Page 31 of Inventing Mr Darcy

E B + F —

Finally, the cat makes a little merwp sound to show his annoyance. But what I was about to write had already given me pause.

EB + FD stands for Elizabeth Bennet + Fitzwilliam Darcy, of course.

But also … Elle Bradshaw + Fisher Davis?

How is it possible I never noticed this before?

All of a sudden, my mind is crowded with things I choose at first to call coincidences.

He criticized my appearance, then told me he thinks I’m beautiful.

He’s got money—or, at least, his family does. He can be arrogant. Sometimes he’s socially awkward.

But he explained why he was kind of a jerk about the computer stuff and more than made up for it. Now that I know him better, I’ve realized I misjudged him. I find his awkwardness kind of endearing, actually.

He’s got an amazing house. A brilliant sister. And as it turns out, he can be incredibly generous and kind.

Oh, my God.

I, Elle Bradshaw, am dating my very own Mr. Darcy.

It’s a bizarre realization, but also somehow comforting. These echoes of Austen in my life feel like proof that, even in the face of solar flares and shifting dimensions, the story is still alive.

Somehow, the universe found a way to hold onto the pieces of Pride and Prejudice.

“Can you believe it, Bing Bong?” I whisper.

One of his ears turns toward the sound of my voice, as if he recognizes his name. And beneath the gentle brush of my fingertips, he begins to purr.

TWELVE

The thing about convincing yourself you’re dating Mr. Darcy is that you kind of feel like you should be on your best Elizabeth Bennet behavior all the time. Clever. Capable.

And that’s a big ask, especially when you naturally have more in common with her impulsive, disaster-in-waiting younger sister Lydia.

You know—the one whose antics send the whole plot spinning sideways.

But for the next three weeks, I do my best. Sure, it’s no longer possible to kick back and relax by watching a rom-com, and people generally seem a bit more miserable than usual, even for November, when it gets dark at four thirty in the afternoon. But I am in a relationship with Fisher Davis, so I am of course wonderfully, deliriously happy.

Leaving the world around me to muddle on Jane Austenless, with women’s literature marginalized and romance novels erased, I wrap myself in a blissful cocoon of homecooked meals, toe-curling kisses, and exceptional productivity (by anyone’s standards, but especially mine).

I drag neat and organized Elle to the front of the class and make her sort through a hundred files. I learn to navigate my way around OWEN-C and tell everyone I can’t wait for the conference in New York, where I almost certainly won’t get lost. And I find my dissertation proposal, which sort of still works, and make myself start writing, because I don’t have to be over-the-moon enthusiastic about the topic, I just have to be done by May so I can get a job teaching depressing books to students who don’t care.

(Feelings of inadequacy and deep-seated ambivalence about the future are nothing you want to confess to your very own Mr. Darcy.)

On the Friday before Thanksgiving break, the last meeting of the seminar on the English novel before final exams in early December, I stay after class to discuss convention plans with Professor Pedersen and Geoff.

Geoff returned to class the week after Pedersen’s announcement, and I never bothered mentioning that I saw him at the bookstore. He hasn’t said much to me either, beyond generic pleasantries accompanied by those crooked smiles. If my supposed Team Co-Leader has been spending time working on the database, I’ve seen no evidence of it, so in the privacy of B-7 Kirwin Hall, I’ve let things return to their normal state of entropy.

When the last student has left the classroom, Pedersen claps his hands together and rubs them enthusiastically. I narrowly avoid flinching at the sandpapery sound. “I’ve just received our itineraries and hotel information for New York. We leave December twenty-sixth and return on the first. The conference ends the morning of the thirty-first, but I was able to persuade them to let us stay through New Year’s Eve. I thought the two of you deserved a little reward for all your hard work.” He grins, first at me and then at Geoff. “You’ll give a series of presentations about the database over the course of that week, and I’m sure everyone will be relieved not to have to listen to an old fuddy-duddy like me.”

When he pauses after that, I know he probably expects us to make some sort of ego-saving gesture—why, no, Professor Pedersen, no one thinks of you that way!—but I’m too busy wishing that I was spending the better part of a week in New York, and a holiday that traditionally involves kissing at midnight, with Fisher instead.

“Excellent news, sir,” Geoff says. “We’re looking forward to it.”

And from somewhere, I dredge up a nod.