Page 63 of Inventing Mr Darcy

“He’s improving, slowly. He’s back at home now. But it will be months before he can return to work full time. I’m on deck to, um, help out at his office.” He makes it sound like he’ll be working in the mailroom or something, instead of running an international company on his father’s behalf. “I’m resigning my assistantship.”

Translation: I’m leaving Grantham for good.

I have a degree in English. I know my heart sank is a figurative expression, not a literal one. But at those words, something sure lands in my stomach with an unpleasant thud.

Cassie steps up behind me. “Tell him, Elle,” she insists, and I glance toward her, dumbfounded. Every thought seems to have disappeared from my head.

“It’s about Geoff Winkworth,” she says after a long silence, giving up on me and deciding the direction of our conversation. “He’s taking credit for the novel Elle found. Even though she uploaded the file from her laptop, it’s showing up as his discovery in the database. And now she’s losing professional opportunities because of it.”

Finally, I find my words. “You were right when you told me not to trust him. And I’m so sorry I broke my promise.”

He opens his mouth but at first nothing comes out. He just glances between us, as if he’s still trying to take everything in. “I’m sorry too,” he says at last, to me. “And I wish I could say I’m surprised.” He looks around for his coffee before realizing it’s already in his hand, then a tiny frown darts between his brows, and his gaze shifts; his mind seems to be somewhere else. “I, um—excuse me, please, won’t you?”

And just like that, all of him is gone.

Cassie makes a noise that might best be described as a growl as she watches him walk past the front window of the coffee shop, headed toward campus. “I cannot believe he just … I’m sorry, Elle. I really thought he’d help. I thought you two had something special.”

And again, there’s that note of wistfulness when she speaks of our relationship, even in the past tense.

But I’m sure I must be imagining it, because how could anyone envy my heartbreak?

FOUR-AND-TWENTY

If it weren’t for Cassie, I would surely have resorted to my previous plan of covering my head with a pillow and hiding from the world forever. But she makes me do things like shower and eat. She also reads the draft of my dissertation and insists I can’t give up on the project. “I might have to read this Pride and Prejudice,” she says, with a laugh that makes me want to cry.

I drag myself to Pedersen’s seminar on the English novel: nineteen first-year English majors who seem in most essential ways the same as last semester’s crop. Professor Pedersen takes attendance, introduces me, then hands out copies of the syllabus—old school, like I said.

As I’m paging absently through the document, what do I see, sandwiched between Daniel Defoe and Thomas Hardy, but … Jane Austen?

Not by name, of course. But he’s included Pride and Prejudice, with a little note:

*The text of this recently rediscovered novel can be found on the OWEN-C database.

Oh, goody. Three whole weeks of hearing about how Geoff fucking Winkworth changed the course of English literature. It’s all I can do not to crumple the syllabus and toss it into the trash.

Fifty minutes later—I guess; my mind is somewhere else—the students file noisily out and I stand, intending to follow them.

“A moment, please, Miss Bradshaw,” Professor Pedersen says, leaning against the front edge of the teacher’s table.

I stuff the syllabus into my bag, hoping the noise covers the sound of the ragged breath I take, my futile attempt to tamp down my frustration. “Yeah?” I say, turning.

“I hope you approve of the changes I made to this semester’s seminar. I most particularly wanted to make room for your discovery.”

“I’m sure it will be—” Wait. “Did you say my discovery?”

Sometimes it takes a beat for things to travel from my ears to my brain.

“I did. It seems congratulations are in order.” He crosses his arms over his chest and lowers his gaze to the scuffed tile floor. “And an apology.”

“But I—how—why?”

“I was so excited by the potential of this manuscript, what it would mean for OWEN-C, that I pushed aside any … reservations I had about Mr. Winkworth’s claims. The truth is, I had some concerns about him from the beginning; a few things didn’t add up. Details about his past educational experiences. That phony family emergency. But he acquitted himself well enough in New York that when he came to me with this extraordinary novel, already uploaded, I didn’t question it as I should’ve.

“Not that I’m unique in that regard,” he continues, excusing his gullibility. “He very nearly succeeded in convincing another university—several universities, in fact—to offer him a faculty position based on fraudulent claims.” He straightens then and turns toward the table. “Fortunately, there’s iron-clad proof that the file for Pride and Prejudice was uploaded from your account, and that Mr. Winkworth tampered with the record to credit himself for the discovery. It seems the system keeps a digital record of administrative access, and that record shows you were the one logged into the database when that file was uploaded. Someone just had to look for it.”

I take a moment to absorb all that, almost afraid to speak for fear that when I do, some spell will be broken and I will have imagined the whole conversation. Finally, though, I can’t avoid the obvious question: “Who—um, can you tell me who provided this proof?”

“I was approached by a young man from our information technology unit,” Pedersen says as he fastens the buckles on his worn leather attaché. “A Mr. Davis.”