Page 68 of Inventing Mr Darcy

Accompanying her text is a picture of someone’s copy of the Star Tribune, so badly pixelated that I can’t read what it says. On a hunch, I go back to Cassie’s link.

Scandal Rocks Grantham College

blares the headline, and sure enough it’s about the digital humanities program and Geoff’s attempted intellectual thievery, and it includes a tiny black-and-white photo of me, the especially awful one from my student ID.

I close the link. Maybe email will be safer.

But it’s not. My inbox is full of messages with subject lines like “interview request” and “faculty opening – please apply.” There’s even one from a Star Tribune reporter asking for a quote and mentioning her intent to contact me at the number the college provided, which I suppose explains the mystery text.

I swipe the spammiest-looking emails directly into the trash and intend to send the latest from Wordstitch there as well, until I note the subject line, which is not “You have notifications” or “Recommended for you” like usual, but “Publication offer.”

As my thumb hovers over it, I almost accidentally delete it, my hands are shaking so much. And my eyes skim through the message faster than my brain can process, so that I have to read it three times before I can make myself understand that they would like to include First Impressions in the pilot of their new paid service, which—if readers continue to click at their current rate—will net me royalties in the amount of …

My phone tumbles out of my hands and onto the couch.

It’s not a huge sum of money, I suppose, but it’s more than a grad student in her last semester with no future job lined up can afford to ignore.

The last unread email is from Professor Pedersen, and it’s tagged with a little red exclamation point. Please stop by my office first thing, it reads. There’s an urgent matter related to the database we need to discuss. JP

Of course, I laugh to myself. JPs may come and go, but the database endures. In any case, the last line of that email is so familiar, so reassuringly normal in the face of dozens of messages that are anything but. I click off my phone, change my clothes, and head to campus like it’s an ordinary day.

Pedersen’s office door is open wide, but I knock anyway, because he’s fully absorbed by whatever he’s reading. When he lifts his head, I’m momentarily taken aback by how haggard he looks. The bags under his eyes are bigger than the one I packed for New York.

“Miss Bradshaw,” he says. “I’m glad you found the time. Come in.” He motions me over the threshold. “And if you wouldn’t mind, please close the door.”

The request takes me aback. Professors don’t hold closed-door meetings with students; it’s an unsavory accusation waiting to happen.

But after a moment’s hesitation, seeing the look in his eyes, I do it, then slide into the usual chair. “Is something wrong?”

My mind has already concocted a dozen possibilities, none of them good. Has Geoff charmed his way back into the program? Is Pedersen rescinding my assistantship instead? Did something happen to the mainframe and I’m being held responsible?

“Based on the number of emails and phone calls I’ve received since yesterday asking for a reference,” he begins, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers in front of him, “I take it your job prospects are looking up?”

“Oh. Um.” In my mind’s eye, I see those seemingly endless messages scroll past. “Maybe?”

“Well, it’s no more than you deserve.” He manages a smile, though fatigue sags his cheeks, so it requires a greater-than-usual effort. “All the same, I’m hoping I can persuade you to take my offer instead.”

I blink and scoot the chair a fraction farther from his desk. “Your … what?”

“This whole fiasco with Mr. Winkworth has left a black mark on the digital humanities program. Late last night, in an attempt to mitigate the fallout, including a loss of subscriptions to OWEN-C, it was, shall we say, suggested that I tender my resignation to the president of the college, effective at the end of this semester.”

In other words, GC is firing him. Yikes. That explains his worn-down appearance and the closed office door.

“I could sue—I have tenure. But I’ve agreed to go without a fuss, with the stipulation she hires you in my place.”

My shocked expression lifts some of the weariness from his face. I must look like a fish that’s just been hauled from the water.

“I told her that if she was concerned with righting the ship, as she put it, then our first priority ought to be righting our wrongs where you are concerned. The database is the cornerstone of the program, and it should be managed by someone with experience. You’ll still be expected to complete your degree requirements this semester,” he cautions. “But since you’ll be losing at least two senior graduate assistants, the position will no longer include teaching responsibilities. Yours would be a full-time research and administrative role, under the joint umbrella of the library and the Department of Computer Science.”

It’s clear that even on his way out, Professor Pedersen has done some heavy negotiating on my behalf, and I’m both astonished and grateful. But I also can’t help but be struck by the irony that I’d be working in Fisher’s former department.

“I, um. Wow. I’m flattered, sir. But I didn’t do anything—”

“Special? Nonsense. Your discovery has shaken up our field, Miss Bradshaw. Things may never be the same. And speaking of”—he turns to reach for something behind him, then holds out the binder-clipped pages of my dissertation draft—“I’ve left you some notes. Bit more work to do, I think, defining happiness within the context of the early nineteenth century, and more attention to the very notion of endings. But all in all, this is in remarkable shape.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.” I take it from him with a hand that only trembles a little, then sit for a moment, staring at the pages. None of this feels real.

Would the position he’s described make me happy? Honestly, I think it might. I doubt I’d miss the teaching; it’s never been my passion like it was Julia’s. I prefer the research, the process of discovery. And if the database were mine to direct, I could reshape it in important ways, restore the focus on women’s voices. Everything about this job feels right to me.