“Um, it’s fine.” I clutched the phone and tried to speak loud enough for Neil to hear me but not loud enough to wake up James. “What’s wrong? Are Missy and the kids okay?” Panic squeezed my throat. I couldn’t think of any reason Neil would call, unless…
“Everything’s fine. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, it’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting you to call.”
There was a long pause. “I miss you,” he finally blurted out. “When did you say you were coming home?”
“Saturday, Neil. I told you.”
“I know, I know. Sorry.”
I sat there in the grass, watching James, not knowing what to do. The sound of Neil’s voice triggered a host of feelings I wasn’t ready to deal with. Frustration. Affection. Confusion. Probably the last most of all.
“Did you need something?” I said and then realized that the question sounded snippy. I could almost hear Neil frowning at the other end of the line.
“I didn’t think I had to need something for it to be okay to call.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Missy said you were meeting a lot of new people.”
What? My mind raced, trying to recall what I’d said to her on the phone the first night. Had I mentioned James?
I had. The memory hit me square in the stomach. What had Missy said to Neil? She must have told him something about James. No way would he have placed a transatlantic call just to say hi.
“Yes, I am meeting people. Everyone ’s really nice. I’ve been to the botanical garden. And out to dinner at a very nice restaurant.” Maybe it was mean, but I couldn’t resist tweaking his nose just a little.
Was that a “harrumph” from Neil? I couldn’t hear well enough to tell.
“Well, I just wanted to see how you were.” He sounded as disgruntled as if I’d misplaced the remote during a big game.
“You’re sweet to call.” No reason why, if he was suffering from some pangs of jealousy, I couldn’t let him stew in his own juices just a little. Maybe he wouldn’t take me for granted quite so much when I got back home.
“Claire, is there anything you want to tell me?”
Subtlety certainly wasn’t his strong point. “No. Not that I can think of.”
He was silent for a long moment. “Okay, then. Well, good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Neil. I’ll see you on Saturday.”
I ended the call and let the phone rest in my palm while I looked at James. What was Missy up to? I knew she thought Neil took me for granted, but since Missy pretty much did the same thing, it was like the pot calling the kettle black. Whatever she had said, it had at least motivated him to pick up the phone and call me.
For a few moments, I allowed myself to indulge in the satisfaction of having finally gotten Neil’s attention. But being me, that satisfaction was quickly replaced by guilt. Not that I had done anything wrong, really. Going to dinner with James and enjoying our field trip to the Botanic Garden hardly qualified as romantic indiscretions. But not telling James about Neil… Well, on that score I would have to plead guilty.
I sat next to James on the grass for a long time as the sun sank lower in the sky. It was still full light, though, when at last I had to lean over and shake his arm to wake him.
“Dinner will be served soon.”
He made a face. “The dining hall? Wouldn’t you rather eat out again?”
My stomach gave a little leap at the question. More at the assumption, really, that we would share the meal together. I thought of the state of my finances and knew that I couldn’t afford to pay my fair share at a restaurant like the Cherwell Boathouse, and I really couldn’t, in good conscience, let him pay for dinner again. Not after Neil’s phone call.
“Let’s give the dining hall a try,” I said. “Besides, we should be mingling with our classmates.”
He sighed in mock resignation. “All right. You win.”
“That remains to be seen,” I muttered under my breath.
“What?”
“Nothing. Come on. We’d better hurry.”
Since hurrying came naturally to him, we made it back to Christ Church in record time. Still, we were running late. Fortunately, the only places left at the long tables in the dining hall were on either side of Martin Blakely.
“Delightful,” he said when I asked if I could sit next to him. “Please, do join me.”
James looked less than delighted at the prospect of Martin’s company, but I decided to ignore him. If only I could ignore the manuscript pages still concealed in my purse. I had managed to get them and Martin in close proximity, but now I couldn’t show them to him or ask his opinion without James overhearing.
The meal seemed to go on forever, but finally dessert and coffee were finished. I was making my excuses to return to my room when one of the porters materialized at my elbow.
“Miss Prescott, there’s a package for you at the Porters’ Lodge. You can retrieve it this evening if you go straightaway.”
“For me? A package?” I felt my pulse quicken. “Yes, of course. I’ll just—”
I made my excuses to James and Martin, rose from the table, and made a beeline for the door of the dining hall. My feet practically flew over the quad as I raced for the Porters’ Lodge, because I had a feeling that I knew exactly who the package was from.
I didn’t know Harriet’s handwriting, but I was sure that she was the sender. The package bore no postmark. I glanced over my shoulder, but no one had followed me from the Hall. With trembling fingers, I took the large manila envelope from the porter. I thanked him profusely and then scurried away, back across the quad and to the Meadow Building. The four flights of stairs seemed like eight, but at last I made it to the landing outside my door. I paused to catch my breath, and then I saw the note with my name on it taped to the dark wood.
If my heart could have beat any faster, it would have. As it was, my mouth simply went dry. I didn’t recognize the handwriting. I reached out with a shaking hand and pulled the note from the door. My fingers trembled as I unfolded the piece of paper.
