Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart

T
he taxi pulled up outside Christ Church and I climbed out of the backseat, but the scorching July heat stole my breath and threatened to press me back inside the cab. I swiped at the sweat dripping down my forehead and righted myself on the pavement. When my sister talked me into taking her spot in a summer seminar on
Pride and Prejudice
, I’d expected the dreaming spires of Oxford, intellectual conversation, and long walks along the tranquil river. I hadn’t expected to arrive soaked with perspiration and deeply in need of a shower, all because of my sister’s obsession with one Fitzwilliam Darcy.

The gateway beneath Tom Tower, Christ Church’s main entrance and one of its most distinctive features, would have looked at home with a drawbridge and a moat. A portcullis at a minimum. But the modern inhabitants of the college had made do with some wrought iron as their lone defense against
the real world. I paid the driver and wrestled my suitcase from the taxi. It landed on the ground next to me with an ominous thud. I squared my shoulders, took a very deep breath, and moved forward, sweat trickling down my spine.

“Good morning.” A spry middle-aged man in some sort of uniform stepped forward. “Welcome to Christ Church.”

He motioned me through the gate, which led to a passage cut through the building itself. It was a good fifteen feet across and paved in cobblestones. To the left was some kind of office. A sign identified it as the Porters’ Lodge.

“Thank you.” I paused, unsure where to go.

“Straight through and to the left. You’ll see the registration table.” His face was weathered, but his chipper tone and bright blue eyes spoke of abundant energy. He winked. “Just leave your case here, and someone will take it to your room. Enjoy your stay.”

Enjoy my stay?
I swallowed the bark of laughter in my throat. I was here under duress, against my better judgment, and out of desperation. Enjoyment might be too lofty a goal.

I followed the porter’s instructions and stepped out of the cool shadow of the gateway into Tom Quad, the heart of the college itself. The walls of the buildings formed a large, open square in front of me, an arena of golden stone punctuated by elegant arches, wooden doors, and mullioned windows. On the opposite side I could see the entrance to the cathedral that gave the college its name, and a raised, paved walkway that formed a
square of its own just inside the walls. In the center of the quad, gravel walks crisscrossed, with an elegant fountain, complete with a statue of Mercury, at their meeting point.

Christ Church. The holy of holies within Oxford University. And the last place on earth I’d ever have thought to find myself.

That thought renewed the panic that had been lodged in my stomach since I boarded the plane for Heathrow. I turned to my left as the porter had directed and mounted the few steps onto the walkway. My sandals tapped against the pavement, made of the same weathered stone that formed the walls, and the sun beat down on my head.

I had read that the other colleges within Oxford had cloisters or covered walkways, but Christ Church had run short of funds during construction, and the cloisters had never been completed. Now I felt as exposed as those walkways. No shade, no shelter, no covering. Just me. An unemployed former office manager with a GED, a sports-obsessed boyfriend who might not have noticed that I’d left the country, and a perilously empty bank account.

No point in panicking right now
, I lectured myself as I approached the registration table, a smile pasted on my face.
You have at least a week until you have to figure out what to do with the rest of your life
.

The thought was not particularly comforting.

A steaming cup of tea hardly seemed the best choice for a torrid July morning, but that was all that was on offer in the Junior Common Room. I’d picked up my participants’ folder from an eager, rather pierced student at the registration table and followed her instructions to walk farther along the quad to the student lounge.

I took the cup of tea from the smiling woman behind the pass-through and looked down the length of the room at the assortment of unoccupied chairs and tables. In my eagerness to arrive, I’d made the mistake of showing up too early. The last thing I wanted was to look like a desperate wannabe.

I settled at a table next to the windows that overlooked St. Aldate’s Street and tried to look as if I belonged there. My sister Missy had received a grant to attend this weeklong seminar in Oxford as part of her continuing education for her teacher certification, but pregnancy complications had kept her from traveling, and here I was instead.

Missy had assured me I’d love it. A lot of people came to Oxford and took these courses just for fun, she said. All I had to do was take notes and present her paper, and Mr. Harding would count it toward her in-service hours. The principal of Missy’s school had been extremely accommodating. So had I, because here I was, a fish out of water on the other side of a really big pond.

The folder the young woman handed me was thicker than I’d expected.
Joining Notes
. I leafed through its contents as I waited for my tea to cool to the point where it wouldn’t burn
my tongue. Pages and pages of instruction on how and where to conduct myself while at Christ Church. Be on time for classes and meals. Jackets and ties for gentlemen invited to dine at the head table. Use of the Master’s Garden, normally reserved for faculty, was included as part of our program, as was access to the famous Bodleian Library.

Then there was information about Oxford. A map of the college and its environs. And, finally, a list of attendees.

I scanned the page, which listed all the participants in the different seminars being held that week. As I read, my stomach tightened into a series of knots that rivaled my late mother’s attempts at macramé. Next to each name was listed “Occupation.” I’d known I was going to be out of my league, but I’d had no clue just how far. Several doctors, even more lawyers. Stockbrokers. Professors. A couple of business owners. A judge. Participants who viewed the combination of education and travel as a recreational activity. By the time I made it to the bottom of the list, I was thoroughly intimidated. There, at the bottom, was my sister’s name. Missy Zimmerman. Teacher.

I swallowed the sigh of relief that rose in my chest. As a last-minute substitute, I wasn’t listed. Nowhere on the paper did it say Claire Prescott, Unemployed Pediatrics Office Manager with No College Degree.

And then the realization hit. No one here knew anything about me. For the next week, I could be anyone or anything I wanted to be.

I blew on my tea to cool it as the idea took root in my mind. The temptation was overwhelming. For more than thirty years, I’d always been exactly who people needed me to be. A dutiful daughter. An even more dutiful big sister. A hard worker, so I could provide for Missy after our parents died, put her through college, and pay for her wedding. A devoted aunt to my twin nieces. I had never objected to being any of those things or playing any of those roles. But I had never chosen them either.

A sudden movement to my right pulled my attention from the list in front of me. I looked up and saw a tall, dark-haired man framed in the doorway of the Junior Commons.

Thank goodness I didn’t have the cup of tea in my hand at that moment. I jerked as if I’d just touched a hot stove. Every bit of oxygen in my lungs disappeared. It was only by some stroke of luck that I didn’t slide to the floor beneath the table in a faint. More sweat beaded on my forehead, but this time it had nothing to do with the heat.