Into the Fire
1 of 12
By S. Faith, © 2010
Words: 75,402 in total, ~5,680 this part.
Rating: M / R
Summary: Sometimes running away to forget a problem sends you headlong into another.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. There is very little chance that they ever will.
Notes: This story, set in book universe, operates under the premise that the age difference between Bridget and Mark is much greater than four years. The books never really say what the difference is. There's a reference to Bridget being at least thirty… but what about Mark? It's entire plausible that he could be at least forty.
That said, this is still a 'What if?', alternate universe scenario.
The book never mentions anything about when The Incident (with Daniel and wife) happens, either—only that they'd been married one / two weeks when it happened—but for the sake of not going too crazy (and also to allow Mark to sulk on New Year's Day) I'm going to keep it at Christmastime. Also, I can't help but imagine the interiors of certain locations looking as they do in the films. Let's just assume the set designers knew what they were doing.
Notes will appear as a separate post after the final part's posted.
Chapter 1.
Mark Darcy wished he hadn't listened to his mother. Spending the anniversary of his marriage's implosion in the company of two people who were happily married had not perhaps been the best idea. Then again, he wished he had listened to her when she cautioned him not to marry his ex-wife in the first place.
And now it was New Year's Day. He had practically been dragged to the party against his will; his mother had insisted he not spend the day on his own, which was precisely what he'd wanted most to do. She, however, would have none of it, and so here he was amidst the cheery, optimistic crowd celebrating the birth of another year. He felt surly, defensive, resentful… and on his own all the same.
"Here you are," came a man's voice from close to his side.
He turned, saw a vaguely familiar, genial-looking man standing there with a glass of red wine in his hand.
"Mark, is it?" the man went on to say. "Malcolm and Elaine's boy?"
"Yes," he said curtly. The man's name was eluding Mark, until it came to him in a flash: Colin Jones.
"You'll need this," Colin said, holding out the glass of wine. Confidentially, he added, "I've found the best way to survive these awful to-dos is to get plastered as quickly as possible."
The corner of Mark's mouth twitched in a reluctant smile as he accepted the drink. "Thank you, sir."
"Don't mention it," he said, bringing a tumbler of scotch up to his own lips. "Seems only right to share my survival skills with the next generation."
Mark drank from the glass. The wine was a very good vintage. "It's much appreciated."
"Think nothing of it," he said in that same self-deprecating tone. "There's more in the kitchen when you need it. Plenty of it, too, so help yourself."
"I will."
"You're looking well, Mark," he said, apparently oblivious to Mark's unpleasant state. "A bit drawn, but the holidays can wear a body down."
"Yes," he said with resignation, waiting for the inevitable divorce questions.
"I hear you've been hard at work, human rights campaigns, I don't know," he said with a chuckle, clearly tipsy and taking another drink. "Were you part of that big case I read about in the papers? The young woman from Turkey?"
"Yes, yes," Mark said, somewhat stunned that the expected subject did not materialise. "In fact I intend on finishing up that case in court this week—"
At that Mark was off like a shot, explaining in as much detail as he legally could the most recent court case he was handling. For his part, Colin seemed genuinely interested, interrupting Mark only to ask him if he wanted more wine, then getting it for him; to Mark's surprise, he had managed to empty the entire thing.
"Fascinating stuff," Colin said with a hearty laugh, once Mark had covered not only that case but another previous along similar lines. "It was good of you to explain, even if it is a holiday ostensibly, and even if it's all over my head, anyway. I'm just glad we can count on the likes of you to fight those fights, as it were." He emptied his glass. "Well, cheerio, Mark. A pleasure to talk to someone who truly enjoys his work." He winked. "Enjoy the wine."
As Colin wandered away, Mark realised how refreshing it was not to have to talk about her. He drank from his glass until it was empty once more, then wandered towards the kitchen to partake of another. He took a long sip, felt the wine curl more warmth down into his soul.
