Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart

by Beth Pattillo

  “We ’re pretty casual, actually,” I said and took a big gulp from the crystal goblet in front of me. “It’s no big deal.”

  How on earth had the conversation taken such a serious turn?

  Martin reached across the table and patted my hand where it rested next to the goblet I’d just drained. “If he comes to his senses, Claire, then he’s the right one for you. If not…” He trailed off, looking around the room. “Well, if not, perhaps you might find your own Mr. Darcy right here in Oxford.”

  I frowned. “I don’t see the appeal. He’s rude, arrogant, and unpleasant most of the time. My sister thinks he’s the ultimate romantic hero, but I just don’t get it.”

  I broke off as a shadow loomed at my right hand. I looked up, and there was my nemesis himself.

  “May I?” James nodded at the chair next to me.

  “Sure,” I said, although I wasn’t sure at all. In fact, I would have preferred him to choose a seat at the opposite end of the massive dining hall. The mere fact of his presence had sent my pulse racing again, and my stomach twisted until I was sure I’d never have room for even the first bite of my meal.

  Reluctantly I introduced him to Martin, and James took his seat beside me. The nerves on the right side of my body stood at attention, alert to his every movement. That sensitivity left me with a clenched jaw and very little to say for myself. I had never been so aware of another human being. Why did it have to be someone I didn’t even particularly like?

  Shortly after that, the meal was served. Literally served by waiters. I’d never imagined anything like that in a college refectory. The handful of times I’d been to visit Missy at the University of Missouri, we’d eaten from the salad bar in her dorm’s dining hall. Now I was being served food that looked like a photograph from a cooking magazine, in the most exquisite setting I could ever have imagined.

  “You didn’t tell me,” James said to me, “what you do for a living.”

  I choked on the entrée and coughed for several long moments. The blood rushed to my face, not because of physical distress, but out of pure embarrassment. What was I supposed to say in front of all of these well-educated, successful people? Certainly not the truth.

  Instead, I blurted out an answer that took me by surprise. “I’m a pediatrician.” The words slipped out easy as pie, to my great shame.

  “So it’s Dr. Prescott?” James said, his expression half disbelief, and I bristled.

  “Yes.” I resisted the urge to offer some explanation that would only make me sound like the liar I was.

  “My son is an internist,” Martin said with a disapproving glance at James. “A single internist,” he added with another of his smiles. “Maybe—”

  “What made you go into pediatrics?” James interrupted Martin’s matchmaking.

  “I guess I just love children.” It was a lame, bad beauty-pageant answer, but somehow when this man was near me, my IQ dropped a good twenty points.

  Martin nodded with approval, James gave me another assessing look, and I changed the subject before either of them could ask another question about my faux career.

  “Have you been walking along the river yet?” I asked Martin. “I can see part of it from my window, but I haven’t ventured out.” I refused to be intimidated by either Oxford or James Beaufort. Well, okay, perhaps refused wasn’t quite the right word. Both the setting and the company intimidated me.

  “I arrived a few days early,” Martin said. “To do a bit of exploring.” He winked at me. “Or uncover a few secrets.”

  James frowned, and I returned Martin’s smile. “That gives me something to look forward to, then. Where are the best places to uncover some of these secrets?”

  Martin paused, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and then gave me a thoughtful look. “Well, along the river, certainly. And perhaps the Botanic Garden. Very beautiful and relaxing. And Blackwell’s bookstore, of course …”

  “I’ll put them all on my list,” I said. One waiter appeared to remove our plates, and another set dessert in front of us—some sort of combination of cake and custard that promised to be a mother lode of sugar and fat. I sighed with pleasure.

  James gave me an austere look, but Martin picked up his spoon and nodded his approval. “All manner of sweet sins fall under the category of ‘pudding.’ It’s one of my favorite things about England.”

