Into the Fire
5 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total, 5,149 this part.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.
Warning: I should mention that there is a reference to an 'off-screen' event that has the potential to be a trigger for anyone who has ever been physically attacked.

Sorry for the tardiness. Went for a walk in the lovely late summer evening sun. I made some additions but didn't count in the new words. Oh well.

Chapter 5.

On Wednesday, as class began, Bridget was not present. As he began his lecture, he could only think that he would have to kick her out of the class, or else the other students would have no respect for him and would not take future warnings to heart. He was both angry and anguished at the thought.

She came in at half past the hour. She looked exhausted and slightly unkempt, dark circles under her eyes, but at least had the decency to look humbled.

"Miss Jones," he said, cutting himself off in mid-speech, "do not bother to sit down."

"But there's a really good reason—" she began.

"I do not care to hear your excuses. Please leave."

"But don't you want to know—"

"You have had adequate warning about being late again. I do not make idle promises. Go," he boomed.

She stood there, bag still on shoulder, eyes filling with tears she seemed determined not to shed. "Threats, more like," she said through clenched teeth. "Heartless bastard." Her voice was raspy and quiet, yet still loud enough to hear. She then left the classroom.

The silence afterwards was resounding and uncomfortable; the students seemed to regard him with something akin to astonishment. Perhaps this would kill any rumours of inappropriate behaviour on their part once and for all. He cleared his throat, then resumed his lecture. He could only reflect on how it had pained him to do what he'd done, but it was for her own good.

The enormity of his mistake would become evident when he overheard some of his departmental colleagues speaking as he passed through the building to get to his office after class.

"Terrible, just terrible," said Danny. "A small town like this, you'd think this sort of thing wouldn't happen here. You feel safe. Protected. Particularly on campus."

This caught Mark's attention.

"Dangerous people can be found anywhere," said Rob. "Poor girl. Must have been quite a scare for her."

"What happened?" he asked.

"She's all right, thank goodness," said Danny, "but apparently last night she was walking from one residence hall to another and was grabbed from behind and pulled off of the walkway. Thankfully an alert group on their way home from the pub saw the grab and scared the attacker off before any real damage was done."

"That's terrible," he said, thinking of Bridget's own safety as she was wont to walk around campus alone at night. "Did they catch the man responsible?"

"No, but apparently she knows who it was. Last I heard the police were going to speak to him."

"Mark!"

It was Patrick. His presence and his appearance startled Mark; Patrick did not regularly appear amongst the law professors, least of all looking as ragged as he did.

"Did you hear? Oh my God," continued his friend.

"About the attack? Yes, only just. So terrible."

Patrick brought his brows together. "So she didn't turn up? I heard she insisted on going to classes as usual."

"What?"

Patrick stared at him. "Bridget, Mark. She was the girl who got attacked."

He felt his knees start to go out under him as a wave of dizziness washed over him, but he steadied himself against the doorjamb. His heart began to race. "Oh my God," he said, his voice the barest trace of a whisper. "I didn't know." He looked to Patrick. "She did show up to class. I kicked her out for being late."

"You what?"

"She was late so frequently…" he began, then stopped, his thoughts racing. Eventually he finished: "I'd told her if she was late one more time she was out."

"Jesus, Mark." Patrick looked angry.

"It's not like she got a chance to tell me what happened," Mark said.

"You just… summarily dismissed her?" asked Danny, his eyes wide as Rob, equally incredulous, asked:

"You didn't let her explain?"

"I screwed up," Mark admitted.

"Bloody right you did."

"I'll fix it," he said. "I'll go and find her and apologise."

"She's due in my class in half an hour," said Patrick, "but I intend on excusing her for the day."

He accompanied Patrick back to his classroom. Students had begun to arrive and were milling around speaking socially until the two professors appeared, at which point they stopped to look, particularly to look at Mark. He wondered if word had spread about what he had done that morning to the poor victim of an attack, and felt even guiltier.

Bridget was not present.