"Mark."
It was the concerned voice of his own mother.
"Did you have some curry?" she asked, bearing a plate filled with bright yellow food.
"I'm not hungry," he replied.
"That's the third glass of wine you've had," she said. "You should eat something." She held the plate insistently up to him.
He took it reluctantly, a bit peeved that she'd been counting, but knowing he could ultimately brook no argument against her. "Thank you," he said gruffly.
With the stem of his wine glass balanced carefully between his thumb and his plate, he dug the fork into a cube of potato and a strip of turkey and swept it through the curry sauce before raising it to his mouth. It was not the best curry he'd had in his life, but it did serve to prove to him that he was in fact quite hungry after all. Once he began eating he barely stopped for air. His mother gave him a smile—affectionate yet smug—before wandering away to find his father.
"Stuffed olive? Silver skin onion?"
Just as he finished the last of his plate of food, he turned to see a young woman with shoulder-sweeping blonde hair standing there offering a tray of hors d'oeuvres, miniature foods of seemingly infinite variety. She wore a dark grey jumper, a black skirt that barely came to mid-thigh, black stockings and little black boots.
"Excuse me?" he barked.
"Have one," she said wearily. "If my mother and Una Alconbury are going to make me parade around with plates of finger foods, you should at least have the decency to take something."
He blinked at her impertinence. "Excuse me?" he asked again.
She rolled her eyes then walked away.
A little surprised by the encounter, he decided to deposit his dirty plate in the kitchen and top up his wine. At least he would not have to worry about driving.
When he emerged from the kitchen, it was right into the path of Una Alconbury and Pamela Jones. They both looked grave. "Mark," said Una, reaching for and taking his upper arm. "I know it's a hard time for you, what with everything that happened in the last year, but I am so glad that you came today."
Pamela Jones nodded.
He was so, so tired of hearing how sorry people were for him. How awful they felt for him. How mortified they were for him on his behalf. How much it must have hurt him for his wife to sleep with his best friend only two weeks after their wedding. He also knew the things they thought but never said: how could he not have known, or seen the signs? How could he have let it happen? How could he ever have married her in the first place? Worst of all, wasn't he able to satisfy a woman for more than a couple of weeks?
He looked down and said what he always said. "Thank you."
"It's very nice to see you, Mark," chimed in Pamela.
He looked at the two of them, nodding in unison, and smiled stiffly. "I appreciate it."
"Mum!"
He recognised the exasperated voice as the same girl who'd tried to force olives, onions and other manner of appetisers on him. He turned to her just as Pam did.
"How much longer are we staying?" the girl asked, clearly trying to be polite in front of the hostess, but also clearly agitating to leave. "I'd really like to make that ten-thirty train."
"Bridget, please," said Pamela. "London isn't going anywhere." She turned to Mark. "Mark. Have you met my daughter?"
"We spoke briefly earlier," he said curtly, looking at her. She pursed her lips.
"This is Bridget," said Pamela. "She's in uni, home for the break. You probably saw her last when she was a baby, running around in her nappies and yanking on your poor dog's tail. And Bridget, this is Mark. He's a barrister."
Her eyebrows raised. "I never would have guessed that," she said, "given our conversation before."
"Oh, yes," said Mark with a smirk; he might not have said anything if she hadn't chosen to subtly needle him. "I remember you and your nappies quite well. As I recall you preferred not to wear them… and that poor dog never was quite the same after having his tail chomped repeatedly by you."
As Pamela tittered in her amusement, he saw a grimace pass over Bridget's face before she quelled it; she could not so easily quell the blush that stained her cheeks. She set her jaw firmly. "I'm going to find Dad. Excuse me." She looked pointedly at Mark before she dashed away. He delighted in this small victory, petty as it was, even if it was only against a university-aged girl.