  After a few bites, I had to agree. Martin’s easy conversation, the excellent food, and the extraordinary atmosphere lulled me into a sense of peace that I hadn’t recovered since my boss called me into his office two weeks before and informed me that my services were no longer required. Apparently it was much more cost-efficient to replace me, a seasoned office manager, with a twenty-two-year-old who had just graduated from college. I took another bite of the “pudding” and pushed away thoughts of home.

  With a little effort and a few verbal spins, I kept the conversation focused on Oxford and the upcoming seminar. James didn’t ask me any more questions about myself, but the die had been cast, and now I was stuck with the untruths and half-truths that my own inadequacy had called forth. As soon as I could, I excused myself and headed to the solace—and protection—of my dorm.

  My room was tucked away at the top of four steep flights in a Victorian addition to the college close to the river. I locked the door behind me and plopped onto the bed, as close to the open window and any hope of a fresh breeze as possible. Then I fumbled in my purse for my cell phone.

  I had at least found time in the midst of my last-minute packing frenzy to call my cell-phone provider and have the international service turned on. Yes, the cost was in excess of a dollar a minute, but at that moment, I would gladly have parted with a lot more of my shrinking bank balance to hear my sister’s voice on the other end of the line.

  The phone rang so many times, I was sure she wasn’t going to answer. I knew she was home—after all, it was the middle of the day back in Kansas City. Finally, just before the machine could kick in, I heard a rustle, then a thud, and finally the frantic voice of my sister.

  “Claire? Are you okay?” I could hear my nieces shrieking in the background and the television blaring. “I thought you weren’t going to call unless there was an emergency.”

  I cringed at the note of alarm in her voice. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Don’t panic.” I hadn’t meant to scare her. “I just called …” Why had I called? I didn’t have a reason, really. Not a practical one anyway. “Just wanted to call and say that I got here okay.”

  “Oh. Okay. That’s great.”

  I didn’t know what else to say, but I was reluctant to break the connection. Missy was everything that was familiar and comfortable, and at that moment I needed some bit of home to steady me.

  “Was there something else?” Missy said in a distracted voice. “I promised the girls I’d take them to the pool.”

  “I’m sorry.” I pressed the phone closer to my ear, as if by doing so I could bring her closer to me. “I guess I just needed to hear a friendly voice.”

  “There are unfriendly voices? At Christ Church? I thought they ate tourists up with a spoon. All those lovely American dollars flowing into their accounts.”

  “No one’s been unfriendly,” I said to reassure her. “It’s just that …” What? It was just that what? “I guess I’m just a little homesick,” I said with what I hoped was a convincing amount of ruefulness.

  “But you just got there,” Missy said with a laugh. “Give it some time. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m okay, really. You feeling okay?” I much preferred the familiar role of soothing older sister.

  “I’m fine. Quit worrying.”

  “What about Phillip’s dry cleaning? Did you remember to pick it up?” Before I left I had made Missy a list of everything I usually did for her, but even though I’d written it all down, I wasn’t sure she ’d remember.

  “Yes, Claire. I got the dry cleaning. And remembered to give the
dog his heartworm pill. Now relax and enjoy Oxford. Don’t worry about us.”

  “Okay. I will. Take care.” I was just about to pull the phone away from my ear and hit the red button to disconnect the call when Missy’s voice stopped me.

  “Claire,” she asked in a soft voice, “why did you really call?”

  Her question caught me off guard. I’d been sitting on the bed, but suddenly I was so tired I had to lie down. I eased my head to the pillow and sank gratefully into the mattress, the phone still pressed to my ear.

  “I’m scared.” I couldn’t believe I’d said it aloud, especially not to Missy. In all the years since our parents had died, I’d never admitted to fear. I couldn’t afford to admit to it. I couldn’t have risked it, not when I had to stay strong for Missy. But now Missy was safe and I was overwhelmed, and suddenly it was all too much.

  “Oh, sis.” I could hear the tears in Missy’s voice. “What’s scaring you?”

  I wished I’d thought to pack tissues. I wiped at my eyes with the back of my free hand.

  “I met someone,” I whispered. “I met someone who scares me, and that’s never happened before.”