As the minutes ticked away, he wondered if she would come at all, until just a minute before the hour of eleven. That was when she came through the door. She took one look at Mark and froze.

"Into the hall, if you don't mind," Patrick said in a gentle voice. "Class, we'll just be a few minutes. I'm sure you understand."

Once they were all in the hall, Patrick closed the door behind them, then looked pointedly at Mark, who took it as a cue to speak:

"Bridget," he said. "I'm sorry about this morning. I had no idea—"

"Of course you didn't," she interrupted furiously in hushed tones, tears suddenly flowing down her cheeks, "because you refused to let me explain. Well, sod off, Professor Darcy. I don't need your class, so take it and shove it up your arse, if there's room with the stick there."

He was rendered momentarily speechless. "Bridget," he said gently, "I understand you're very upset, and rightly so."

"I said shove it," she hissed, angrily wiping her cheeks dry. "I thought we were… well, at least friendly, if not friends, and you've turned out to be a—"

"Heartless bastard," he supplied. "I should have let you explain. I am so sorry."

"Yes, well, how many times have I said that to you and it's fallen on deaf ears?" She sniffed, then looked to Patrick. "Professor Baldwin, I think we have a class to start."

Patrick said, "Bridget, really, you don't have to stay. I'm excusing you—"

"No, I want to," she said, shooting Mark a defiant look. "It will keep my mind off of things."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes."

With that she reached for the doorknob, tugged open the door and stalked back into the classroom. Patrick looked to Mark with a very grave expression, then followed her, closing the door once inside.

He stood out there for a moment or two more before departing for his office. He buried himself in work, catching up on grading essays and holding his office hours. No students showed. Towards the end Danny came in to let him know he'd heard an arrest had been made. "Ex-boyfriend, apparently," Danny added. "Glad they caught him."

"So am I," murmured Mark.

Once in the car, he thought briefly of trying to speak to her again that day, but ultimately thought it pointless. Bridget made it crystal clear that she did not want to speak to him, and he could hardly blame her. He had handled everything about this situation, everything to do with her, very badly. He hoped she would, once things settled down, return to class.

…

She did not turn up on the following Monday or Wednesday. Mark was beside himself; he did not want either an incomplete registered on the course, or a failing grade… nor did want the possibility that not passing the class would hold her back from her long-anticipated graduation.

After class on Wednesday, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

He put up a sign again apologising for not keeping office hours, then went to Patrick's classroom in order to wait for the students to emerge at the end of what he knew to be the class that Bridget was in. She was among the last to leave, and when she saw him her expression went completely flat.

"Hello, Bridget," he said.

"Professor Darcy," she said coolly.

"How are you?" he said. "I mean, how are you coping with—"

"I'm fine," she said.

He exhaled, wounded but not surprised at the curtness of her answer. "I was hoping to speak with you," he said.

She blinked, then sighed and nodded. "You can walk me back towards my building."

He waited until they had gotten outside to start talking. "Words cannot express how very sorry I am for how I treated you," he said. "It was very wrong of me and I would do anything to take it back if I only could."

She turned to look at him. "Well, I was late again," she said sardonically. "You did what you said you'd do."

"Life isn't black and white, and I know that. I was just so…" He trailed off. There was no way around it. "You deserve to know the truth, why I had to do what I'd said I'd do."

"What truth?"

"Professor Baldwin came to me with a concern," he began quietly. It would be a fine line to walk, to say enough to express his concern, but not so much that she would know his feelings. "That you and I might be engaged in… an inappropriate relationship."

She stopped in her tracks, her eyes huge as saucers. "What?"

"That I might be giving you preferential treatment," he continued. "The long-distance drives, the fact that you called me by my given name, the extra lessons—"

Her laughter interrupted him. "Are you kidding me?"

He shook his head; clearly she found the idea outrageous, if not repulsive.

"But you're…" she began. He waited for her to finish it with 'so old', but she did not. "…my teacher. I mean, we're friends too…" Her face clouded over. "I mean, I thought we were."

