Man Who Loved Pride and Prejudice

by Abigail Reynolds

  The English department wanted to ask a biologist about a writer? Maybe they wanted a science writer, someone like Stephen Jay Gould. "I can't imagine what I'd know about a writer that all of you don't."

  Dr. Yang shuffled the pile of papers in front of him, his eyes narrowed like a judge reading the charges against a defendant. "Stephen West, Dr. Boulton."

  Cassie's cheeks grew warm. It was the last thing she expected to hear. Had she mentioned his writing to Amy, long before she knew who he was? "I've read his books, but I don't know how much else I can tell you."

  "I understand you've met him." Dr. Yang made it sound like a crime.

  Her breath froze in her throat. How on earth had he found out? "Yes, we've met. How did you know?"

  Amy said, "You're mentioned in the acknowledgments for his latest book."

  "I am?" An odd thrill went through her. "I didn't know his new book was out."

  Amy handed her a hardcover. The title was emblazoned across the cover in elegant gold lettering: Pride & Presumption. Above the title was a stylized drawing of a couple in attire of the early nineteenth century. Below it, a photograph of a modern young woman on a deserted beach, looking out to sea, with a man standing beside her, his eyes fixed upon her. Amy said, "This is a pre-publication copy. He's applied for the writerin-residence position for next semester. We're interviewing him on Thursday. That's why we're looking for information."

  Her heart started racing. Calder would be there on Thursday? She flipped the book open to the acknowledgments page and her name jumped out at her.

  Special thanks to Dr. Cassandra

  Boulton and Erin McKinley for first introducing me to the Marine Biological

  Laboratory and its traditions.

  Dr. Yang cleared his throat, as if annoyed at her distraction. "There are a number of things about his candidacy that puzzle me. First, he's overqualified. This position is designed for writers who are just breaking into the field, and the salary is commensurate with that. Stephen West has two critically acclaimed novels, and a third coming out. Second, he has no teaching credentials at all, but even so, he could get a better-paying job just on the basis of name recognition. It's hard to take his interest in the job seriously, given the salary. Perhaps most curiously, we can't find any information about him. None at all, beyond the resume he sent us. Hence our interest in what you might have to say."

  How much should she tell them? They couldn't possibly know about her feelings for him. Nobody knew that except Rob, and he wasn't very likely to write a book. Her lips twitched at the idea of Rob writing anything without footnotes and citations. It was almost as funny as the idea of Calder applying for a job. "He's a very private person. The name is a pseudonym, which is why you can't find anything about him. Umm, I don't really know him well, but the salary wouldn't be an issue. He has an independent income." Enough to give away a hundred thousand dollars as if it were small change.

  Dr. Yang looked at her over his glasses. "This is starting to make more sense. Did you tell him about the position, then?"

  "No, not at all," she said, taken off guard by the question. "I didn't find out he was a writer until later."

  "Hmm. Do you have any other insights about him you'd like to share?"

  Cassie's palms were damp where she clutched the book. At least Dr. Yang hadn't asked what his real name was. "Not really. We talked once about the merits of liberal arts education and the advantages of a small college, but I can't think of anything else." That, and a few dinoflagellates. But the committee didn't know about that part, so she was safe. There was nothing wrong with having met a writer or giving him information for a book.

  The faculty member seated to her right, a young man named Hal Bailey, swiveled to look at her. "I have a question." He looked distinctly amused. "Do you understand why?"

  "Why what?" Cassie felt like she was missing something obvious.

  He took the book from her, turned it to the next page, and then handed it back. There were two lines on an otherwise blank page.

  To Cassie,

  who will understand why

  A flush of heat rose in her, but then good sense reasserted itself. Why would he dedicate a book to her? Scott had said Calder never put dedications in books. "I expect he's talking about somebody else named Cassie. He barely knows me."

  Dr. Yang glared at the young man. "That is quite

  enough, Dr. Bailey!"

  "Sorry." Dr. Bailey's apology was perfunctory, and directed more at Dr. Yang than Cassie.

