Page 44 of Inventing Mr Darcy

This is not the kind of story I’d had in mind.

“What did he say?” I whisper, almost afraid of the answer.

“He lifted his brows a little.” I can picture his father’s expression—it’s the same one I’ve seen Fisher make dozens of times. “Then he laid a hand on my shoulder and told me, very calmly, ‘If the day for such a decision ever comes, you may find you feel differently. Family is a complicated thing.’”

I’m ashamed to admit how much Mr. Davis’s reaction surprises me. I realize I’ve built up an idea in my mind of someone harsh and unyielding, someone who cares more for his business than his son. And maybe, sometimes, that’s the same image Fisher has in his mind; his dad as the kind of outsized, overbearing figure that makes you want to chuck everything and move to Grantham for a while, just to get away.

But of course there’s a big gap between wishing a parent would give you some space to make your own decisions, and the prospect of losing that parent entirely.

“Afterward, he showed me this really top-notch set of free weights he’d bought for me, and I of course felt like shit about what I’d said.” He pauses again; clearly the memory of his adolescent betrayal, snuffed out by his father’s measured response and generosity, still produces more than a twinge of guilt. Then he concludes, “For four years, he never missed a regatta, no matter how busy he was.”

No, this isn’t the story I expected, at all. But I think I understand why he’s chosen to tell it to me now. It’s an answer to my question from last night. It’s a part of the explanation for his determination to fulfill his father’s dream, rather than his own.

Wealth and privilege aside, he’s been raised with a sense of duty. A commitment to responsibility. A healthy dose of stubbornness. And, yes, love.

Somehow, absolutely none of that comes as a surprise. But if it’s true that I didn’t know the real Fisher until yesterday, well, now I’m kind of hoping it’s not too late.

“He sounds like a great guy,” I say.

There’s a catch in his voice, maybe a sniff, when he says, “Yeah.”

And then I make a request—or maybe an offer—that I’d had no intention of making when this conversation started. “Call me tomorrow, OK? If you want. Or—or anytime, really.”

“Thanks, Elle. That means a lot.”

After we hang up, I sit thinking about this conversation. Maybe we can be friends after all?

Knowing what I do about his future, and mine, I’d be a fool to want anything more.

SEVENTEEN

Late the next morning, I decide to poke around the parts of the house I haven’t seen.

(Surely he expected that, right? You don’t tell someone she can stay unsupervised at your house for weeks and imagine she won’t snoop a little. I mean, unless you’re Bluebeard or something.)

His home office is neatly organized, but it comes the closest to being cluttered of any room in the house. His desk is covered with books and papers and scribbled sticky notes that remind me of the kind of gibberish the mainframe was spitting out after the solar flare. It shares a smaller bathroom with another bedroom—or rather, a room that could be a bedroom, if it had a bed. Instead, it contains a rowing machine and a set of weights, neither of which has been allowed to gather dust. The layout of the floor above is almost exactly the same, though the ceilings are lower and the bathroom (just one) hasn’t been redone since the 1970s or so. None of these rooms contains any furnishings, which is both eerie and somehow sad, and I wonder whether Fisher sometimes feels lonely with all this space to himself?

At the top of the house is a large, slope-ceilinged attic, empty except for some dust and a few cobwebs. It’s the kind of place you’d tuck Christmas decorations and old toys—you know, if you were settled and had a family.

And even though I swear I never formed any expectations around our relationship, never doodled Mrs. Fisher Davis in the margins of a notebook, with little hearts for dots above the I’s, I suddenly catch myself daydreaming about things like marriage and kids and a life I’m not sure I’ll ever have; one I thought I’d largely convinced myself not to want.

Good grief. Am I dealing with the loss of romance by becoming a hopeless romantic? Is that really why learning the truth of Fisher’s identity and his life outside of Grantham upset me so much? Did it disrupt some happily-ever-after fantasy I had no business indulging—maybe ever, but particularly not in this Austenless universe, with him?

As I’m backing out of the attic, determined to put some distance between me and those unexpected, unwelcome thoughts, I stumble over a single cardboard box sitting just inside the door. And my first thought is, if that’s all you needed to stash, why would you bother to lug it all the way up here?

Written on the side of the box in block letters, not handwriting I recognize as his, is the word COLLEGE. I wonder if this single, rather small box contains all the things he saved. My mom would be overjoyed if I could whittle it down to a dozen boxes and/or get them, in whatever number, out of my parents’ garage.

This box isn’t sealed or taped or folded so the flaps interlock. All I would have to do to open it is lift one little piece of cardboard. That hardly counts as prying, right?

So why do I feel so guilty when I do just that?

The item uppermost is a picture frame. It’s turned face down: one last chance to redeem myself and walk away.

I don’t take it.

I lift the edge of the frame with my fingertips and tilt it toward the light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It’s his diploma: Bachelor of Science in Mathematics. From, yes, Yale. Awarded to Fisher Davis III five years ago.

To my mind, it’s not exactly a crooked path from his undergraduate degree to a career as a Chief Technology Officer. But now that I have a better understanding of what Fisher is being prepared to inherit, I’m no longer surprised that Mr. Davis insisted on an advanced degree in computer science. I’m surprised he didn’t insist on his son getting an MBA (like both he and his daughter did).