"We are," he said. "Bridget, you have to understand that you are the only student with which I have any sort of interaction with outside of class, any sort of friendship. I just couldn't have anyone think you were doing well because of that alone. When I say you're my most promising student, I'm not saying that because of that friendship, but because you really are."

She blinked in disbelief. "I'm your most promising student?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Even with those pretentious, brown-nosing proto-barristers Alistair and Rupert?"

"Yes," he affirmed, holding back a laugh. "Sadly, though, you are also my most undisciplined one."

The corner of her mouth pulled to the side in a sheepish expression.

"I was trying so hard to get you to the level I think you're capable of achieving that I didn't stop to think how it might look to the outside world. You can't afford any doubt on your scholarly abilities—"

"I've made it this far without you around," she quipped.

"That's just it," he said. "If there's any doubt, anyone can look back over your transcript and wonder if you really earned those marks."

She pulled her lips in.

"And as for me, well, it would be professional suicide to have even the whiff of a rumour of impropriety with someone over whom I hold this kind of power."

She looked down.

He continued, "In retrospect, perhaps I swung too hard in the opposite direction, and was harsher on you than you deserved." She looked up again.

"I know I didn't exactly make it easy for you," she said. "If I hadn't been late so many times before, you never would have thought I was crying wolf."

"Please consider returning to class," he said. "You've only missed a couple of sessions and it would be easy to bring you up to speed."

She seemed to be mulling the offer. "I didn't mean what I said."

"What?"

"About the stick."

He had to rifle through his memories to recall what she meant, and when he did he began to laugh.

"And about not needing the class," she added. "I've very much enjoyed it."

"So you'll come back?"

She nodded.

He felt an overwhelming sense of relief. "Great. Wonderful. Perhaps… perhaps we can arrange to review, maybe today at four?"

"Sure but… what about… suspicions of impropriety?"

"You need the review, after your ordeal and missing class," he said. "If anyone wants to try to read something into that they can sod off."

She smiled. "I'll see you at four."

As she went to walk away and into the building itself, he called her name; she turned around. "Yes?"

He strode closer to her again. "How are you, really?"

She smiled wanly. "I'm still having nightmares," she confessed. "But it's getting better."

"I'm sorry to hear it," he said.

"It helps knowing he's been picked up." With another, more light-hearted smile, she turned again and went into the building.

He thought she might come bearing coffees, possibly biscuits, so he decided to pop into the market and pick up a little consolation for her in the form of the most expensive, decadent chocolate bar they had. He debated a pint of ice cream, but knew her penchant for turning up late, so opted against it.

She was on time for once, and as predicted she came with a couple of paper cups from the coffee bar. "Hi," she said. "Hope this isn't too much… well, you know."

"No, I appreciate it. Actually, I have something for you."

She knit her brows. "What?"

He walked over to his desk and picked up the chocolate bar, then brought it to her with a sheepish smile. "To make up for being such a heartless bastard."

She laughed. "I've already accepted your apology."

He shrugged. "Well, if you don't want it…"

"I didn't say that." She took it from him and unwrapped the paper, taking a big bite. "Oh, lord," she said as soon as she could. "That's amazing."

He considered that the treat was, in hindsight, not his best idea when he realised that the sight of her enjoying the chocolate was on the verge of leading his thoughts astray. He cleared his throat. "I'm glad you like it. Well. Shall we begin?"

He sat behind the desk; she, across from him. Between jotting down notes, she sipped on her coffee and took small bites from the chocolate bar, as if parsing it out to make it last that much longer. As he expected, she picked up on the missing material very quickly, only needing clarification on one or two of the stickier legal terms he used. He made it through the previous Wednesday's material and got most of the way into that past Monday's when she yawned. Only then did it occur to him to glance at the clock. It was six-thirty.

"Sorry."

"No, it's all right, I didn't mean to go on this long." He rose. "We can carry on tomorrow. Same time, if that's convenient."

