Page 71 of Inventing Mr Darcy

Mr. Davis blinks once, twice, and to my utter astonishment, nods. “I agree.” Then he swivels his gaze to his son.

Fisher’s indrawn breath is shaky. “Elle means well, I know. But she said herself it’s not that simple. It’s time I kept my promise. You need me here, now. Of course I’ll stay.”

It’s not the answer I was hoping for. But before I can react, Mr. Davis shakes his head. “And what if I refused?”

At that, Laura can no longer hold her tongue. Tears well in her eyes, and in spite of my own hopes, my heart aches for her. She’s worried about her husband, it’s plain to see, and upset to think that the plan to relieve him of a stressful burden may be upended. “Someone has to step in. If not Trey, then who?” she demands in a shaking voice.

The two men look at each other, perhaps silently weighing the options, which based on their expressions, aren’t great. And I know, in another moment, that both of them will give in, accept the familiar, obvious solution, in spite of my efforts and Fisher’s desires.

And then a possibility occurs to me, one more thing I can say.

“What about Gaby?”

If you find it implausible that the Davises never considered entrusting a multimillion-dollar family business to their bright, business-savvy daughter, rather than their son, well …

(Picture me waving my arm in the general direction of all human history. Did you imagine that the absence of Elizabeth Bennet—and the millions of clever, independent-minded women modeled after and inspired by her—would have made this timeline better?)

Anyway, my suggestion sparks a long conversation, so lengthy in fact I’m nodding off before it’s over and Fisher is nudging me and encouraging me to go to bed. Reluctantly, Mrs. Davis offers to show me to the guest house, which is attached to the mansion via a glassed-in breezeway, its flagstone floor an unsettling patchwork of light and shadow at this late hour.

As much as today has been about reclaiming my rom-com happy ending, this silent walk with Mrs. Davis makes me worry a little that I might have wound up in the plot of a thriller instead. At the door of the guest house, she pauses, and I can’t help but brace myself for what she’s about to say. Or do.

“In spite of what you may think of us,” she tells me, in a voice that’s a little haughty, but also a little sad, “Fisher and I want nothing more than our son’s happiness. I hope you’ll be comfortable out here.”

Before I can say “thank you,” she motions me inside and shuts the door between us.

The guest house is as big as my parents’ actual house, and combines hotel luxury with the comforts of home. There’s a complete kitchen, a fully stocked bar, plush cotton towels and robes—and Fisher’s toiletries on the bathroom counter. I’d assumed he was sleeping in his childhood bedroom, as he was in December. But I suppose when it seemed he’d be staying long-term, this arrangement gave them all some privacy.

Plus, tonight it lets Mrs. Davis skirt the dilemma of whether to allow her son to have a girl in his room.

Following a long, hot, lonely shower, I slip on one of those fancy robes and curl up on the couch in the living room to wait for him. Hours later, he wakes me with a kiss (and I know it’s been hours, because my hair is almost dry).

I’m searching his face for the answer before I even ask the question. “Is it going to work?”

His hair is standing on end, a sure sign he’s been running his hands through it. He sinks onto the foot of the couch, trapping my toes beneath his leg. “I think it might. After you came out here, we called Gaby, and she … she’s considering it. It’s a brilliant solution, Elle—so why didn’t I think of it?” I’m momentarily amused by his inadvertent egotism. (At least, I think it’s inadvertent.) But it’s clear his distress is real. He props his elbows on his knees and drops his head into his hands, tightening his fingers against his scalp until I’m sure he must be causing himself pain.

I sit up and wrap an arm around his shoulders to give him a little shake. “Because you’re her brother. Her protective, older brother who—let’s be honest—will probably always think of her as his baby sister, no matter how grown up she is. Couple your concern for her with the fact you literally haven’t been allowed to imagine anyone else stepping into the role your father decided was yours twenty years ago, season it with a dash of jealousy that Gaby’s been able to break free in a way you couldn’t, and—”

At that, his head jerks up again and surprise flares in the depths of his dark eyes. “Jealousy?” he echoes. But it’s less challenge, more recognition, as if I’ve finally put a name to something he’s been feeling for years.

I wink at him. “It’s OK to be jealous sometimes. And it’s also OK with me if you want to take credit for my idea.”

“Too late,” he says with a wry little smile, as his hand skates up my bare calf to rest on my knee. “I already told her it was all you.”

“Does she also know,” I ask after a moment, “that you told me about what happened between her and Geoff?”

“Actually, that was her idea. When I called and told her how I managed to expose Winkworth for a fraud, I also explained that she’d misread the situation in New York and confessed to her how crazy I am about you. She told me to do whatever I needed to make things right. I just hadn’t worked out how yet. I was down to the final hours, wondering if you’d even answer my call … when you—and the universe—took matters in hand.”

It’s a relief to know she doesn’t hate me. Because the very last thing I would ever want to do is break her brother’s heart.

His thumb makes an absent circle on my kneecap. “I can’t believe you’re really here. That you came all this way to …” He shakes his head. “Did you actually try to read my math thesis?” he asks with an incredulous laugh.

“I believe the operative word would be try. But that’s all right, because it was you I wanted to understand better, not the math.”

That much is true. Along the way, however, I also managed to figure out that the kind of math Fisher is most interested in is wildly abstract, at least to a novice like me, while it’s obvious that the kind of computer science he’d be doing for his father’s company is practical, almost quotidian. Computational systems, data analysis, that sort of thing.

I don’t believe someone with the soul of an artist should be forced to commit to a life of manufacturing paintbrushes.

But I’m not sure how he’d feel about that formulation.