“Mrs. Dalrymple. I’ve just found this note from her in my mailbox.”

“But she couldn’t have had time to—”

“It wasn’t posted. She put it in my faculty mailbox herself. So it’s true, then? You’ve met her.” Her eyes flashed with some unknown light—curiosity, fear, resignation.

I nodded, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. Some sort of local Jane Austen feud? Was Harriet in the habit of accosting Christ Church visitors on a regular basis?

“You shouldn’t pay any attention to her ramblings,” Eleanor was saying. “I’m afraid she has the beginnings of dementia.”