"Don't mind her," said Pamela. "She's anxious to get down to London to spend time with her girlfriends for the rest of her break. So how have you been, Mark?" Her voice turned saccharinely sweet and laden with concern, which in his experience was really just an implied code for wanting more juicy detail about what exactly had happened. "Holding together? Hope being up here amongst your family and friends has helped a little."
"I've kept myself busy," he said. "I'll be heading back to London this evening. I can't spare any more time in Grafton Underwood."
"Oh," she said, smiling again; it looked a little forced. He thought for just a moment that he preferred sparring with her daughter more than the smothering kindness Pam offered. Her eyes glanced intently to his wine glass. "Well. Hope you're going to switch to soda water soon. Can't have you swerving all over the road."
"I have a car to take me," he said. "It'll be here at ten."
"Oh," she said. Pamela glanced away; he followed her gaze to where her daughter was speaking in a rather animated manner with Colin Jones. "I'd better go shore up his reserve," she said. "There's no reason why we should leave already just so she can make the last train to London. Colin hates when she travels this late at night on her own. We both do. I mean, she's not a child anymore, but parents never stop worrying."
"On her own?" he said. That put her arriving into London some time in the wee hours, which was certainly risky for a woman of any age. "Ridiculous. I'll come over there with you."
She smiled, pleased to have him on her side.
Upon approaching the father and daughter, both of them stopped speaking to look up. "Mr Jones, sir, I understand your daughter wishes to take the train into London tonight."
"Yes," he said with exasperation, his face ruddy with heightened temperament and so unlike the jovial man he'd been speaking to earlier, "and I won't have it. She can just go in the morning." Bridget looked indignant.
"I'd like to offer another solution," he said, suddenly inspired. "I have a car coming in about an hour. Your daughter could ride back to town with me." He figured a couple of hours in the company of a pouting, undeserving, petulant brat was a small price to pay to ease the mind of a fine man like Colin Jones.
"No," Bridget said immediately. "I'm twenty and am perfectly capable of taking the train."
"Can you do that?" asked Pam. "Isn't that a company car?"
"Yes it is, and yes I can," Mark said, turning his gaze momentarily to Bridget. "I would be more than willing to see to her safety."
Colin smiled broadly, calming immediately. It had worked. "I think that's a marvellous idea. Bridget, do you have your things ready?"
"They're in the boot of your car," she grumbled, glaring at Mark.
"That is very kind of you, Mark," said Pam. She nudged her daughter gently and said in a loud whisper, "Thank him, Bridget."
"Thank you," she said through clenched teeth. "You really shouldn't have bothered."
At a few minutes past ten, Mark's mobile began to ring. He palmed the phone and answered it.
"Mr Darcy, your car has arrived."
"Thank you."
He raised his eyes and scanned the room for his passenger; he did not see her. He did find her mother, who scanned the room as well in an equally futile manner. "I'm not sure," said Pamela.
"I saw her head out back for some air," said Geoffrey Alconbury with a disturbing glint in his eye.
Mark went through the house and through the kitchen. Just outside on the rear porch, through the window he spied her drinking a glass a wine, a plume of white smoke rising up from a cigarette just out of view. He walked over to the window and rapped on it, visibly startling her. She furrowed her brow and looked at him with irritation. He crooked a finger at her to indicate it was time to go. She rolled her eyes and drank down the remains of her wine; the smoke disappeared as she stomped out the cigarette. She then came inside.
She said her goodbyes to her mother and to the Alconburys; her father came out to the car to unlock the boot to get her bag.
"Thanks again, Mark," said Colin effusively, shaking Mark's hand. "And Bridget, please be nice to Mark. He's doing you a big favour."
"I will," she said in a sincere yet slightly long-suffering tone, giving him a tender hug; judging from this and the evident fondness in her voice, Mark reasoned she was something of a daddy's girl. He thought it was sweet. "Bye, Dad."
"Bye, love," he said, pecking a kiss goodbye on her cheek.
They walked to his car. "Make yourself comfortable," he said as the driver opened the door. "We'll just need to make a quick stop to get my things."
