Page 69 of Inventing Mr Darcy

Well, except for the fact that it’s in Grantham, and Fisher isn’t.

My eyes fall to the pages in my lap, in which I argue that Austen defines happiness as a matter of choice—if people aren’t free to make choices, they can’t be truly happy. I think about Fisher, and I think about the story he told me; how he joined the rowing team against his father’s wishes and how his dad smoothed over that attempt at defiance. At the time, his actions had seemed to show a surprising degree of understanding. But now it feels like just another way to take away the power of his son’s choice.

For so long now, my one point of solace has been the idea that the disappearance of Pride and Prejudice didn’t affect Fisher. And in some ways, it clearly didn’t. Even without it, he managed to embody Darcy’s pride and arrogance. Even without it, he knew just what to do to make me fall in love with him.

Now, though, I understand the crucial piece that’s been missing, even for him: nothing in his experience has taught him that he’s entitled to choose happiness.

Even if that choice involves defying a parent.

Even if it means going against the world.

And no, I can’t say for sure he’ll choose me. But now I know what I have to do.

“Professor Pedersen,” I say, standing up, “I’m honored, truly. But I need some time to think it over.”

“Of course.” He nods. “I’d expect nothing less than circumspection from my best student, and I warned the president she’d be facing some stiff competition to get you.”

His best student? He’s rewriting history now, but still …

“Thank you. I, uh, I’ll have an answer for you in a few days. When I get back.”

“Back?” he echoes. But I’m already halfway out the door. “Miss Bradshaw,” he calls after me as I dash down the corridor of Arden Hall, “wherever you’re going, don’t stay away too long.”

SIX-AND-TWENTY

In the Keira Knightley movie version of Pride and Prejudice, viewers watch her face as she arrives at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy’s iconic residence. Beneath her wide-eyed awe at seeing his house for the first time is a smirk of self-mockery and embarrassment; it’s the closest an actress could come, I suppose, to embodying book Elizabeth’s internal realization that, had she accepted Darcy’s proposal of marriage months earlier, she might already have been mistress of the sprawling, elegant estate. She experiences “something very like regret,” readers are told, which she brushes away with the recollection of Darcy’s snobbishness.

It’s just as well that I can’t see my own expression reflected in the car window as we’re buzzed through a tall pair of wrought-iron gates and cruise slowly up the slight incline of the curved drive that leads to the Davis home mansion.

I’ve seen pictures of houses like this before. But never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined I’d know someone who lived in such a place. It’s a perfect mixture of modern (so much glass!) and traditional, with pristine white trim framing weathered cedar shakes. I’m useless when it comes to estimating square footage, but it’s at least the size of the athletic center on campus, where the Eagles regularly lose at basketball.

The driver slings my bag onto the driveway and I watch him leave, more than a little nervous. It’s the end of a very long day—my car wouldn’t start and I couldn’t find Cassie, so I had to beg Mrs. Merriweather to drive me to MSP, and as it turns out, she’s a very nervous driver in traffic; next came a lengthy conversation with the woman at the ticket counter, who waited patiently while I googled the name of the town in Connecticut where the Davis family lives, then helped me figure out which airport was closest; and finally, I helped my driver navigate when I didn’t even have an address, just a picture of this enormous house—but it still isn’t the end of my journey.

(It’s also been an expensive day, from that last-minute plane ticket to an eye-wateringly pricey Uber, which means I may not have much choice but to accept both Wordstitch’s contract and Grantham’s job offer.)

I’m tired and sweaty in spite of the cold, and as I approach the front door, I realize I don’t even know whether Fisher is here, or whether anyone will answer the bell, and I feel oddly like if they do, I should be prepared to pay admission.

The door opens to reveal a high-ceilinged foyer, and an older woman in a conservative navy-blue dress and practical flats. When I ask to see Fisher—“I mean, Trey”—she dips her head. But before she can speak, there’s a noise behind her, and she turns enough that I can see a marble staircase, polished to a forbidding shine, and Fisher hurrying down it.

“Elle? How did you—? Why—?”

But I can’t answer, because his arms are wrapped tightly around me.

When I can catch my breath, I tell him, “I thought of something I needed to say.”

And thank God he doesn’t reply with something like, you could have called. He says, “Of course,” as if flying all this way and showing up on his doorstep is the most logical thing anyone could do. “But first, come upstairs and meet my parents. Have you eaten? Are you hungry?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Ada”—he turns toward the woman—“could you please send something up?”

“Of course,” she tells him, then gestures for my coat. “I’ll ask Richard see to madam’s bags.”

“Have him put them in the guest house, please,” Fisher says, and she nods.

I’m intimidated by the staircase, but when Fisher takes my hand and leads me up, I forget to worry about slipping, falling, and breaking my neck. When we reach a doorway, he pauses, gives my fingers a squeeze, and calls out, “Mom? Dad? I have an amazing surprise. Elle is here.”

I suppose you’d call the room we enter a living room, though it feels to me like the kind of room in which very little living has ever been done. The only signs of life, if in fact they can be called that, are artfully arranged bookshelves and a table with a chess set; there’s not even a television. I remember thinking that the living room in Fisher’s house in Grantham was worthy of social media or maybe a lifestyle blog, but if that was true, then the room in which we’re standing now would be featured in a good old-fashioned glossy magazine. This isn’t the kind of space to which most people I know would even aspire.

Large windows along one wall overlook the back of the house, and even though dusk has fallen, thanks to the exquisitely planned exterior lighting, I have no trouble picking out the contours of the stone patio, steam rising from a heated swimming pool, an expanse of lawn, and a body of water in the distance.

Within the room, the furniture is all elegantly modern and uncomfortable, which is I suppose why Mr. and Mrs. Davis are sitting so impossibly upright, like it would be beneath them to relax. Or rather, Mr. Davis is. By the time my bewildered eyes find them, Laura is already on her feet and coming toward us. “Elle! Imagine that.”