  Calder was going to be at Haverford on Thursday, and he hadn't mentioned a word of it in his emails to her. Surely he couldn't have forgotten she worked there. She looked down at the book again and flipped open the front cover to read the flyleaf. Maybe there would be a clue there.

  In this modern-day retelling of the classic tale of Pride & Prejudice, author Stephen West turns his keen insight to the story of two people from different worlds. Sparks fly when Elizabeth Bennet, a dedicated marine biologist whose life is based on facts and rationality, meets wealthy Fitzwilliam Darcy, born to a family where power and prestige mean everything. Darcy's early attraction to Elizabeth grows into a compelling passion, consummated one magical night by the sea, but in the morning light, Elizabeth rejects him. In despair, Darcy realizes he will never win her friendship, much less her love, because of his failure to be honest with either himself or her. But modern life can prove even more restrictive than the social strictures of the nineteenth century, and West's tale takes a turn of its own as its hero fails to achieve the fairytale ending of the original Darcy and Elizabeth.

  In Pride & Presumption, Stephen West brings his recognized eloquence and perception to a story of deep emotion, exploring the high cost of misunderstanding and miscommunication and the barriers we erect between one other.

  She stared at it in shock. A marine biologist? A magical night by the sea? Wealthy Fitzwilliam Darcy? No. He wouldn't have told their story. He valued his privacy too much. And a compelling passion? Men didn't conceive a compelling passion for women like her. No, he had taken a seed of truth and developed it into a completely different work of fiction.

  "May I borrow this?" she asked, her mouth dry.

  "Sure," Amy said. "You'll like it. It's a good read, though the ending's a bit weak."

  "Thanks." Cassie turned to Dr. Yang. "Is there anything else?"

  He shook his head. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Boulton."

  She hurried out of the building, not even taking time to put on her coat, and started down the path across campus to the science building. The book dug into her hand where she clutched it tightly. This must be what Calder was working on when he ran into her in Woods Hole that day in March. And it was the book Scott had said was driving Calder insane. So that was why he never contacted her in June. He couldn't have come to see her and pretended nothing was happening while he was writing this.

  She stopped beneath a gnarled oak tree and opened the cover to read the flyleaf again. A compelling passion. Heat rose in her cheeks.

  "Hi, Dr. Boulton!" The voice made her jump.

  She looked up guiltily to see one of the students from her seminar on marine biology, a worn backpack dangling from his shoulder. "Hi, Tony." She must look strange, standing there in the middle of campus, reading a book in the cold. "How's your lab report coming?" she asked, trying to at least sound professorial, rather than

  like a teenager in the throes of a mad crush.

  "Not bad. I'll see you tomorrow!" Tony waved as he walked off in the opposite direction.

  She had to pull herself together. Tucking the book under her arm, she made her way toward her office, trying not to be curt when the department secretary stopped her to ask a question and then wanted to chat. Finally she was safe in her office, the door closed behind her.

  She sat down at her desk, pushing aside a pile of lab notebooks that needed to be graded, and set the book down in front of her. What if it said too much about her? And she was far from certain she
was ready to hear Calder's feelings about her, even at one remove.

  Reluctantly, she began to turn the first pages.

  Chapter 13

  Pride & Presumption

  Chapter One

  Fitzwilliam Darcy sped down the highway to Woods Hole. The changing scenery made no impression on him. He was in a foul mood after being caught in a two-hour traffic jam at the bridge over the Cape Cod Canal. It did not help that his uncle had insisted he should fly to the Cape rather than drive for that very reason. The habit of resisting his uncle's demands was deeply ingrained in him, so flying had been out of the question. Nor was his mood improved by the memory of the charity ball he attended the night before, where in order to placate his aunt he danced with several impeccably groomed young women who were only interested in his last name. Had it not been for that, he would have been at his destination a week ago, isolated from the crowds, publicity seekers, and hangers-on, rather than fighting his way through a swarm of minivans filled with noisy tourists. Bingley's directions were accurate for once, though they did not mention having to dodge pedestrians constantly along the main street of Woods Hole. Not that he could have driven more than ten miles an hour anyway, given the narrowness of the street and all the cars blocking the road as their owners waited for parking spaces. By the time he made it through the town, his fingers were tapping impatiently on the steering wheel and his mouth was tight.