"Okay," she said, climbing in behind the driver. He took the seat beside her. He bade the driver stop by his parents' house, where his own bag and attaché awaited pickup.
"I have to read a little for work," he said, settling in, pulling a stack of papers to review for court the next day; his alcohol buzz was waning and he rediscovered the will to concentrate. Approximately five minutes into the ride he was distracted from his work by the muffled, tinny sound of music. He looked up and at Bridget. She was bobbing her head to the music coming from her headphones, which were evidently of rather poor quality.
"Bridget," he said sternly. She did not respond. "Bridget!" he repeated, patting her on the forearm.
She pulled the headphones up. The music blared even louder. "What?" she asked crossly.
"Will you please turn that down? I really need to work."
"Sorry." She turned it down, but he could still hear it. "That better?"
"No."
"I won't be able to hear it at all."
"Then put it away." He looked back down to his paper. "Silence is golden," he said.
"Silence is boring," she muttered, but did as told.
Mark was able to get back into his work with only the sound of the tyres on the asphalt, at least until a frequent popping sound irritated him out of his reading. He looked up again to see Bridget had taken to reading… and saw a bubble bursting before she pulled the gum back into her mouth.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Reading," she answered, not looking up.
"I can see that," he said wryly. "No. I mean, is it too much to ask that you don't pop bubbles?"
"What? Oh. Sorry." She returned to her book, mumbling something under her breath that he was sure was unkind. She was, however, still chomping away on the gum.
"Bridget," he said sharply.
"What now?" she asked.
"I feel like I'm in the presence of a ruminant animal."
She furrowed her brows.
"The chewing."
She rolled her eyes again, then spat out the gum into the discarded wrapper. "It was stale, anyway."
"Thank you."
She exhaled heavily as she shifted in the car seat.
"Is something wrong?"
She turned to glare at him. "I told you I could have taken the train. At least on the train I could, you know, make reasonable noise."
"London at night is a dangerous place for a young woman."
"I can take care of myself."
He sincerely doubted that, and his expression surely conveyed that, judging from her response:
"Whatever." She lowered her eyes then began reading again.
Mark was able to dive into his paperwork again without further disturbance, easily reading as the miles slipped away beneath him, at least until he felt a pressure against his shoulder. He glanced to his side and saw that she'd fallen asleep, book in her lap, and had due to the movement of the car shifted against him.
Gently he pushed against her arm with his elbow. She murmured but did not wake; more importantly, she did not budge. With a resigned sigh he realised that since there was not much more to the drive and he had read through the file enough times, he could afford to sit still and not disturb her. Glancing down at her in her peaceful repose he reflected that she was actually rather pretty, but how deceptively angelic her features were given what he had seen of her behaviour at the party. Pity there's no Eton equivalent for girls, he thought with amusement. She could have done with a bit more discipline. He wondered only then for the first time if her zeal in reaching London had something to do with a boyfriend rather than female friends as Pam had indicated.
As they hit the outskirts of London and the density of streetlights increased, the ambient light outside of the vehicle began to rise and the university student sitting at his side roused awake. "Oh," she said in surprise, looking up at him with some embarrassment. "It was so quiet and the ride so bloody smooth…"
"It's all right," he said coolly. "I was finished reading. So, where do you need to be dropped?"
She sat up straight, meeting his eye. "There's a coffee shop just off of Bond Street."
"Meeting someone there?" he asked.
"My friend lives nearby. I can get something to eat and get myself the rest of the way." She smiled. "I've bothered you enough, Mr Darcy."
The smile, the cloying way she said it, told Mark that she was trying to keep something from him; sort of placating and overly sweet.
"It's no bother, Bridget. I'd feel better taking you directly to your friend's house. What's the address?" he asked, his voice firm, his gaze challenging.
She blinked first. She looked away and sighed, then reluctantly rattled off her friend's address.
