Jane sighed. “You may be right.”
“She and I do not think at all alike about love and marriage,” said Fanny primly.
At this, Jane laughed. “Oh, my nieces! How diverting you are, to be sure. I could never do without either of you, in the least, you are the delight of my heart. How I pray it will turn out well for you both.”
Here the girls ran back into the room, bonneted, and Jane, who had tied on her own bonnet, took her shawl down from its hook. Caroline ran ahead, searching the hedgerows for Tyger, while the others more sedately started their walk toward Chawton-meadow, through the beech wood.
DIANA BIRCHALL is a story analyst at Warner Bros. Studios, reading manuscripts to see if they would make suitable movies. She is the author of two “Austenesque” books, the novel Mrs. Darcy’s Dilemma and the story collection Mrs. Elton in America, both published by Sourcebooks. She has also written Onoto Watanna, a scholarly biography of her grandmother, the first Asian American novelist (published by the University of Illinois Press). Diana grew up and was educated in New York City but has lived for many years in Santa Monica, California, with her husband and son.
www.dianabirchall.net
@dianabirchall on Twitter
“Wow, this is awesome, Em.”
I’m barely out of the hotel elevator before I hear Stella’s voice ahead of me, whooping loudly with excitement. Lugging my suitcase, I hurry down the corridor to find the door to our room flung wide open and Stella, already lying spread-eagled on one of the twin beds, flicking through the room service menu.
“Mmmm, goat’s cheese salad with tomato relish … porcini mushroom risotto with truffle oil … fish and chips with mushy peas …” She looks up from the menu. “What are mushy peas?”
“Are you still hungry? We just ate breakfast on the plane,” I say, laughing, while I dump my suitcase and survey the room.
“It’s not me that’s still hungry, it’s him.” She gasps indignantly and pats her huge belly, which rises up from her tiny frame as if someone stuck a space hopper up her vintage Alexander McQueen dress. Stella is six months pregnant with her first child—a boy—but it hasn’t dampened her obsession with fashion.
“I swear, he’s the pig,” she continues, looking pained. “All he wants to do is eat, eat, eat. It’s twenty-four/seven. Gimme chocolate, gimme ice cream …” She rolls her eyes in indignation.
“Sounds like a nightmare,” I reply, my mouth twitching in amusement. “Being forced to eat all that chocolate and ice cream.”
“I know, right?” she says, nodding, her eyes wide with innocence. Tugging a giant-size Kit Kat out of her purse, she unwraps a finger and takes a bite. “I swear, all this eating for two is getting exhausting.”
Stifling a smile, I walk over to the large window and gaze out across the busy London street, teeming with red double-decker buses, black taxi cabs, and thousands of pedestrians, to the green vista of Hyde Park beyond. It’s Friday morning and Stella and I have a whole long weekend ahead of us. I haven’t seen London since I was here on a Jane Austen–inspired literary tour a couple of years ago … no, wait a moment, it must be four years ago now.
Gosh, is it really four years?
My mind spools backwards … Four years since I met my English-journalist boyfriend Spike, with whom I now share a tiny apartment in Brooklyn, four years since I took over the ownership of McKenzie’s bookshop, four years since I met Mr. Darcy …
Mr. Darcy.
My stomach gives a little leap.
Even after all these years, I don’t know if I really did meet him or if it was just a mixture of jet lag, desire, and my overactive imagination. A desire so strong that I conjured him up at Chawton House, dreamt about our moonlit horse ride together, and created an entire fantasy in which I got to date him. Except—
Except I’m not sure. Part of me still wants to believe that something magical really did happen the last time I was here in England. That he really does exist. But it was a long time ago now. I’ll never know for sure …
“You know, I’ve brought nothing to wear.” I turn away from the window to see Stella pulling out mountains of clothes from her suitcase. Correction: suitcases. Their contents are spilling out all over the carpet: velvet hot pants, diaphanous skirts, floral tea dresses, feather boas … Meanwhile I’ve only brought a couple of T-shirts; the rest of my luggage is made up of books. I can’t travel anywhere without a stack of paperbacks to read. And I’ve always got to bring with me some old classics. It’s a comfort thing. Some girls reach for the Ben & Jerry’s, I reach for my copy of Pride and Prejudice.