  Fortunately, Bingley's new house was just beyond the edge of town, on a narrow peninsula whose one road was blocked by a guard, his sole purpose to protect the privacy of the inhabitants. Darcy was waved through with one glance at his note from Bingley, and his shoulders finally began to relax now that he was safe.

  The house itself was less than a quarter mile farther. Darcy pulled into the driveway and examined it. It wasn't bad, as these things went; much larger than Bingley needed, but it did not scream "new money" the way some of his friend's impulse purchases did. The view over the water, though fading now into the twilight, was stunning. Even more important, the neighboring houses were far enough away to give the illusion of privacy.

  He went up to the front door, pausing when he noticed an envelope taped to it with his name on it. He ripped it open impatiently and read Bingley's near illegible scrawl:

  You're late! I've gone into town for a folk dance thing—good chance to meet some of the locals. Make yourself at home, or better yet, come on down to the dance. It's at the Community Hall, just as you get to the drawbridge. You can't miss it!

  Darcy gritted his teeth. He would rather have a root canal than go to some local dance. God! He'd had plenty of that last night, and at least the people at the ball had decent manners and didn't stare, at least not much. He reached to open the door, only to discover it was locked.

  Cursing, he tried again, but without success. Damn Bingley and his thoughtlessness. He walked around the house in search of a back door, but that proved to be locked as well. He tried ringing the bell in case there was a housekeeper or someone inside, but to no avail.

  There was no point even thinking about the windows. There was no doubt a burglar alarm, though chances were good Bingley would have forgotten to set it. He could not take the risk. The tabloids would have a field day with it. He could see it now: Fitzwilliam Darcy caught breaking and entering! The reporters wouldn't care that he had permission to be there; they would write it in the most damning way, just to attract their so-called readers. Parasites, more like.

  He debated waiting until Bingley returned, but the wind off the ocean was cold, and he had no desire to sit in his car for what could be hours, especially if Bingley found some blonde he liked. No, the sensible thing would be to go get the key from him. Damn Bingley. Why couldn't he think for once?

  Darcy decided to walk. It was not far, and he did not want to draw any extra attention to himself. Besides, he had been in the car all day, and the exercise would be good. Maybe it would help him sleep.

  The walk calmed him. The evening was quiet, and for the first time he paid attention to his surroundings. Bingley was right; the privately owned peninsula was lovely, and it was isolated. Just what he wanted. No one to disturb him. He found the Community Hall easily enough. He heard it long before he reached it, the quick and lively music spilling out into the street. His tension returned as he entered and his senses were assaulted by movement and sound. The mass of dancers resolved itself into two lines of couples, but it was hardly the kind of dancing he was accustomed to. Voices echoed around the large hall, competing with the music of a piano and several string instruments. There were too many people in too little space. He could hardly think straight, which was why he always avoided places like this. He scanned the crowd for Bingley, and finally spotted him dancing with a beautiful blonde. Predictable to the last, that was Bingley. He waited impatiently for the dance to end, but as soon as it did, the dancers dissolved into an amorphous crowd, and Bingley was once again lost to view. Damn him! Darcy took a deep breath and was preparing with distaste to plunge into the crowd in search of him when he was accosted by a young woman. He had a vague impression of a cloud of dark brown hair and flushed cheeks. "Want a partner for the next dance?" She smiled at him all too brightly.

  He expelled his breath between his teeth. As if he'd ever want to go into that chaos, especially with some idiotic local girl who had no doubt noted the expense of his clothes and thought she could catch a rich tourist. "I'm not planning to dance," he said in a tone designed to send her on her way. Unfortunately, she did not seem to get the message. "I'll be happy to show you how, if you've never done it before. It's easy to pick up." "I don't think so." He needed to find Bingley and get out of there, and she was in his way. She shrugged and turned away, searching out some other victim. With a sigh of relief, he scanned the crowd again, finally catching sight of Bingley. Darcy caught up with him just as he was lining up for another dance. "Charles!" he snapped. Bingley smiled, completely oblivious to Darcy's distress. "Oh, glad you made it! Grab a partner and join in!"