"Did you catch that?" Mark said to the driver.
"Yes, sir."
Her friend lived decidedly not within walking distance of the previously mentioned coffee shop, and indeed in one of the parts of town he would least recommend women to walk though alone even by day, particularly not the way she was dressed. "Thanks," she muttered as the car came to a halt; she did not sound all that grateful. The driver popped the boot open as she pushed the door open for herself.
"You're welcome," he replied.
She jogged over to the door of the building bearing the number she'd quoted. He watched her press a button, speak into an intercom; moments later the door swung open to reveal a tall, thin man with perfectly coiffed dark hair and a bright smile as he gave her a big hug then pulled her into the building. Mark smirked, his suspicions evidently confirmed.
"She appears to have made it in safely," said the driver.
"Yes, yes. We can go now," said Mark.
Within short order he was deposited in front of his own house. He wasted little time washing up and retiring to bed for the night. The morning alarm would sound far too soon for his liking, and coffee would only go so far.
As preoccupied as his waking mind had been with thoughts of deflecting discussion of his ex-wife and divorce, once in the quiet and dark of his bedroom, he would have thought it yearning for the respite of slumber. That was not to be the case. He turned over in his mind all of the things that had hurt him the most: the devastation to his self-esteem, the damage to his ego, the raising of his defensive walls to disallow nearly everyone access to those vulnerable parts of him again.
He would have to hope the coffee could carry him.
…
Work was not the worst part of his day the next day, nor the next, nor the one after that. It was the unspoken end of the 'mourning period'; now that a year had passed since the breakup, so everyone, especially the women, seemed to feel entitled to ask him if he was seeing someone, for details of that horrible Christmas night and the divorce that followed. He did not understand why everyone thought it their right to poke into his private business. It was not as if he had ever encouraged such audacity before; he did not know how much more of it he was going to be able to take.
A call from an old acquaintance would change things for him.
Mark swept the phone up into his hand. "Mark Darcy."
After a beat of silence, he heard a tentative, "Mark?"
He drew his brows together. "Yes?"
The man's voice chuckled in relief. "Crikey, I thought it was a recording," he said. "Mark, it's Patrick. Long time, no hear."
Mark rifled through his mental rolodex to recall the Patricks he knew; there was only one he didn't talk to on a regular basis, an old school mate from Eton. "Baldwin?" he asked.
"Sharp as ever, you are," said Patrick. "You don't miss a thing."
Mark laughed, eminently grateful to hear a friendly voice. "It's been a while," said Mark. "How have you been?"
"I've been very well," Patrick said in response. "Don't remember if I've spoken to you since I went to Wales."
"Wales?"
"I guess not," Patrick chuckled. "I accepted a teaching position a few years ago with the English department at the university in Bangor. It's lovely up here. And it's part of the reason why I called, not that I don't like chatting for the sake of chatting."
"Oh?" asked Mark, immediately intrigued.
"Yes," said Patrick. "How would you feel about taking on a visiting lecturer position?"
He was slightly taken aback. He had never thought about teaching before. "Why?" he asked cautiously.
"Well, we have a course in the history of human rights, and the woman who usually teaches it is taking maternity leave. Of course I thought of you."
Mark was rendered speechless.
"It's only for a semester, starting at the end of the month. There's very little prep for you to actually do."
"I've never lectured before." He could hear Patrick laughing. "I mean to students."
"How will that be any different than making a case in court?"
Mark did not quite know what to say… but he had to admit it was appealing. The change of pace would be most welcome.
"I won't lie to you: some of the students will make you crazy, if they're anything like mine," Patrick went on to explain. "Of course, they could drive a Buddhist monk to madness…."
Mark smiled then laughed a little.
"What do you say?"
He looked around his house, which suddenly seemed very cold and empty. Perhaps a term in the north would do him a world of good. It would not be so difficult to find someone to take over his court cases; his current workload wasn't so large that it would be insurmountable.
