Page 61 of Inventing Mr Darcy

He’s seated with his back to the door, books and papers scattered across his desk, his laptop open but pushed to one side. He twists his upper body a quarter turn, wiggles his fingers to acknowledge my presence, gestures for me to sit down, then points to indicate he’s on the phone.

I can’t help but think of Geoff telling me about his drunk call to his ex-wife.

Wincing at the memory of that disastrous evening, I take the chair, pull the loose papers from my bag (I couldn’t find a paper clip big enough), and wait impatiently for him to be done.

“Oh, yes,” Pedersen says to whoever is on the line, “excellent choice, really top-notch work. You won’t be disappointed.” Then he chuckles softly. “If he accepts, of course. No, no. I understand. I’ll put in a good word.”

Then he hangs up, grinning one of those private, self-satisfied grins, checks off something on a notepad he first has to unearth from beneath a sea of other papers, and finally looks up at me. “Amazing, isn’t it, Miss Bradshaw? Everyone dreams of this kind of success, but who would have thought …”

My expression must give away my confusion. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, and says, “Surely you’ve heard?”

“Heard what, sir?”

“Mr. Winkworth’s spectacular find.”

I haven’t spoken with Geoff since New York—specifically, about five minutes after I uploaded Pride and Prejudice to OWEN-C, when the weight of all that had happened hit me and I told him I wanted to be alone. Though I half expected him to make a move on me just to spite Fisher, he left without argument. We weren’t seated anywhere near each other on the flight home, and since then, I’ve been keeping my head down, so if there’s news, I’m not privy to it.

I shake my head. “What, exactly, did Geoff find?”

“Only the most extraordinary text imaginable.”

He spins his laptop toward me, so I can read what’s on the screen. It’s from the Sunday edition of the Star Tribune, the “Food & Culture” section, with a picture of Geoff wearing a black turtleneck sweater and one of his most charming smiles. The headline reads “GC grad student unearths 200-year-old novel” and, in slightly smaller print, “Why ‘Pride and Prejudice’ has relevance for today’s readers.’”

Without conscious thought, I leap to my feet. The pages of my dissertation slide to the floor in a papery avalanche.

“That’s—” I begin. But there is no adjective in my vocabulary capable of capturing my reaction to this news, this betrayal.

This confirmation that Fisher was right about Geoff all along.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Professor Pedersen continues. “Says he was doing a little research on his free time while we were in New York and stumbled upon it. And what a novel! Why, to call it literary perfection would hardly be exaggerated praise. I can’t fathom how it escaped detection all these years.” A faraway look glazes his vision as he adds, “I always hoped the database would be connected to something big …”

I wonder whether he’s jealous, given that the database was his brainchild.

But jealous doesn’t begin to describe how I feel as I sink back into my seat, wondering whether the heat of my anger, my humiliation, is enough to burn a hole through the chair, Professor Pedersen’s dingy rug, and the institutional tile beneath.

“The job offers for Mr. Winkworth have already been flooding in,” he tells me, nodding toward his office phone. “Book contracts. Interview requests … you name it. I advised him to lie low for a bit while I field calls.” And hardly are the words out of his mouth when the phone rings again. “Ah,” he says, peering at the caller ID, “that’s the University of Minnesota development office. I should take this … but did you need something, Miss Bradshaw?”

I know I should speak up for myself, explain that Pride and Prejudice was my discovery. But I’m rigid with shock and my head is pounding. Will anything I say matter? I don’t have any proof.

“I, um … it can wait,” I insist, stooping to gather the pages of my dissertation, though I don’t really know why I bother, and stuffing them back into my bag.

And then I trudge home, telling myself that the bracing cold will clear my mind and help me figure out what to do. At my apartment, I open my laptop and pull up OWEN-C. It takes a while to load, a sign of unusually heavy traffic to the database. But eventually, I scroll through the list of texts to Pride and Prejudice and go right to the end of the document.

Instead of [EB98], the file is tagged [GW96].

How is that possible?!

I have no idea how long I stare at that pairing of letters and numbers, not blinking, barely breathing. Long enough that the monitor goes into sleep mode. At some point, Cassie comes home to find me transfixed by a blank screen.

Under ordinary circumstances, I would have heard her on the stairs. She almost certainly called out a greeting when she came in, especially since we haven’t seen each other for six weeks. But the first time I’m fully aware of her presence is when she lays a hand on my shoulder and gives me a gentle shake.

“Elle? It’s great you’re trying to focus more on work, but … you’re kind of scaring me right now. Is everything OK?”

I open my mouth, ready to give some pat answer. But when I glance up and see her warm brown eyes filled with concern, I can’t bring myself to lie. I shake my head and snag my trembling lower lip between my teeth as my burning eyes flood with tears.

In one fluid motion, she drags over another chair, sits down beside me, and wraps me in a hug. “What’s wrong?”

For weeks, I’ve wanted to tell her, searched for the words to explain what happened, why I’ve been acting so strange—why she’s been acting so strange.