  "Charles, I just came for the key. You left the doors locked." His patience was running out. Just then the music started up again, and Bingley took his partner's hand. "I'll catch you at the end of this dance, Will!"

  "Charles!" But it was too late; the dancers were already off.

  Having no choice, Darcy retreated to a dark corner of the room to wait out the dance. If he did not manage to get the key then, he vowed, he would go back and sit in the car all night if need be.

  Cassie smoothed the page in front of her. This didn't sound like the Calder she knew. He hadn't looked uncomfortable at the dance. Perhaps he had learned to cover it well.

  Or maybe Will Darcy was nothing like Calder Westing. Maybe this was all a fantasy, starting with a grain of truth. She paged ahead through the next chapter. The Dock of the Bay Café for their first lunch with Scott and Erin. The visit to Scott's house. It was their story, all right. Had Calder been frankly lusting after her already, like Will Darcy? If so, she'd been completely oblivious to it, but it wouldn't be the first time for that.

  Then came the night at her lab. A shiver went up her arms at his description of how he was drawn by her warmth and animation. In one of the few departures from actual events, the story of his uncle was replaced by one of his parents' adultery and near divorce. Had he really imagined it to be a sign of growing intimacy between them?

  Little did she know that he was only playing devil's advocate when he defended the university system. He was actually in agreement with much of what she said; going to Harvard had been the last decision he had allowed his family to make for him. Darcys always went to Harvard. But he was supposed to major in economics and then go to business school, preparing to take over his role in the family business. There had been bitter fights that had lasted for years when his parents discovered he was majoring in philosophy and had no intention of going into business. He had little doubt that he would have been happier at the kind of liberal arts college Elizabeth was describing. B
ut it gave him such pleasure to watch her animated debate, to see her eyes sparkling as she countered his points, to listen to her quick wit and lively responses, that he kept the discussion going by debating points he actually agreed with. God, she was beautiful when she was like that.

  Beautiful? He must be joking. Erin was beautiful, not her. But she had misjudged him so badly, if this version was the truth. She turned the page to see what came next.

  He had asked himself at least six times that morning why he agreed to do this. The simple answer— because Bingley asked him to—was deceptive at best. He could easily have pleaded a need to work or for some quiet time, or even an errand elsewhere. But he had not; he had agreed, saying it might be interesting to help gather specimens in the salt marsh. Interesting indeed—the only thing that truly interested him at the moment was the sight of Elizabeth Bennet's lively features and animatedly moving body, and the chance to gather more fodder for his fantasies. There had been a time, after that evening in her lab, when he tried to convince himself it could be more than fantasies, but he could not fool himself for long. He knew, no one better, that she did not belong in his world. If he was an outsider and a disappointment to his family and their society, she would be a disaster. She was too independent, too determined, too disinterested in the importance of appearance. Her mocking wit would win her enemies in a world where saving face was paramount. No, they would try to eat her alive, and they would fail. He knew enough of Elizabeth's strength to know that, but they would destroy any affection that lay between the two of them. Their poison was insidious. Yet he could not convince himself to stay away from her. It was as if she mesmerized him. Merely watching her gave him such pleasure—her energy, her contagious enthusiasm for life, and the native kindness that could not be completely disguised by her teasing and occasionally sharp-tongued manner. It had been a revelation that night in her lab when he realized that she was enjoying watching him enjoy the game. He could not recall anyone taking pleasure in his enjoyment of anything before. It was a novel experience, and it was hard to resist wanting more of it. Then there was that awful moment at the end, when he realized that he had won and she had lost. Losing was unacceptable in his family. Losing was failure, and failure was not to be tolerated. Losing meant facing harsh criticism on his performance, and winning meant losers taking out their anger on him. He expected her hostility, and it did not come. Instead, she seemed only amused. It made him want to sit at her feet and bask in her presence.