  Silence. A long, stunned silence, followed by a heavy weight pressed against my chest.

  “I assume you mean in a romantic man-woman kind of way,” Missy said at last. “Not in a scary stalker-guy kind of way.”

  Romantic? I hadn’t thought of my reaction to James that way. Electric? Yes. Terrifying? Absolutely. But romantic?

  “Yes. I guess so. I mean… I don’t know, Missy. I don’t know what I mean.”

  She was quiet for a long moment. “What about Neil?”

  That was the question I’d been dreading, the one I’d been avoiding asking myself.

  “It’s not like I’m embarking on some clandestine affair. I don’t think this guy even likes me.”

  “Well, he ’s a fool if he doesn’t.”

  I snorted with laughter. “Thanks for the sisterly vote of confidence, but I’m just being realistic. He’s gorgeous, he looks rich, and he ’s from some old New York publishing family. Definitely out of my league.”

  “League? Out of your league?” Missy made a fussing noise. “Did he say—”

  “No, of course he didn’t.” I switched my cell phone to my other ear. I wanted to say, “He didn’t have to,” but I refrained. No point in getting Missy as worked up as I was. “He was a perfect gentleman.” Which was technically true.

  “Hmm.” Missy sounded unconvinced.

  “Really. I’ll be okay. I don’t know why I’m being so dramatic. It’s probably just the jet lag.” It had been a mistake to call home. I felt worse now than I had five minutes before. “I’ll call you again on Monday after the first session. Let you know what you’re missing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.” But I paused for a moment, aware that once I pushed the red button to end the call, I’d be on my own once again.

  “Try to have a good time,” Missy said, sounding like the older sister instead of the younger one. “We’ll sort everything else out when you get home.”

  I knew she meant well, but it didn’t help to be reminded that in addition to losing my job, I’d lost some of my cachet as the competent, successful older sister. My new circumstances had leveled the playing field for Missy and me.

  “I know. Thanks. I’m sorry to keep you.”

  “You know you can call anytime.”

  “I know.” Tears sprang to my eyes. How many times had I said that exact same thing to Missy? It was the first time, however, that she ’d ever said it to me.

  “Bye,” I whispered.

  “Bye.”

  She hung up first, which shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. I clutched the phone in my hand and did what I had wanted to do all day. I cried from exhaustion, from confusion, even from remorse. I cried in a way that I hadn’t cried since my parents’ death. There was no one to hear me, just the faint sounds of other participants making their way to their rooms, and the last calls of the birds in the dying light of evening as they made their way home over the delicate, dreaming spires of Oxford.

  Fortunately for me, the seminar didn’t begin until Monday. Instead we were allowed a true Sabbath, a Sunday of rest to get over our jet lag and prepare for the coming week. I slept late, a combination of the time difference and my emotional and physical exhaustion. Consequently I missed breakfast in the Hall and resorted to a protein bar and a cup of tea brewed in my room.

  By late morning, I was ready to face the world, but I wasn’t looking forward to meeting James Beaufort and the other perfectly nice people whom I’d lied to so easily. Rather than encounter any of them, I grabbed my copy of Pride and Prejudice and slipped out the side gate of the Meadow Building. I crossed the broad gravel walk that separated the college from Christ Church Meadow and turned beneath the canopy of trees down a second path known as the King’s Walk.

  Here the trees arched above me like the ceiling of the Hall, only greener. I was grateful for the shelter from the blazing sun. The gravel crunched beneath my sandals as I walked. The air was less oppressive in the shade but still warm. I was headed toward the river about a hundred yards away. Maybe I could find a nice quiet spot and review the book before the seminar began the next day. A few people moved up and down the path in a desultory fashion. I raised my gaze to the branches so far above my head, as different from the hardy Midwestern foliage at home as anything could be. Here was God’s majesty, here was grandeur, here was—

  “Hello.”