It was perhaps a little too spontaneous of him to give an answer without giving it more thought, but he did so anyway: "Yes. I'm very interested, indeed."
"Oh, fantastic," said Patrick. "I'll speak to the department head. I can't imagine he'll be unreceptive to the idea."
Patrick ended up being correct. Within three days he had a packet that had been sent overnight from Bangor formally offering him the position for Semester 2. Within a week, he had handed over all open cases to his partners in chambers. Within two, he had secured a place to live in Bangor, a small rental house.
Within three weeks, he was making the long drive north.
…
He did not realise quite what a stir his arrival was causing on the Bangor campus. He met his friend for lunch the day after getting there. Patrick had changed very little since the time he had seen the man last, and it was not hard at all to recognise him. Same short brown hair, same neat attire. The only significant difference was the glasses shading his light brown eyes.
"Very scholarly," commented Mark with a grin as they met at the pub.
"'Scholarly' had nothing to do with it," confessed Patrick. "Old age."
"Bah," said Mark. "You're my age."
"I rest my case," joked Patrick.
They ordered the fish and chips and a couple of ales, and after a little small talk regarding the drive and settling in at his rental place, Patrick said, "Better clear your diary for Saturday."
"Why?"
"The department's having a little soiree."
He blinked in his disbelief. "What? Why?"
"For you. To welcome you. Nothing big, just a little wine and cheese mixer. They're just really excited to have a barrister of your calibre here."
"It's not really necessary," he said.
"I knew you'd say that," Patrick said, "so I told them to keep it low-key."
It turned out to be not as low-key as Patrick had intimated. A daytime affair, it was hosted at the department head's home, which was packed with (as he was to learn later) not only faculty from his new department, but from others as well. Mark tried to be as gracious and sociable as possible, smiling politely and engaging in the same conversation over and over again, but the truth was that it was all very wearing for him.
He bowed out after just an hour and a half, claiming he had preparations to make for class on Monday, but the truth was he just wanted to drive around the area, see the sights, enjoy the natural beauty of the area, despite the blanket of snow.
He drove his car out towards Penrhyn Park, then looped around towards the pier. He parked the car, strode out towards the sea, and though he was shivering a little, the view was breathtaking; the steel grey water, the snow-heavy clouds in the sky, the still of the air, and no sound but the lapping at the water's edge and the occasional cry of a seabird. He inhaled deeply then released it, watching the fog of his warm breath trail up and disappear into the sky.
He already loved the peace of this place; that peace, however, was not to last long.
…
The class he was to teach had two tracks: Monday-Wednesday, and Tuesday-Thursday. Both tracks were scheduled for eight a.m. He knew that was not a favoured time for class and he suspected it would be an uphill battle to keep their attention engaged.
His first class was, to his surprise, well-attended. Perhaps curiosity for the new professor had won out over the fact that it was the first thing in the morning on the first day of classes. He cleared his throat, then began to speak.
"Good morning, and welcome to History of Human Rights Law," he said, his eyes scanning over the assembled students in the small lecture hall. He estimated twenty students at most, the majority of them male. "My name is Mark Darcy. I work out of London and specialise in asylum cases, and I'll be your professor this semester." He paused. "In order to understand today's current struggle for human rights, it's imperative to understand the roots of—"
At that moment the classroom door swung open and a bowed figure came into the room, bundled up in hat and scarf to ward off the cold. "I am so sorry I'm late," she said, tearing off her hat and looking up towards her instructor. Her jaw dropped open; Mark had to admit it took conscious effort for his own not to do the same.
It was Bridget Jones. She looked a bit like a deer in the headlights, so he felt the need to prompt her.
"We've only just started," he said coolly. "Please take a seat."
"Yes, sorry," she said again, finding a set, slinging her bag to the ground and peeling off her coat and scarf. "Won't happen again."
He pursed his lips and began his lecture anew.