"Sure. Thanks." She stood, put her notepad and pen back into her bag, then turned to face him with a smile. "I kind of appreciate your not asking."

"About what?"

"About Ben."

"Who's—" As he asked it, he stopped short. Ben must have been the ex-boyfriend. "Sorry." She laughed. "If you want to talk about it, though, I'm willing to listen."

She glanced away, and after a few moments began to speak. "We'd kind of had a flirtation all last second term. Over the summer we talked pretty frequently on the phone. He even came to visit once, to come to the summer picnic at the Alconburys'. My mum loved him. When we returned to Bangor in the autumn we decided to start seeing each other for real. Dating." She looked at him again. "He seemed to think that he was entitled to put his hand up my skirt after one such date. I told him to get lost, and I broke it off."

Mark already knew this story, knew where it was going. "I'm sorry to hear that he tried to take advantage of you."

"He didn't take the news well," she said. She bit on her lower lip, then, after a moment of contemplation, she said, "He started telling everyone I was a slut. Even though I did not sleep with him."

Mark felt his anger rising. "I'm sorry."

"He was all sweetness and charm when others were around," she said. "The moment he had me alone… warning bells started going off. I thought it best to get out right away."

"It looks like you were right to do so."

"Lesson learned. Follow instincts." She was trying to put on a brave face, but it quickly deflated. She sniffed; he saw a tear trail down her cheek, which she brushed quickly away. "My mother doesn't know why we broke up, or… about what Ben tried to do. I've been too embarrassed to tell Mum or Dad what happened."

"I don't think that's something you should keep from them. You didn't do anything wrong."

"But all it would do is make them even more protective of me," she said, "or to make my dad want to find Ben and bollock him."

"The latter option doesn't sound so bad to me."

She smiled.

In a slightly more serious tone, he added, "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Promise me you won't say anything to them," she said.

He nodded. He had faith that she would make the right choice in the end. "Come on. I'll walk you out."

They exited the office then the building. Without a word from either, he continued walking with her all the way to her residence hall. She was not in danger of a second attack and it was not yet nightfall, but it just felt like the right thing to do given their prior conversation. The fact that she did not protest at all seemed to indicate to him that she was still a little more rattled than she wanted to admit.

She climbed up onto the step, turned back to look at him. He said, "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

With a small smile, she nodded, then went inside.

He didn't walk away immediately, just stood there in silent contemplation, feeling like he was in the process of losing all reason. Why was he doing this to himself? He was fighting an attraction to a girl—woman—far too young for him and under his tutelage; why was he bouncing in the opposite direction, back to almost too much attention again?

It was because of the attack scare, he knew; the news of that had been like a physical blow to him. He was still going to have to remain at a professional distance, but showing concern at least would not be thought of as unusual.

He considered also exactly why the news of the attack had become that much more devastating to him when he learned that she was the victim. He already knew, though. He cared more for her than he should, and that scared him a little.

…

Through the remaining two weeks of term Mark felt that he was able to keep things on an even keel. Bridget returned to class up to speed on the subject material; with the tutelage on the English system of law she was holding her own more than ever before. Other students may have gotten better scores on tests overall, but she really seemed to fundamentally understand the core concepts better than most. It was for this reason he still considered her his best student. He did not believe the concern he showed for her well-being was any different than anyone else's, certainly it was not more.

He had not been as busy in Bangor as he was in his day-to-day life in London, and while he looked forward to returning home, he also dreaded returning to that colder, emptier life. Even though he had spent a great deal of time on his own in Bangor, the friends he had made amongst his colleagues were warmer, more open, and their actions not ascribed to ulterior motives. In London they tended to be a little more ambitious and shallow.

By the tenth of June he had packed his things and was intending on being on the road back to London after lunch that afternoon. The term itself had ended the prior week with a final exam on the last day of class, but he'd had work, namely exam grading, to catch up on after that. Bridget had excitedly told him that she would indeed be graduating, and that her graduation ceremony was the second Monday of July with a departmental reception afterwards. He marked it in his diary, and wondered if he could, as visiting lecturer, attend without needing to take up a guest ticket.