  The voice startled me, and I stumbled over my own feet. I regained my balance, and my gaze swung to the elderly woman sitting on a bench a few feet off the path. Only it wasn’t a bench at all but a large tree stump. Her short cap of salt-and-pepper hair looked as if she hadn’t washed it in a while, and in spite of the heat, she was wrapped in a teal trench coat. Her eyes, blue and intense, burned in her weathered face.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I simply stared at her for a long moment before I collected both my wits and the good manners my mother had drilled into me as a child.

  “Hello.” I tried not to sound as wary as I felt.

  “Would you care to buy some cards?” She held out a handful of heavy yellowed paper.

  I froze. Only figuratively, of course, given the heat. “I, um—”

  “No need to poker up, my dear. I’m not a beggar or a lunatic. Merely an old woman on a pension.”

  My cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, of course not.” Laugh lines made deep creases at the corners of her eyes. She shifted to one side of the oversized stump and patted the spot next to her. “Do have a seat.”

  I had no idea why I was afraid of this wrinkled gnome of a lady, but I hesitated.

  “Is that Jane Austen you’re reading?” She nodded toward the book in my hand. “She’s a favorite of mine. Please, do sit down.”

  What could I do? “Thank you.” I forced myself to say the words and wade through the knee-high grass and wildflowers surrounding her perch. I sat down beside her. She smelled of talcum powder and must and perhaps just a hint of sherry.

  “You’re staying at the college?” She nodded in the direction of Christ Church.

  “Yes. I’m here for a seminar.” I indicated the book in my hand. “On this.”

  “Ah.” She nodded as if I’d just said something very wise. “You’ll be presenting a paper, then.” She had a strange sparkle in her eye.

  “Yes.” I decided to forgo explaining that it was Missy’s paper, not mine. “The seminar’s on Pride and Prejudice.”

  “Mr. Darcy, is it?” She smiled. “And which version of that gentleman do you subscribe to?” She paused, and her eyes grew hazy. “In my day, we swooned over Olivier in the role, although they murdered the novel in that one.” She looked at me, her gaze back in focus. “I suppose you fancy that Colin Firth? Or the newer one. That morose-looking chap.” She continued without waiting for me to answer. “No two a
re quite the same, of course. Not even in the—”

  She stopped and clamped her lips together. “No. I mustn’t. But…” She leaned toward me, and her bright blue gaze pierced mine. “Are you happy?”

  The abrupt change of subject threw me for a moment. “Happy?” I echoed. She was watching for my reaction so closely that I felt like the proverbial bug under a microscope.

  “You look very sad.” She lifted her hand and rested it atop mine.

  To my surprise, I didn’t pull away from her touch. Tears stung my eyes. I’d always hidden my emotions well. It must have been the jet lag. Or the strangeness of finding myself in such an alien world.

  “Why would you say I look sad?” I swiped the tears away from my eyes.

  She chuckled and curled her gnarled fingers around mine. “I’m called Harriet. Harriet Dalrymple.”

  I lightly returned the pressure of her fingers. “Claire Prescott. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Is it?” She laughed. “I’m surprised you think so. Most of the summer people from the college avoid me like the plague. Especially the Americans.”

  “I’m sure—” But I stopped, not really sure of anything anymore.

  “So, it’s Mr. Darcy, is it?” She nodded toward the book I was holding.

  “Yes.” And my fear returned. I inched away from her on the stump. “Academically speaking, of course. Not personally. As a romantic icon, I think he ’s overrated.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s not like I’m personally obsessed with him.” I could hear the defensiveness in my voice.

  “Of course not.” She released my hand. “You know, I happen to be a distant cousin of the Austens,” she said as casually as if we were discussing the weather. “I even have some of her old papers.”

  I studied her expression, prickles of suspicion darting up my spine. I was pretty sure she was either lying or crazy. Most likely just a garden-variety cat lady suffering the beginnings of dementia.

  “Her uncle was a Master here, you know,” she said, waving a hand in the direction of the city behind us. “Not at Christ Church. Balliol College. She was even sent to school here for a time when she was a girl.”