Chapter One #2
Will prepares to pontificate by drawing an audible breath, but Rain cuts him off.
“Of course Austen knows it’s bullshit, this idea that every rich guy not-so-secretly wants to settle down and make some poor girl’s Cinderella fantasy come true.
But people cling to the fable because it saves them the trouble of overthrowing the patriarchy.
” They wave their copy of the book, the cover of which features an early nineteenth-century portrait of a dark-haired young woman, appealing enough to modern sensibilities that she’s a suitable stand-in for Elizabeth Bennet.
“People ooh and ahh about how romantic this book is, but Austen mocks that reading. Back in the day, women mostly only got anything like financial security if they got married. Falling in love was a risk very few could afford to take.”
Rain’s speech renders everyone, Will included, momentarily silent. Pedersen is impressed. This time, I’m sure of it—both her overplucked eyebrows and the corners of her mouth curve.
Given that she’s pleased by Rain’s interpretation, and she’s the kind of mentor to remember that Rain was in my discussion group, I should not be tempted to argue.
Nevertheless, I itch to defend Pride and Prejudice as a love story, because love stories—romance novels—are important and necessary, especially in the face of harsh economic realities (and the total absence of real-world Mr. Darcys).
Austen knew firsthand the devastating impact of financial instability, yet recognized that money alone didn’t buy happiness; she had her heart broken but advocated for true love and happy endings all the same.
By the time I’ve figured out what I want to say, Pedersen has already dismissed class.
Everyone’s on their feet, nudging their seats back into crooked rows, and filing out of the room.
I grab my things, intending to join them, when Professor Pedersen calls across the classroom.
“Miss Bradshaw, Mr. Winkworth? If you can spare the time, I’d like to see you both in my office to talk about the database. ”
Her tone is perfectly neutral—she’s actually in the middle of a conversation with Samantha, who stayed after to ask her a question—but unease, all the sharper for being unexpected, spikes through me nonetheless.
The database in question is Authoresses Unappreciated Since The Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, or AUSTEN-C, a massive, hyperlinked collection of work by women writers who have largely been forgotten. It provides important context for the few who escaped obscurity, like Austen herself.
Of course, there’s also inherent value in recovering texts that have been lost to time. At least, that’s what I told myself when I was a lowly research assistant like Geoff, doing the digging in archives.
But I’ve since worked my way up to the AUSTEN-C Team Leader in charge of digitizing and database management. I’m Professor Pedersen’s right hand where the database is concerned, so I’m a little unclear why Geoff needs to be part of whatever conversation we’re about to have.
He’s currently making a beeline toward me, so I step into the corridor.
We’ve been on reasonably friendly terms since he joined the digital humanities program this fall semester.
But right now, I’m planning an unnecessary detour into the restroom to avoid five minutes of pointless speculation about this meeting.
Then my ordinary afternoon takes a sharp left turn into Fisher Davis.
In spite of the space constraints of a small liberal arts college campus, Fisher and I have been doing a bang-up job of avoiding each other since the fiasco last spring.
But maybe the universe thought that after an hour with Geoff Winkworth, I might need a reminder of why I’ve sworn off Grantham College men.
Not that Fisher possesses anything like Geoff’s easy charm. He’s studying me with a stern expression in his dark brown eyes and—even after taking an abrupt step backward following our collision—still standing entirely too close.
Close enough that I catch a whiff of his distinctive, piney scent—soap? cologne?—and have to stop myself from drawing a deeper breath.
Instead, I make myself focus on what’s printed across the front of his black t-shirt: wavy letters that spell out we’re all mad here above a picture of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. Not every guy could get away with having a purple and pink striped feline grinning out from his chest.
Somehow, Fisher can.
Partly, it’s the way he owns his nerdiness, from his unruly black hair to his black-rimmed glasses to his ridiculous collection of mostly black t-shirts, bearing everything from comic book character logos to the names of metal bands no one has heard of.
It’s obvious he couldn’t care less what the world thinks.
Unfortunately, however, I can’t deny that the better part of his ability to carry off those t-shirts is about how they fit.
Though I’ve never once heard him talk about doing anything that didn’t involve sitting at a computer, you can tell he works out by the way the sleeves strain around his biceps.
“Elle.”
At the sound of his gruff voice, more acknowledgment than greeting, I drag my eyes from his chest to his face and swallow hard.
That flood of moisture in my mouth is just a stress reaction, of course. Because it would be utterly ridiculous for me to drool over this man, no matter how good he looks.
Suddenly desperate to put more distance between us, I step backward too—into Geoff, who’s stopped short right behind me. It’s an awkward situation already, and it doesn’t improve when Fisher shifts his stony gaze from me to him.
Geoff extends a hand around me, realizes he’s still clutching the gnawed-up cap of my pen, and snatches his hand back again. “Geoff Winkworth,” he says, trying one of his charming, crooked smiles instead. “Digital humanities.”
Fisher snorts in derision. He does not introduce himself. He simply steps around us and keeps walking.
“What was that?” asks Geoff as he hands over my pen cap.
“That was Fisher Davis.” I’m busy trying to jam the misshapen cap back onto my pen, so I almost miss Geoff’s eyebrows lifting ever-so-slightly, like he’s heard the name before.
“He’s a grad student in computer science, works in IT.
” And though that’s surely explanation enough, I can’t seem to keep myself from blurting out, “We dated. Once.”