At the end of the hour and a half, he was pleased to see that the majority of the students were not glassy-eyed and slack-jawed with boredom; in fact, he had managed to rouse a relatively spirited debate during the course of the class. At the conclusion, he packed up his briefcase, preparing to leave, when he heard a familiar voice ask quietly:
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
He kept his features neutral as he turned to look at her. "I might ask the same of you."
"I go to uni here," she said defiantly, "and have for the last two and a half years."
"I took a job here for the semester, as was my right to do," he said, "and as I am your professor, I would ask that you show a little respect."
She said nothing further.
Raising his voice, he said to the retreating class, "By the way, be sure to do the assigned reading, as you will be quizzed on it."
He saw her clench her jaw. "You did that because of me."
"I did not," he said, though he was not sure that was entirely true. "If you're late again, I'll dock points from your grade." He looked down again, putting the rest of his papers away. "If there's something else you want to discuss, please see me during the office hours listed in the syllabus."
"Syllabus?"
He reached into the bag and pulled one of the class outlines out for her. "Syllabus," he said, meeting her gaze again.
With a rebellious glare, she snatched it from his hand and stalked away.
The entire conversation left him feeling both amused and irritated in equal parts. If she thought he would go easy on her or tolerate her impertinent manners because they were already acquainted as 'family friends', she was in for a big surprise.
He went to his office, opened the book from which he had assigned the reading, and went to work on drafting a quiz.
…
The second track of classes turned out to be much the same as the first, and for the sake of fairness advised the class they too would have a quiz during the next class. He found he quite liked the town, though a small part of him missed the sights and sounds of London… and even the smells, to an extent: Indian curries, chip oil frying, even, he thought with amusement, the pervasive smell of auto exhaust.
On Wednesday he arrived to the classroom early with his stack of printed quizzes ready to hand out. He perched on the edge of the desk at the front of the room and watched as the students filed in one by one until the top of the hour struck.
One student was conspicuously absent.
"Good morning," Mark said as he stood upright, picking up the test papers. "Before we begin the lecture, you have fifteen minutes to complete this quiz. Please keep it face down until I say." He began handing the papers out until they were all distributed. Well, almost all.
"All right," Mark said, returning to his desk. "Please begin."
About five minutes into the test, as expected, Bridget came in, her mouth open as if to apologise again. He held up his hand to halt her, then gestured she come to the desk.
"Yes?" she asked, standing there with her coat, scarf, hat and backpack.
"You have until quarter past to complete this quiz. I'd suggest you begin at once."
"But it's almost ten past—"
"I told you not to be late," he interrupted sharply.
Without another word she took the quiz from his desk, dumped her bag loudly near the chair she then chose. As she took off her outerwear, more slowly than was prudent considering the time constraint, she stared at him challengingly the entire time before sitting and getting to work on the quiz. Alternately scribbling furiously with or biting thoughtfully on her pen for the duration of quiz time—at least every time his eyes travelled in her direction—she did not stop until mere seconds before he called time, at which she looked up and smirked impishly.
"All right," he said, rising to his feet. "Pens down, papers forward to me, that's it, thank you." He collected them, squared the edges, then put them into his attaché to grade later. "On to today's subject."
The class was a little more subdued than the previous Monday, though at least no one actually fell to sleep. He found his gaze returning to Bridget again and again; she seemed distracted, though whenever he called on her she was correct in answering. She had, at least, done the reading.
As the class wound down, he reminded them all of the reading that was due for the following Monday, and added, "I'd like you all to think about what we've discussed last class and this, and compose an essay comparing one of the ancient systems of law we talked about today to our modern system." At the muted groans, he added, "I'm not talking dissertation, here. One typed page at most. I think you'll all do just fine, given your participation in class. Thank you."
One by one the students packed up their knapsacks and left the room. Bridget was the last to leave. As she slung her bag over her shoulder she smiled smugly at Mark. "Until Monday, Professor Darcy."