I’m suddenly distracted by my cellphone beeping up a text message. I dig it out of my pocket and glance at the screen.
“Is it Spike?”
Stella catches me looking at my phone. I shake my head. “No, and I didn’t expect it to be,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant and not show my clunking beat of disappointment as I glance at the message from T-Mobile, detailing the charges to use my phone abroad. Quickly I grab hold of myself. I’m not upset, I’m angry, remember? After all, he was the one being the asshole. He was the one who started it.
“It” being the huge fight we had a few days ago. It started out so innocuously, as fights always seem to do, with me asking Spike to give me a hand putting the cover on the comforter, and developed into a full-scale shouting match that dragged in every minor complaint and disagreement we’d ever had, spanning our entire relationship. It ended with lots of door slamming, me calling him an asshole, and him telling me to go to hell.
So I took his advice.
Well, sort of.
I didn’t go to hell, I came to London instead. Well, what are air miles for? Plus I had enough for two round-trip tickets, so I suggested to Stella that she come along too, before she got too big to travel. She jumped at the chance.
“OK, so where to first?” says Stella, snapping the menu closed and hoisting herself off the bed.
“I thought you were hungry?”
“I am, but he can wait.” She pats her bump affectionately. “Mommy has to go shopping.”
“Shopping?” I exclaim. “But we’re here. In London. Don’t you want to go sightseeing?”
“Shopping is sightseeing!” she cries defensively. “Topshop is like the eighth wonder of the world, and London is where it all began.”
Throwing her purse over her shoulder, she grins. “Coming?”
I barely manage to get to the bottom of the Topshop escalator before I change my mind. Leaving Stella to her passion, I decide to indulge in mine and make my way to the British Museum and its famous round reading room filled with millions of books.
Only when I arrive, I discover it’s now used for exhibitions and most of the books have moved to the newly built British Library. “But we do still have a smaller public reference library,” one of the staff informs me. “It’s located in one of our older reading rooms, which was very popular in the 1800s with the novelists William Thackeray and Charles Dickens, the poet Robert Browning, and even Charles Darwin.”
Not bad company to be in, I muse, making my way there. I’m not disappointed. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the gold lettering on the leather spines catching the sunlight that filters through the large sash windows high above. The place oozes history, and imagining all the great writers and thinkers who have sat here before me, I take out a couple of volumes and find a quiet seat tucked around a corner.
As I sit down a wave of jet lag suddenly hits me, and stifling a yawn, I rub my eyes. I didn’t sleep much on the plane and now it’s really catching up with me. My eyelids grow heavier and I sink farther down in my chair. It’s so lovely and quiet in here and the place is almost empty; surely no one will notice if I close my eyes for a moment—
“Ahem.”
Snapping open my eyes, I jerk bolt upright.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
“Um … no, not at all,” I stammer, aware of a male figure standing beside me. “Sorr
y … I’ll just move my things …” I begin busily clearing away the pile of books I’ve dumped on the chair beside me, along with my bag, my jacket … Yet as my hands are moving my mind is slowly registering … hang on, something in his voice sounds familiar. If I wasn’t mistaken I’d almost think it was—
I glance up and my stomach goes into free fall.
“Mr. Darcy,” I gasp.
“Miss Emily!” he says in astonishment; then, remembering himself, he takes off his hat and bows formally. “I thought it was you, but I couldn’t be sure—”
“What are you doing here?” I’m gaping.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” he replies, flicking back his tailcoat and sitting down next to me. A shiver runs down my spine. He’s so close, only inches away. My eyes flick over his face, his strong cheekbones, the way his dark hair curls across his temples. This is so unreal, it can’t be happening. He can’t be here. I must be dreaming. Maybe if I pinch myself—
I pinch myself. Nope, it’s still happening, he’s still here, still sitting right next to me.