Miss Prescott,
If you would be so kind as to return the valuable item in your possession to Mrs. Dalrymple, I would be very much obliged.
Sincerely,
Gwendolyn Parrot
There was no reason that the wording of the note should frighten me, but it did. I fumbled with my key, unlocked the door, and stumbled into the room. I dumped my purse, the package, and the note on the bed and then collapsed in a heap next to them.
Before I could stop myself, I reached over, picked up the envelope, and ripped open the end. When I tilted it, the contents slid onto the bed. Familiar yellowed pages. Only not exactly familiar.
Attached to the first page was a note written in a spidery scrawl very different from the one that had been taped to my door.
Dearest Claire,
Found this shortly after Mrs. Parrot stomped away. Please keep it safe along with the rest. She’s threatened to return tomorrow.
Best,
Harriet Dalrymple
Mrs. Parrot, whoever she was, was certainly the determined type. I looked at the pages, sprawled across the bed, and then reached for my purse to retrieve the others. With careful movements, I stacked them in their proper order. Well, at least as close to their proper order as I could get, since whole chapters were missing.
My curiosity, though, couldn’t be denied for long. I made sure my door was locked, and then I reached for the stack of pages. I thumbed through them until I found the beginning of the newest section Harriet had sent. With a nervous glance at the door, I picked up the top page and began to read.
First Impressions
Chapter Five
Elizabeth had brought only one gown that might be deemed acceptable for a dinner party at Rosings. She had not expected to have the opportunity to wear much finery, even had she the means to obtain it. While Anne de Bourgh might require her company during the day, the sickly young woman b
ecame entirely her mother’s property in the evenings.
I had to smile ruefully at that bit. I knew just how Elizabeth felt. Money had been so tight in the early years after my parents died that I often skipped church because I couldn’t afford anything appropriate to wear. I knew, of course, that God didn’t care about my attire, but I wasn’t naive enough to think that other people didn’t. So I’d told Missy I had to work overtime, dropped her off at the church doors, and spent the morning cleaning our small apartment or occasionally walking at a nearby park.
Elizabeth started in surprise when the footman came to inform her that her presence was expected downstairs. She dressed quickly but with care, her hair neat and her few pieces of jewelry left to their usual place in their pasteboard box. The unrelieved black of her gown, an unforgiving bombasine, did little to enhance her brown eyes or the healthy glow of her skin. Lady Catherine frowned upon Elizabeth’s habit of a daily walk through the park, declaring that “Miss Bennet is far too tanned for fashion or good sense.” But Elizabeth felt, privately of course, that Anne might benefit from just such fresh air and exercise.
A quarter hour later, neatly if somberly attired, Elizabeth approached the drawing room with more than her usual wariness.
When she reached the door, a liveried footman opened it for her, and Elizabeth entered with her head held as high as she dared. Lady Catherine and Anne had already claimed the sofa near the fire. The gentlemen were present, as was Mr. Humphreys, Lady Catherine’s new curate. The rather whey-faced young man had arrived only two days before to take up his duties as well as his residence at the Huntsford parsonage. Mr. Humphreys had the effect of making Elizabeth’s cousin, Mr. Collins, appear a dashing romantic hero.
“There you are, Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine said as if she had been kept waiting for several hours rather than merely a fraction of that time. “We had begun to think you might never appear.”
“My apologies, ma’am. I came as quickly as I could, once I knew I was wanted.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw a small smile light on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s lips, but Mr. Darcy’s impassive visage never wavered.
Lady Catherine sniffed but made no further comment, and turned her attention to the gentlemen instead.
“So, Darcy, you are to go to London when you leave us.” Her tone evidenced her disapproval of his decision. She glanced at her daughter. “I should have liked to take Anne to town this spring to make her come-out, but her health will not permit it.”
As if on cue, Anne coughed delicately into the lace handkerchief clutched in her thin fingers.
The section ended abruptly. I flipped the page over to see if there might be more on the reverse, but it was blank.
“Drat.” But there were more pages in the stack in my lap. I picked up the next page to see where the narrative continued.
“You must come as well, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Humphreys said after the gentlemen had finished their port and rejoined the ladies in the drawing room. “Miss de Bourgh, too, ma’am, if her health permits,” he said with deference to Lady Catherine’s judgment. “I am as eager for female opinions as to the improvements for the house as I am for Mr. Darcy’s advice about the stables.”
While the young clergyman was as eager as his predecessor, he lacked the toad eating of Mr. Collins that had so nettled Elizabeth. Mr. Humphreys was awkward, but at least he was aware of his awkwardness.
“I would be glad to accompany Miss de Bourgh,” Elizabeth said carefully, “if Lady Catherine deems her fit for the exercise.”
The answer mollified Lady Catherine, who had bristled at the curate’s initial request of Elizabeth.
“I am sure if Darcy will offer Anne his arm, she will do very well.” That was enough to establish the expedition with certainty.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes darkened at his aunt’s imperious command, but Elizabeth doubted anyone else of the party took notice. She owned herself surprised at the man’s docility with regard to his aunt’s dictates. He, who must be so accustomed to acting as lord and master, took her edicts rather well.
