Page 64 of Inventing Mr Darcy

Fisher?

My heart stutters in my chest, and when it resumes its normal rhythm, it’s so loud in my ears I almost miss what Professor Pedersen is saying.

“—heartily sorry for what happened, Miss Bradshaw.” His expression droops, and I believe him. “I want you to know that I’ve rescinded Mr. Winkworth’s assistantship and reached out to everyone who contacted me on his behalf. It’s my hope that some of the attention that should have been yours all along will find its way to you now.”

That’s both thrilling and terrifying. “Thank you. But I—I don’t really need attention.” The thought of getting famous for finding a file that was on my hard drive all along makes me nauseated.

“Perhaps not.” He cocks his head to one side. “But you do need a job, yes?”

“Yes,” I agree, before adding, reluctantly, “If I ever finish my degree.” Then I remember what I have in my bag. “Could I give you this now?” I withdraw the draft of my dissertation, which has grown a bit with Cassie’s advice and encouragement and is now secured with the proper-sized binder clip. She of course had an entire box of them in her desk.

He takes it from me, scans the page uppermost and smiles. “Ah, excellent! I look forward to reading this, Miss Bradshaw,” he says as he unbuckles his attaché to slip it inside.

Outside, the air is cold and crisp; the wind scudding along the packed snow sends up small ghostly twisters and steals my breath. For the first time in what feels like forever, though, I don’t hunch my shoulders against it. I embrace the freshness of it—the clean air, the new year, the start of another semester.

It’s a lot to take in: Geoff exposed, credit for the (re)discovery of Pride and Prejudice coming to me. I can’t see yet what my future holds, but an hour ago I wasn’t sure I had a future.

And I know who I need to thank.

As I walk toward Elm Street, my apprehension can’t seem to squelch my expectations. Fisher saved me, yet again. And my heart keeps whispering to me that he wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t still care about me, at least a little.

At the bottom of his front steps, I hesitate. The Christmas wreath is still there, but dry and brown. And, oh God. There’s a For Sale sign in the front yard. He’s probably already left town. But just in case, I make myself go to the door and raise the eagle’s talon knocker for the last time.

When no one answers, I knock again more loudly, unwilling to give up and face facts. Finally, though, I start down the steps in reluctant retreat. I only realize the door has opened behind me when the raucous sounds of heavy metal pour out.

“Elle? Wait!”

He has to shout to be heard, and I can’t imagine how he ever heard me. The music is playing at the sort of volume you resort to when you don’t want anything to penetrate, when you don’t want to hear your own thoughts. I turn back in time to see him pull out his phone and tap at the screen with uncharacteristically frantic motions. He must have an app that controls some sort of whole-home sound system. After a few seconds, the music fades.

Now that all my senses aren’t being overwhelmed by sound, I can take in the sight of him: tousled hair, faded jeans, bare feet—this despite the fact that temps are well below freezing and his porch isn’t entirely free of snow. My pulse thumps harder and color rushes into my cheeks—or it would, if my cheeks weren’t already red from the cold. Warm air wafts out around him, and I can practically feel every Midwestern dad gathering up a collective breath to shout, Shut the damn door!

“Do you want to come in?” he asks. By his tone, either he’s uncertain about extending that invitation, or he fears I’ll reject it.

“I’d like that.”

In the foyer, I toe off my wet boots and hang my coat and bag on the rack, then follow him into the living room.

He’s in the process of taping shut a cardboard box, which a quick glance around the room tells me must contain his diploma and the family pictures and that copy of Euclid his sister gave him. “I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“No. I’m glad you did. What’s up?”

I don’t know how to answer that. My hopes?

“I just spoke with Professor Pedersen,” I explain, “and he told me that I have you to thank for proving that Geoff didn’t really discover that novel.”

Color prickles into his cheekbones. “Oh. I didn’t think he would … You don’t need to thank me.”

“But I do,” I insist. “You kept an awful person from getting credit for something he doesn’t deserve and preserved the reputation of a hugely important work of literature.”

At that, he nudges his glasses up his nose with one knuckle and fixes his gaze on me. “When I explain the whole story, you won’t want to thank me,” he says finally. “It’s my fault he was ever in a position to steal credit for your work, Elle.”

Instinctively, I flinch away from those words like a blow, avert my eyes. “No. That can’t be true.”

“It is. Listen, you already know I didn’t like him, right from the start. Maybe it’s time I tried to explain why.” He sits down heavily on one end of the couch. “The first time he looked at me, I could tell he knew who I was, and even though that was nothing new, this time, it made me uncomfortable. Because once he gave his name, I recognized him, too. I tried to ignore it, ignore him. Ignore the way he looked at you … and how it made me feel. And when that didn’t work, then I—I told you that story about his laptop and the virus.”

I trawl though my memories, back to that night in the lab, when Fisher explained that he recognized Geoff as having brought his malfunctioning computer to the IT help desk. I remember him claiming that Geoff must’ve picked up a virus by browsing some sketchy sites. “That wasn’t true?” I jerk my gaze—which had been focused on a threadbare spot in his jeans, widened to a gap by the bending of his left knee and revealing the tiniest glimpse of his skin—upward to meet his.

He’s wearing a somber, guilty expression. “Oh, he had a virus. But as to how his computer got infected?” Fisher shrugs. “Who can say? I concocted an explanation I hoped you’d find appalling enough to steer clear of him after that.”