"What, you're not attending the Law ceremony that Friday?" said Patrick with a smirk as he told him over lunch of his prospective plans to attend the English department's graduation ceremony.

"To be honest, I'm more invested in Bridget's graduation," he said, then added at Patrick's look, "being a friend of the family and all."

"Hm," he said. "Yes, I suppose that's true."

It felt a bit wrong to allow Patrick the misapprehension that he had known Bridget much longer than just that past New Year's, but he allowed it all the same.

Patrick continued, "Well, if your contract ending means you can't get a ticket of your own, you can just come with me, and crash at my place if you want."

"That'd be terrific. Thanks."

With a friendly hug they parted, and Mark was soon on his way out of town. Bridget had already gone south; her parents had come for her and her things the weekend after the semester had ended. Into the CD player he popped the disc she had made for him. In some ways it was like having her company, and it made the drive seem that much shorter.

He wondered how she was doing in London; he knew of her intention to move there and stay with Tom after starting her new job a couple of weeks after graduation, but did not know what her plans were between now and then, or exactly when she actually began working. Now that he no longer saw her, he found he missed her updates.

At this thought, it occurred to him that she didn't actually have to be out of his life just because she was no longer in his class; they had declared themselves friends, had they not? It also occurred to him that since she was no longer in his class, he was no longer bound by teacher-student rules. He was not sure if that made him feel better or worse. If by some strange twist of fate she not only had feelings for him but chose to act on them, what on earth would her parents think? What would his own parents think? That he was having a mid-life crisis far too early? Would they be wrong?

He was making a mountain out of a molehill, creating unneeded worry in his mind when she had already made it pretty plain she found the very concept appalling.

…

Re-entry into London life was a little rougher than he was expecting. He was asked to take on three easy cases (as easy as they tended to get, anyway) and two more challenging ones. He was sure to clear taking some time for another trip north for the graduation in July. He also mentioned to his mother that he was planning on doing so.

"That's terribly thoughtful of you, Mark," she said. "Considering how like fire and ice the two of you were at the Turkey Curry Buffet, you and Bridget must have forged a nice little relationship during your term there."

"Relationship?" he asked.

Elaine chuckled. "Teacher-student relationship, Mark. You're not the sort to rob cradles."

"Oh, yes, of course," he said, wondering why he'd felt so suddenly defensive. "We got on surprisingly well."

"I'm glad for that. I've heard all about her friends from Pam—irresponsible and too inexperienced in general. Now she lives in London, young girl all on her own in a big city. Pam and Colin are understandably concerned. If she needed to I'm sure she could count on you."

"Of course," he murmured. "I've met her friend Tom. He seems—" Mark paused, reflecting that the only thing he knew about Tom was that he was a drag performer. "—a little more mature."

"Oh, Tom is the one that Pam always says should just be her proper boyfriend already, I think."

"Mother," said Mark, "Tom is not interested in women, and Pam knows it."

Elaine chuckled. "Pam failed to mention that part to me."

"Pam's in a sort of denial about it, or so says Bridget."

"That doesn't surprise me. She's got a strange fixation about the vicar, too."

Mark laughed; he knew precisely about which one she was speaking.

A return to the office also meant a return to heavy-handed attempts to enquire into his personal life. He should have expected it, but deep down he was not surprised.

During his first week back, Natasha appeared in his office ostensibly regarding a case they had worked on in the past that brought their specialities together, but it was not long before she was careering off-topic and asking about how he was doing since his return.

"Of course we're all delighted that you've returned," said Natasha, perching on the edge of his desk, reminding him oddly of when Bridget had done so. "Just wasn't the same without you around."

"Thank you," he said politely.