“So tell me, how are you?”
I snap back to see Mr. Darcy gazing at me.
“Oh … um … great …” Hastily I try collecting my thoughts while silencing the voice inside of me that’s shrieking Ohmygodohmygod. “Really great,” I repeat firmly, for my own benefit as much as his. “And what about you? What’s new?”
He looks blank at my turn of phrase.
“I mean, what has happened since I last saw you—”
“—four years ago,” he says, finishing my sentence. “It’s been four years.”
“Yes, I know,” I reply, trying to make my voice sound casual while ignoring the shivers running up and down my spine.
And did my stomach just flip over?
Sternly I flip it back again.
I am not in love with Mr. Darcy anymore, I don’t even have a crush on him. I’m in love with Spike, remember?
Love? Did you just say love? What on earth are you doing talking about love, Emily?
“Did you get married to Elizabeth Bennet?” I ask, quickly reining in my feelings, which are ricocheting all over the place.
“How did you know?” He looks surprised. “Did the news travel all the way to America?”
“Um … yes, something like that,” I reply, trying to fudge. “So are you both happy?”
“Yes, very, she stayed at home in the country while I came to London on business.” He pauses, his brow furrowed. “I hope you don’t think I am about to speak out of turn, but I have always wondered about you. Why you left so suddenly, without a word …” He looks down at his hands, interlaced on his lap, and swallows hard. “I looked for you everywhere …”
Raising his face, his eyes search out mine. Somewhere I feel a pulse beating.
“I had to go back to America,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper.
“You left without saying goodbye.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
Am I imagining it or is something happening here between us? Is something going to happen between us?
“Excuse me, but the library is closing.”
Twirling around in my seat, I see a bespectacled attendant standing behind us. “If you’d like to make your way to the exit now, please,” she says authoritatively.
“Oh … yes, of course,” I reply quickly, before turning back to Mr. Darcy. “We have to leave—” I break off as I see his chair is empty.
Mr. Darcy has already gone.
My mind whirling, I leave the British Museum and head to the pub near our hotel to meet Stella as planned. Walking into the Fox and Grapes, I spot her perched on a barstool amid a sea of shopping bags. She greets me with a shriek. “Oh wow, Em, wait till you see what I’ve got!” and before I’ve even sat down she begins frenziedly pulling clothes out of shopping bags. “They have a rockin’ maternity section, look at this awesome jumpsuit … and what about this T-shirt, isn’t it cool?”
I stare blankly at the blur of outfits, unable to focus. I’m still reeling from my encounter with Mr. Darcy. Did I imagine it? Was it for real?
“What would you like to drink?” asks the barman, interrupting Stella’s fashion show.
“Oh, just a mineral water,” she says with a resigned smile, and pats her belly.
The barman glances toward me.
“Make mine a large whiskey,” I say, finding my voice at last.
“Whiskey?” Stella turns to me, her eyes wide. “Oh jeez, Em, are you all right?” she exclaims, registering my expression for the first time. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You could say that …” I trail off.
Stella’s forehead furrows in confusion. “What’s happened?”
I hesitate. Should I tell her?
Tell her what? I think sharply. That I just saw a fictitious character come to life in the British Museum? “Oh, nothing …” I shrug.
But if I think that’s going to appease Stella, I’m mistaken.
“Nothing?” she repeats suspiciously. “Right, that’s it, there’s definitely something up.” Leaning closer, she fixes me with a hard stare. “OK, come on, spill the beans.”
So I tell her everything that happened—or didn’t happen.
“… and now I don’t know what to think,” I finish, looking at her across the table. We’ve decamped outside to the beer garden and are sitting in the late afternoon sunshine. “I thought I was over Mr. Darcy, that Spike was the one, but now I don’t know …”
“Whoa, stop right there,” instructs Stella firmly. “Darcy Schmarcy. I’ve heard enough about this dude.” She slams down her mineral water.
It splashes me and I jump back. To be honest, Stella can be a bit scary when she wants to be.
