Read Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart Online
Authors: Beth Pattillo
Tags: #Adult, #Contemporary, #Romance, #Young Adult, #Historical
First Impressions
Chapter Five
Elizabeth had brought only one gown that might be deemed acceptable for a dinner party at Rosings. She had not expected to have the opportunity to wear much finery, even had she the means to obtain it. While Anne de Bourgh might require her company during the day, the sickly young woman became entirely her mother’s property in the evenings
.
I had to smile ruefully at that bit. I knew just how Elizabeth felt. Money had been so tight in the early years after my parents died that I often skipped church because I couldn’t afford anything appropriate to wear. I knew, of course, that God didn’t
care about my attire, but I wasn’t naive enough to think that other people didn’t. So I’d told Missy I had to work overtime, dropped her off at the church doors, and spent the morning cleaning our small apartment or occasionally walking at a nearby park.
Elizabeth started in surprise when the footman came to inform her that her presence was expected downstairs. She dressed quickly but with care, her hair neat and her few pieces of jewelry left to their usual place in their pasteboard box. The unrelieved black of her gown, an unforgiving bombasine, did little to enhance her brown eyes or the healthy glow of her skin. Lady Catherine frowned upon Elizabeth’s habit of a daily walk through the park, declaring that “Miss Bennet is far too tanned for fashion or good sense.” But Elizabeth felt, privately of course, that Anne might benefit from just such fresh air and exercise
.
A quarter hour later, neatly if somberly attired, Elizabeth approached the drawing room with more than her usual wariness
.
When she reached the door, a liveried footman opened it for her, and Elizabeth entered with her head held as high as she dared. Lady Catherine and Anne had already claimed the sofa near the fire. The gentlemen were present, as was Mr. Humphreys, Lady Catherine’s new curate. The rather whey-faced young man had arrived only two days before to take up his duties as well as his residence at the
Huntsford parsonage. Mr. Humphreys had the effect of making Elizabeth’s cousin, Mr. Collins, appear a dashing romantic hero
.
“There you are, Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine said as if she had been kept waiting for several hours rather than merely a fraction of that time. “We had begun to think you might never appear.”
“My apologies, ma’am. I came as quickly as I could, once I knew I was wanted.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw a small smile light on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s lips, but Mr. Darcy’s impassive visage never wavered
.
Lady Catherine sniffed but made no further comment, and turned her attention to the gentlemen instead
.
“So, Darcy, you are to go to London when you leave us.” Her tone evidenced her disapproval of his decision. She glanced at her daughter. “I should have liked to take Anne to town this spring to make her come-out, but her health will not permit it.”
As if on cue, Anne coughed delicately into the lace handkerchief clutched in her thin fingers
.
The section ended abruptly. I flipped the page over to see if there might be more on the reverse, but it was blank.
“Drat.” But there were more pages in the stack in my lap. I picked up the next page to see where the narrative continued.
“You must come as well, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Humphreys said after the gentlemen had finished their port and rejoined the ladies in the drawing room. “Miss de Bourgh, too, ma’am, if her health permits,” he said with deference to Lady Catherine’s judgment. “I am as eager for female opinions as to the improvements for the house as I am for Mr. Darcy’s advice about the stables.”
While the young clergyman was as eager as his predecessor, he lacked the toad eating of Mr. Collins that had so nettled Elizabeth. Mr. Humphreys was awkward, but at least he was aware of his awkwardness
.
“I would be glad to accompany Miss de Bourgh,” Elizabeth said carefully, “if Lady Catherine deems her fit for the exercise.”
The answer mollified Lady Catherine, who had bristled at the curate’s initial request of Elizabeth
.
“I am sure if Darcy will offer Anne his arm, she will do very well.” That was enough to establish the expedition with certainty
.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes darkened at his aunt’s imperious command, but Elizabeth doubted anyone else of the party took notice. She owned herself surprised at the man’s docility with regard to his aunt’s dictates. He, who must be so accustomed to acting as lord and master, took her edicts rather well
.
The engagement was set for the following afternoon.