"A few weeks ago there was a special charity performance of Othello that I braved on my own but I think you would have loved to have seen. Just after you returned to Bangor." She examined her fingernails thoughtfully. "Must have been dreadfully dull up there," she said. "Can't imagine there was a shred of civilisation."

"On the contrary," he said, "I was not at all starved for culture or company."

She cocked an eyebrow. "I find it difficult to believe that a man like you could be satisfied there."

"Believe it," he said. "The work was rewarding and I formed new friendships and renewed others. It doesn't hurt that it's absolutely beautiful there."

She still looked sceptical. "Clearly you need reminding what London has to offer you. Come with me tonight, Mark. Art opening at the Saatchi. Dust off your tuxedo and become reacquainted with society."

Against his better judgment, he agreed, reasoning it would not hurt to do some networking now that he was back. From the moment he arrived, though, he wished he had not gone. Natasha hung onto his arm and simpered and smiled as they made their way through the crowd. The level of artifice was almost more than he could stand. With each brief but tactically prudent conversation, it occurred to him exactly of whom the more obnoxious of his students had reminded him. Not even the champagne could save the night.

"I'm so glad you came," Natasha cooed as they left the gallery. It was a very warm June night, and while he had on his tuxedo jacket, her arms were bare and her skin gleamed in the moonlight. She was quick to claim his elbow again and lean into him; he was sure she would claim she was cold if he asked, so he didn't even bother. "I have very much missed you, Mark."

He said nothing. He had not particularly missed the way she fawned over him.

As they arrived to the car, she turned and faced him. In her heels she was nearly as tall as he was. "You've been very quiet, Mark," she said in an almost scolding tone. As she spoke again, her voice was almost petulant. "Why aren't you talking to me? What aren't you telling me?"

He didn't think it would have been at all polite or proper to say what he was thinking, so instead he just offered an excuse about it having been a long day, that the champagne had caught up to him, and that he was tired.

"A likely story," she said with a smirk. "Why don't you join me for a nightcap, tell me what's on your mind? Doesn't have to be anything but coffee. Just got an excellent Ethiopian roast—"

"I'll have to pass," he interrupted, "but thanks for the invite."

"Mark," she said a bit more firmly, stepping forward, trapping him between the car and her. "You seemed interested enough before your trip." She leaned forward and into him; not only did she try to kiss him, but her fingers pressed most insistently into the fly of his trousers.

"Natasha," he boomed, pushing her away, making her stumble backwards but not fall, though a small part of him wished she had landed on her bony backside for a much-needed humbling. "I am not interested now."

Her hair had mussed slightly with the sudden motion; she brought her hand up to calmly smooth it down. "I see," she said coldly.

"I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea in agreeing to come with you tonight."

She set her jaw firmly. "My fault for misunderstanding. I should have realised some little backwoods tart would have charmed the pants off of you. Easy meat."

"There is no one, least of all a 'backwoods tart'," he said. "I'd say I'm surprised you'd even say that, but I'm not." He turned to open the car door, and as he did the driver turned to look at him. "Good night," he said to Natasha.

"But Markee—"

He did not care that they had arrived together. He was not about to share a back seat with her for any length of time, and he absolutely hated when she called him that, so he was feeling even less generous than usual. "Minicabs are plentiful. I have no doubt you will find one," he muttered. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He felt a sullen mood overtake him as the car moved through the streets of London towards his home. There were some things he had not at all missed about London.

The house seemed that much quieter and emptier when he arrived, his footsteps echoing in the foyer as he came in. He shed his jacket then loosened the tie, making his way upstairs to his bedroom. He threw the jacket down on the chair by the window, then sat heavily on the bed to untie his shoes and remove them before setting them aside. He sighed. Might as well get ready for bed, he thought.

He had a moment of weakness while brushing his teeth, thinking whether it would have actually been so wrong to have succumbed to Natasha's advances; he wondered if the high moral ground leading to such pervasive loneliness was really worth it. As he washed his face and caught his own gaze in the mirror, he chastised himself. It had not been worth it in the past.