Leaning across the table, she fixes me with a stare. “Look, Emily, I hate to say this, but you read too many books.”
I’m not sure I heard that right. “Too many books?” I repeat incredulously. “But—”
“But nothing,” she cuts me off. “You’ve got to stop dreaming. This isn’t one of your romance novels, this is real life. And it’s full of real people. Like Spike.” She raises her eyebrows. “Have you spoken to him yet?” she asks pointedly.
Abruptly brought back to reality, I shake my head. “Maybe this is a sign,” I murmur.
“A sign?” Stella looks puzzled.
“That me and Spike aren’t right for each other.”
“Bullshit,” scoffs Stella with characteristic bluntness. “You and Spike are made for each other.”
“I don’t think Spike feels like that,” I say glumly.
“He’s crazy about you!”
“We had a big fight,” I continue.
“All couples have fights,” she counters.
“There was a time when he couldn’t wait to get me into bed, but now he falls asleep on the sofa watching soccer.”
“Show me a guy who doesn’t,” she says, smiling ruefully. “And no, before you say it, Darcy-pants doesn’t count. I mean real guys.”
“We’ve been together four years and he still hasn’t asked me to marry him,” I blurt without thinking. It catches me by surprise.
“Aha! So that’s what this is all about.” Stella looks at me triumphantly.
I feel myself color. Gosh, where did that just come from? “No, it’s not,” I try backtracking. “I don’t care about getting married, it’s an old-fashioned concept and I like to think I’m a modern woman—”
“Cut the crap, Emily,” deadpans Stella.
I feel my defiance crumble. “OK, I suppose it would be nice to be asked,” I confess.
“Why don’t you ask him?” she suggests.
“That’s not really the point,” I reply—a little sulkily, I realize.
“What difference does it make?” continues Stella. “Me and Freddy got married for a green card, then we fell in love. We did everything the wrong way around, but it doesn’t matter. The most important thing is we’re together
.” She looks at me, and her expression softens. “Not everything in life happens the way you think it will, Em,” she says and, reaching across the table, puts her hand on mine. “But if you love each other, that’s all that matters.” She hesitates, then asks quietly, “You do still love Spike, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer quickly. “It’s just—” I break off and heave a deep sigh. “Oh, I don’t know anything anymore.” I glance up at Stella. She looks worried. Changing the subject, I pin on a bright smile. “OK, it’s my round. Another mineral water?”
That night I can’t sleep. Staring into the darkness, I listen to Stella snoring softly in the other bed, a million thoughts going around and around in my head. Seeing Mr. Darcy again has stirred up a maelstrom of emotions, and I feel all churned up inside. Snippets of our conversation filter back … “I’ve always wondered about you … I looked everywhere for you …” Tossing and turning, I bury my head under my pillow, trying to block them out.
And failing.
It’s no good, I’m never going to get to sleep. Abandoning my attempts, I reach for my phone on the beside cabinet and turn it on. The screen lights up and I glance at the time: 3 A.M. That means it’s only 10 P.M. in New York … Spike would still be awake … he said he was going to stay in tonight, finish up an article he was working on.
As I think about Spike in our apartment, sitting at his tiny desk, hunched over his laptop, surrounded by piles of papers and his usual cup of tea that’s long since gone cold, I feel a wave of affection. And a good hard dose of reality. OK, this is ridiculous. Stella is right. This is real life. I love Spike, not Mr. Darcy.
Quickly I text him.
Hey it’s me. First night in London and can’t sleep. Miss U. XOX.
I press Send and wait for a reply.
Ten minutes later I’m still waiting. I feel disappointed. Anxious. Indignant.
I can’t believe he hasn’t replied. He must be still sulking!
Annoyed that I’ve made the first conciliatory move only for it to be ignored, I slip out from under the covers and pad agitatedly into the bathroom. I’m wide awake now, and after fetching myself a glass of water, I walk over to the window and draw back the heavy curtains with one hand.
Jane Austen Made Me Do It Page 29