Colonel Fitzwilliam said he would be glad to be of the party and would offer Miss Bennet his arm. Mr. Humphreys’ disappointment at the addition of a rival for Elizabeth’s attentions could not be concealed, for clearly he had envisioned the handsome Miss Bennet’s hand resting atop the sleeve of his own coat. Nevertheless, the company was settled and the evening’s conversation turned to other topics, directed firmly, to be sure, by Lady Catherine’s preferences
.
That was the end of it. I sighed with disappointment. Now there was yet another potential suitor for Elizabeth. The poor girl had to be as confused as I was.
The day’s heat had yet to dissipate from my fourth-floor room. The one small window didn’t provide much in the way of ventilation. Suddenly I was as restless as James had been earlier in the garden. I carefully slid the manuscript back into my purse, scooped up my room key, and letting myself out of the room, closed the door behind me. They would lock the gates soon, so I couldn’t venture out of Christ Church, but perhaps I could find a quiet place to think. A quiet place with some semblance of an evening breeze.
The last light had faded from the sky, leaving the medieval buildings in shadow. I stepped carefully in the darkness toward the stairs to the dining hall. The quad lay just beyond. I didn’t want to sit out there in the open, but perhaps I could find an accommodating nook or cranny somewhere.
I wandered toward the cathedral on the side of the quad opposite Tom Gate and the Porters’ Lodge. To my surprise, it was still unlocked, so I slipped inside. The glow of candlelight relieved the dimness inside the church. I glanced around to see if I was alone.
I wasn’t. To my surprise, I saw Martin Blakely sitting in a chair in one of the short rows against an outer wall.
“Martin?” I approached him almost on tiptoe. I hated to disturb the man at his prayers, but I really, really needed his help.
He glanced up and smiled when he saw me. “Claire.” He nodded toward the chair next to him. “Would you care to join me?”
His formality, oddly enough, made me feel more comfortable.
“Thank you.” I took the seat beside him and paused a moment to gather my thoughts.
We were quiet for several long moments. The peace of the cathedral washed over me. I hadn’t been in very many churches since my parents’ funeral, even when I had been able to afford something nice enough to attend. I’d avoided them, to tell the truth. Except for Missy and Phillip’s wedding. My nieces’ christenings. But other than that…
“I need your help,” I said to Martin, deciding to cut to the chase. “But you’d have to promise me that you would never tell anyone about what I’m going to ask you.”
His silvery eyebrows rose with intrigue. “A secret, is it?”
“Yes. And it’s not my secret, which is why I need you to keep this confidential.”
He nodded and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “How may I assist you, my dear?”
My dear
. It’s what Harriet was always calling me, but given how I was about to betray her, I was anything but dear.
“I’ve come across something. A page of something related to Jane Austen. I need you to tell me if it might be authentic.”
“Sounds mysterious.”
“I don’t mean for it to sound that way.” I tried to keep the tremor out of my voice and my hands as I reached inside my purse for a manuscript page. “Can you promise me to hold this in confidence?”
His smile vanished then. “You’re quite serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Now his eyebrows pulled toward the bridge of his nose in consternation. “Have you done anything…illegal?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. Nothing like that.”
Relief erased the lines around his eyes. “Good. Then I can promise you to keep this in confidence.”
I could only hope that Martin would be as good as his word, because at that moment, his word was all I could depend on. The page had crumpled a bit at the edges in the confines of my bag. I pressed the wrinkles with the edge of my finger, and then I handed it to Martin.
“I was told that this was written by Austen herself, but I have no way of knowing. I thought you might be able to tell.”
He took the page from me and then reached into the pocket
of his sports coat for a pair of reading glasses. He donned them and bent to examine the paper.
“Hmm.” He made a musing noise at the back of his throat but was otherwise silent.
I sat quietly next to him and resisted the urge to fidget while he perused the page for what seemed a lifetime. I realized I was holding my breath and forced myself to exhale. It was all a hoax, of course. It must be. It had to be, not matter how sympathetic I found Harriet Dalrymple.