The engagement was set for the following afternoon. Colonel Fitzwilliam said he would be glad to be of the party and would offer Miss Bennet his arm. Mr. Humphreys’ disappointment at the addition of a rival for Elizabeth’s attentions could not be concealed, for clearly he had envisioned the handsome Miss Bennet’s hand resting atop the sleeve of his own coat. Nevertheless, the company was settled and the evening’s conversation turned to other topics, directed firmly, to be sure, by Lady Catherine’s preferences.
That was the end of it. I sighed with disappointment. Now there was yet another potential suitor for Elizabeth. The poor girl had to be as confused as I was.
The day’s heat had yet to dissipate from my fourth-floor room. The one small window didn’t provide much in the way of ventilation. Suddenly I was as restless as James had been earlier in the garden. I carefully slid the manuscript back into my purse, scooped up my room key, and letting myself out of the room, closed the door behind me. They would lock the gates soon, so I couldn’t venture out of Christ Church, but perhaps I could find a quiet place to think. A quiet place with some semblance of an evening breeze.
The last light had faded from the sky, leaving the medieval buildings in shadow. I stepped carefully in the darkness toward the stairs to the dining hall. The quad lay just beyond. I didn’t want to sit out there in the open, but perhaps I could find an accommodating nook or cranny somewhere.
I wandered toward the cathedral on the side of the quad opposite Tom Gate and the Porters’ Lodge. To my surprise, it was still unlocked, so I slipped inside. The glow of candlelight relieved the dimness inside the church. I glanced around to see if I was alone.
I wasn’t. To my surprise, I saw Martin Blakely sitting in a chair in one of the short rows against an outer wall.
“Martin?” I approached him almost on tiptoe. I hated to disturb the man at his prayers, but I really, really needed his help.
He glanced up and smiled when he saw me. “Claire.” He nodded toward the chair next to him. “Would you care to join me?”
His formality, oddly enough, made me feel more comfortable.
“Thank you.” I took the seat beside him and paused a moment to gather my thoughts.
We were quiet for several long moments. The peace of the cathedral washed over me. I hadn’t been in very many churches since my parents’ funeral, even when I had been able to afford something nice enough to attend. I’d avoided them, to tell the truth. Except for Missy and Phillip’s wedding. My nieces’ christenings. But other than that…
“I need your help,” I said to Martin, deciding to cut to the chase. “But you’d have to promise me that you would never tell anyone about what I’m going to ask you.”
His silvery eyebrows rose with intrigue. “A secret, is it?”
“Yes. And it’s not my secret, which is why I need you to keep this confidential.”
He nodded and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “How may I assist you, my dear?”
My dear. It’s what Harriet was always calling me, but given how I was about to betray her, I was anything but dear.
“I’ve come across something. A page of something related to Jane Austen. I need you to tell me if it might be authentic.”
“Sounds mysterious.”
“I don’t mean for it to sound that way.” I tried to keep the tremor out of my voice and my hands as I reached inside my purse for a manuscript page. “Can you promise me to hold this in confidence?”
His smile vanished then. “You’re quite serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Now his eyebrows pulled toward the bridge of his nose in consternation. “Have you done anything…illegal?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. Nothing like that.”
Relief erased the lines around his eyes. “Good. Then I can promise you to keep this in confidence.”
I could only hope that Martin would be as
good as his word, because at that moment, his word was all I could depend on. The page had crumpled a bit at the edges in the confines of my bag. I pressed the wrinkles with the edge of my finger, and then I handed it to Martin.
“I was told that this was written by Austen herself, but I have no way of knowing. I thought you might be able to tell.”
He took the page from me and then reached into the pocket of his sports coat for a pair of reading glasses. He donned them and bent to examine the paper.
“Hmm.” He made a musing noise at the back of his throat but was otherwise silent.
I sat quietly next to him and resisted the urge to fidget while he perused the page for what seemed a lifetime. I realized I was holding my breath and forced myself to exhale. It was all a hoax, of course. It must be. It had to be, not matter how sympathetic I found Harriet Dalrymple.
At long last, he lifted his eyes from the page, folded his reading glasses, and returned them to his coat pocket.
“If you don’t mind my asking, where did you get this?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”
“I see.”
“Is it real?” I asked quickly. “Can you tell?”
I was on pins and needles as I waited for his answer. So much depended on his assessment. If the manuscript was a fake, it was just another lie in a string of them that had comprised my Oxford experience. But if it were real… Well, if it were real, that changed everything, didn’t it?
Martin handed the paper back to me. “Is there more or just this page?”
I knew then what his answer was.
“There’s more,” I said and swallowed heavily. “Quite a bit more, although I don’t think all of it is intact.”
He shook his head, disbelief and ruefulness mingling on his face. “I’d give a great deal to see it,” he said with a tight smile.
“I’m afraid it’s not mine to share,” I said. “I’m breaking my word by showing this to you.”
“Your word?” He looked even more intrigued than when I’d shown him the page. “So you really have been sworn to secrecy?”
Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart Page 9