Chapter Six-and-Twenty
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.”
Not for the first time, it occurs to me that wealthy New Englanders probably don’t envision their only son falling for someone from St. Paul, Minnesota, the ordinary daughter of a paralegal and a teacher. But I don’t care what Fisher’s parents think of me. Much.
My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me, as Elizabeth Bennet says.
Now Mr. Davis is on his feet, though he doesn’t step away from his chair. He looks healthier than he did when I saw him on Christmas, but still frail. He’s wearing a gray and teal designer track suit, the sort of thing that I presume rich people wear in lieu of sweats.
Fisher, in contrast, is wearing crisply pressed khakis and a button-down shirt with a sweater slung over his shoulders.
The sweater is almost certainly cashmere, in a deep shade of blue once reserved for royalty.
I’m not going to say he doesn’t look good in what amounts to a prep school uniform, because he really, really does.
But for the first time, I understand that his t-shirts were yet another small act of rebellion against this world.
And I’d feel better if he were wearing one now.
“I’m sorry for barging in like this,” I say to Laura. “I …”
Hours of travel … you’d think I could’ve used a few moments of that time to concoct some excuse, some explanation, for showing up unannounced.
She takes my hand in what I expect will be a limp, delicate grip but is actually surprisingly firm. “It’s no trouble, dear.”
I’m not sure I believe her.
We join Mr. Davis closer to the marble slab fireplace, and he sits down again, his movements slow, almost ginger, which I suppose is understandable, given what he’s been through.
I realize for the first time that Fisher is significantly taller than his dad, and the contrast in age and strength makes Mr. Davis look even frailer than he is.
“Welcome,” he says—his voice is more powerful than the rest of him, and I’m struck by a fresh wave of nervousness. “This is certainly a surprise.”
The rest of us are still standing when Ada, the woman who answered the door, arrives bearing a tray of sandwiches, fruit, and glass bottles of sparkling water. My stomach gives a traitorous growl.
“Sit,” Laura beckons as she takes the chair opposite her husband, and Ada deposits the tray on a nearby table. I take an automatic step toward the sofa, but Fisher’s still holding my hand, and he seems to be anchored to the spot.
“Actually, Mom, Elle said she has something she wants to tell me. So if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be back in a little bit.”
It’s my turn not to move. “Actually, Fisher,” I say, darting a glance toward him, “I’d like to talk with your dad.”
There’s a murmur of surprise—Fisher’s mom, I think, but maybe Fisher too.
“Sit,” Mr. Davis says to me, and this time, it’s less of an invitation, more of an order.
Behind his steel-rimmed glasses, his previously dull eyes brighten with curiosity.
“You too, Trey. Whatever your … friend has to say to me, I’m sure you can hear too. ”
“Yes,” I agree. “I suppose I should’ve said I wanted to talk with you both.”
And then, even though my appetite has fled, I reach for something from the tray, desperate to occupy my hands.
“Mr. Davis, I want to confess something to you. When your son first asked me out on a date, I’d never heard of you or Davis Investment Group.”
A flicker of disbelief crosses his expression, but he doesn’t speak.
“Since then, though, I’ve learned quite a lot. About you, your father, the company you founded, its impact on businesses and communities around the world, the amazing life you’ve built for your family. I can only imagine how proud you must be.”
That compliment earns me the slightest dip of his head.