At long last, he lifted his eyes from the page, folded his reading glasses, and returned them to his coat pocket.
“If you don’t mind my asking, where did you get this?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”
“I see.”
“Is it real?” I asked quickly. “Can you tell?”
I was on pins and needles as I waited for his answer. So much depended on his assessment. If the manuscript was a fake, it was just another lie in a string of them that had comprised my Oxford experience. But if it were real… Well, if it were real, that changed everything, didn’t it?
Martin handed the paper back to me. “Is there more or just this page?”
I knew then what his answer was.
“There’s more,” I said and swallowed heavily. “Quite a bit more, although I don’t think all of it is intact.”
He shook his head, disbelief and ruefulness mingling on his face. “I’d give a great deal to see it,” he said with a tight smile.
“I’m afraid it’s not mine to share,” I said. “I’m breaking my word by showing this to you.”
“Your word?” He looked even more intrigued than when I’d shown him the page. “So you really have been sworn to secrecy?”
I nodded.
His gaze locked with mine. “Does the name Formidables mean anything to you?” he asked.
I gasped. I couldn’t help it. “How did you know—”
He laughed but looked dismayed. “I didn’t know. Not until I saw your face just now. But I’ve long suspected. And hoped. I told you there were secrets to be uncovered in Oxford.”
“What do you know about them?” Maybe I was betraying Harriet more than I already had, but the whole thing had become so incredibly complicated, and I needed an ally. I couldn’t sense any malice in Martin, any reason that he might be a threat to Harriet.
He tapped the page where it lay in my lap. The gesture reminded me of Harriet. “I’ve only heard rumors, I’m afraid. That they are a group conceived by Austen’s sister, Cassandra, who said that she burned all of Austen’s correspondence and other personal papers. Some scholars have speculated that she might not have been telling the truth. That perhaps she was protecting her sister.”
“Why would it matter if Jane Austen’s letters came to light? Or an early manuscript, like this?”
Martin rubbed his chin. “A woman’s reputation is a delicate
thing. Even the reputation of a literary genius. Or perhaps especially the reputation of a literary genius.”
“So Cassandra thought the letters and early manuscripts would make her sister look bad?”
Martin shrugged. “People often make strange choices when loved ones die. Jane Austen’s sister would not have been the first person to make unorthodox decisions in the midst of grief.”
“But why would anyone think less of her because this early version of
Pride and Prejudice
came to light?”
“From what you’ve shown me, it doesn’t have the full genius of her later work. We all choose what of ourselves we want to present to the world,” he said. “Would Jane Austen have been any different?”
I bit my lip, because I understood that reality all too well. I’d spent most of my adult life convincing people that I was competent, in charge, unafraid, when in fact, I’d been struggling, desperate, terrified. I couldn’t afford to let people see the real me, the Claire who cried at night for her mother and father as if she were a child of ten, not a woman of eighteen. Or twenty-five. Or even thirty-one, to own the truth.
“So you think she was afraid that people would value her work less if they knew more about her? If they could read her early efforts?”
“Well, not every early effort, obviously. We have some of those.
Lady Susan
, the epistolary novel she wrote early on. And her
Juvenalia
, of course. But those writings were obviously the work of a child. No, there must have been something about this
manuscript in particular that she didn’t want people to know. Many things changed in her life in the ten years between the two drafts, after all.”
“But why didn’t she destroy it herself?”
“It’s a rare author who could,” Martin said.
“I suppose so.” I couldn’t imagine setting fire to something I’d worked so hard on, although in the past few weeks, I’d done a pretty good job of annihilating the life I’d spent more than a decade constructing.
“How much of this have you read?” He nodded toward the page in my lap.
“Just a few sections. Enough to know that it’s very different from the novel we read for the seminar.”
I answered Martin, but my mind was focusing on what he ’d said about people making unorthodox choices in the face of grief. After my parents died in the car accident, everyone around me had insisted that I was far too young to take care of Missy. They had argued with me, tempted me, tried to persuade me. But I’d made my own unorthodox decision during my time of enormous grief. And I had never regretted it.