Page 12 of Inventing Mr Darcy

“I get it,” he says, opening the door wider. “Come in and I’ll see what I can do.”

The foyer is a large square room with decorative inlay in the floor, a high ceiling with plaster molding in the shape of leaves, perfectly restored woodwork, and original glass fixtures. There’s a pedestal table in the center with absolutely nothing on it; I can hardly wrap my mind around having a flat surface that isn’t covered with clutter.

Animal House it’s not.

When I hand over my laptop, he gives a brusque nod. “I’ll just go upstairs and take a look at this.” I watch him climb the steps—more gorgeous woodwork, paired with a red and gold and cream runner, held in place with those little brass rods—partly because surrendering my computer makes me a little nervous, but mostly (if I’m honest) for the pleasure of watching his ass in those jeans.

Once he’s out of sight, I pull the strap of my messenger bag over my head, lay it on the empty table, and take another admiring look around. The foyer is divided from the rest of the house by a pair of tall pocket doors. In lots of houses this age, those doors have been removed or no longer work, so I’m not expecting these to slide apart at my touch.

The room beyond looks like something you’d see on BeeSocial: a chestnut brown leather sectional faces a fireplace with matching built-in bookcases on either side. A fire crackles merrily, the room’s only source of light besides a single Tiffany lamp turned low. The ottoman—tufted green velvet, four feet square at least—puts the one Cass and I rescued from Mrs. Merriweather’s shop to shame. And all of the furniture is grouped around a worn Oriental rug that I’m pretty sure isn’t faux.

I know I shouldn’t take a single step into that room, through those doors I had no business opening; it’s not like he invited me to make myself comfortable while I wait. Yet I can’t seem to help myself. Unlike Fisher, who’s hard in every sense of the word, nothing but sharp edges, this space is cozy. Not the kind of place I’d pictured him in at all.

The top of the mantelpiece is filled with framed pictures. A middle-aged couple, probably his parents, dressed up for some special occasion. A ski trip with the guys. A candid taken at the beach, with a young woman who looks too much like Fisher to be anyone but his sister.

I’ve just turned my attention to the contents of the bookcases when I hear the stairs creak. I turn to find Fisher standing in the doorway, empty-handed. His expression is impossible to read.

“This is a gorgeous house,” I blurt out, trying to atone for my rudeness.

“My dad bought it when I decided to come out here,” he says after a moment. “He says purchasing property is always a better investment than paying rent.”

I’ve heard rumors that Fisher’s family is rich, and this house is certainly proof. I’m guessing when his dad set the budget, he had no idea what his money could buy in Grantham, Minnesota.

“I suppose it is kind of excessive, though,” he says, glancing around like he’s trying to see it all through my eyes. “When I’m just going to graduate and leave in a few months.”

My gaze follows his. No, this doesn’t look like a temporary place to crash. It looks like a home. But I don’t say that, of course. I say, “Me too. If I can finish my dissertation.”

That seems to jolt his memory about why I’m here invading his space to begin with. “So, about your laptop. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to salvage the data from the hard drive.” Relief whooshes from my lungs, but it catches in my throat when he continues. “But I need software I only have access to on campus to retrieve the files.”

Oh. “So … Monday?”

“Monday,” he agrees. Just like he said on the phone.

I bothered him at home for nothing.

“Thanks, anyway, for being willing to look at it today and set my mind at ease.” I step toward him. “That’s twice in two days you’ve saved my life.”

Dark eyes skate over my face as color flushes into his cheeks. It’s crystal clear he doesn’t want any reminders of Friday night.

Well, that’s fine. I don’t need that memory either. I’ll just pluck it out of the not-thinking-about-this-right-now mental drawer and stuff it into the not-thinking-about-it-ever-again footlocker, then padlock it, wrap it in chains, and throw it into the ocean. Or one of the Great Lakes, which is closer and really just as good.

With another muttered “sorry for bothering you,” I grab my empty bag and go.

FIVE

On Monday, I head to campus bright and early—well, early for me. And as for bright? Last week’s cheery leaves swirl through gray skies and scud along the pavement in front of me as I make my way to the Grantham Grind to grab a chai latte to go.

While I’m standing in line, I remember it’s my day to post in Plainly Jane, the online Austen appreciation group I help to moderate. It’s not a paid job or anything. More a labor of love. And since this particular group has over 7,000 members, mostly middle-aged women who like to argue about minutiae, it is labor.

I open BeeSocial and type: Thanks to a power outage, I enjoyed a brief sojourn in the nineteenth century last week! The next time you’re in a blackout, which Mr. Darcy would you rather be stuck with?

(I refuse to think of Fisher as I write that.)

Before I hit post, I intend to attach two pictures, one of a young Colin Firth from the old BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice, and one of Matthew Macfadyen from the more recent (though, yeah, still not that recent) movie. Having to choose between those two is the equivalent of tossing red meat to Austen fans, and I know the ensuing debate will keep the Plainly Jane crowd satisfied for hours.

But I can’t immediately find the photos on my phone. Must’ve deleted them in some storage-reclaiming purge. Rather than searching further, I post without them. The Janeites will know exactly what I mean.

Chai latte in hand, I make my way across North Street. Campus is bustling as students hurry to class, but the basement of Kirwin is quiet. At the end of the hall, someone has put up a new sign outside the door to room B-7.