‘So, how did you and Ernie get along last night?’ I ask, leaning closer to make sure no one hears. I’ve been dying to ask her, but I haven’t been able to get her on her own. When we got back to the hotel after the pub I left her and Ernie chatting in the foyer and went to bed, and then this morning she’s been with Spike the whole journey.
‘Oh . . . um . . . all right,’ she says warily.
‘Just all right?’ I tease, giving her a little nudge. ‘I think you two make a lovely couple.’
‘Yes, well, I’d appreciate it if you kept thoughts like that to yourself,’ she snaps.
I look at her in disbelief. I don’t know who’s more shocked that she’s snapped, me or her.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Maeve. It was a joke. I didn’t mean—’ I break off as I notice that her eyes look suspiciously moist behind her glasses. ‘Hey, are you OK?’ I ask quietly.
There’s a pause as she swallows hard. We’re at the front of the coach now about to disembark, and I see her glance anxiously towards Ernie, who’s sitting behind the wheel. For a brief second I think she’s going to tell me something, but then she looks quickly away before he sees her.
‘I’m sorry. I’m just a bit under the weather. I think I’ve got a cold coming,’ she mumbles, rushing down the steps and into the parking lot to join Rupinda and Rose.
Puzzled, I follow her. I see no evidence of a runny nose or as much as a sneeze. Something’s definitely up. But what? Walking home from the pub last night she seemed relaxed and in really good spirits. I was so drunk it was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other, but I remember her laughing at Ernie’s jokes and talking glowingly about her nieces and nephews. What could have happened between then and now?
I glance across the parking lot and see a familiar figure pulling out a packet of Marlboros from his breast pocket. Suddenly it dawns on me: Spike is what happened between then and now.
Hands dug deep in my pockets, I stride across the blustery asphalt. Spike’s standing apart from everyone, head bent into his cupped hands, trying to light a cigarette. ‘Hey, have you said something to Maeve?’ I hiss angrily.
So much for my resolution.
‘Excuse me?’ He looks up, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
‘Oh, please, don’t act all innocent with me,’ I snap, and I see him flinch a little. ‘What were you two talking about on the coach?’
‘I’m a journalist,’ he replies, snatching his cigarette from his lips and sticking it behind his ear. Throwing his corduroy shoulders back, he gives me a lofty glare. ‘I was conducting an interview.’
‘About Ernie?’
Spike’s face is impassive. ‘About Mr Darcy,’ he replies evenly. ‘Perhaps you’d care to answer a few questions yourself. When you’ve calmed down and got rid of your hangover.’
‘What hangover?’ I say sharply. As if on cue a wave of nausea wafts over me. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
And ignoring the lurching feeling in my stomach, I stalk past him. I don’t believe him. Not for a second. I definitely think he’s said something to Maeve about Ernie. But he is right about one thing: my hangover.
Feeling light-headed, I steady myself on the trunk of a tree. In fact, I think any minute now I’m going to pass out.
Chapter Twelve
Leaving the rest of the party behind, I quickly find a quiet patch of frosty grass behind the cathedral and collapse on to an empty wooden bench. Everything is starting to spin and I close my eyes. God, I’m feeling really dodgy now. Dropping my head between my knees, I start inhaling lungfuls of piercingly cold air.
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In . . .
I’ve no idea how long I remain like this, sitting here, taking deep breaths, but the next thing I know I suddenly hear the sound of footsteps crunching. I stop breathing and hold my breath. Who’s that? I stiffen and snap my eyes wide open. Probably Spike, come back to hassle me about the interview, I realise, with a horrible sinking feeling.
Remaining perfectly still, I keep my head between my knees and my eyes focused on the ground, childishly wishing that perhaps if I can’t see him, he won’t see me. Well, it used to work when I was five years old and playing hide and seek with my grandparents, I tell myself hopefully.
The crunching is growing louder, closer, right by me. A pair of feet suddenly appear in my field of vision. Just the tips. Then stop.
Double shit.
‘Ahem.’
He clears his throat and waits for me to look up. So he can gloat, no doubt, I tell myself, feeling tempted to ignore him and pray he gets the message and goes away. But I know there’s no chance of that. Spike’s a journalist. Persistence is his middle name.
I stare at his shiny boots a moment longer, bracing myself for the onslaught of jokes – seeing as I am one now, I think huffily – then lift my head. Except in the split second it takes to do so, something registers as not quite right. Hang on a minute. Spike’s boots are scuffed and always unlaced.
As I look up, I’m hit by a sudden headrush.
They’re not Spike’s boots.
‘Are you feeling unwell?’
It’s him again. The man from the museum. I stare blankly at his impossibly square jaw with the sexy cleft in his chin and take a moment to absorb this. As I do so, two thoughts are whizzing through my head:
What a weird coincidence. What on earth is he doing here?
What brilliant luck. I never thought I was going to see him again.
‘You look a little pale.’
‘No, I’m fine. I was just feeling a little . . . erm . . . light-headed.’
He looks at me with concern, then reaches for his temples and rubs them in consternation. ‘I am also feeling a little light-headed. Would you mind if I sit down?’
‘Oh . . . um . . . sure – of course.’ I nod, shuffling up a bit to make room for him. I suddenly feel ridiculously nervous, the way I always feel when I’m really attracted to someone. I glance surreptitiously at him. He’s still wearing the same funny clothes he was wearing yesterday, but even so, let’s not beat about the bush here. Fancy-dress costume or not, he’s still drop-dead good-looking.
Flicking out his thick black winter frock coat, he sits down next to me. My heartbeat quickens at his close proximity. So what if he’s wearing a frilly shirt, tight breeches and fob watch? I dated a man who wore white cowboy boots, remember?
Er, hello, Emily, you’re not dating him.
Yet, pipes up a little voice inside me.
Jesus, what’s come over me? Since when did I get so predatory?
There’s a long pause, and for a few moments we both just sit there, side by side. Me, hugging my knees and trying to check him out by peering sideways without being caught. Him, sitting completely erect, rubbing his temples and frowning.
At least that’s what he seems to be doing, but have you ever tried to peer sideways at someone? It really hurts your eyes.
‘I believe we met yesterday at Chawton Manor,’ he says, turning sideways and catching me staring right at him.
I blush hotly. Honestly, could I get any less cool? ‘Er, yeah,’ I say uncertainly, wondering what’s going to come next.
‘Miss Emily, the American, is it not?’
As he looks at me I can’t help noticing the way the light catches his eyes and how you can see these faint flecks of amber around the edges. ‘And you’re Mr . . .’ I trail off awkwardly.
‘Darcy,’ he finishes firmly. ‘Mr Darcy.’
Oh, right, I see, so we’re still playing this game. I stare at him for a moment, trying to weigh him up. ‘Do you . . . um . . . do this for a living?’ I ask.
‘Do what?’ he asks innocently.
Be all charming and sexy around single American girls.
‘I mean, are you an actor?’
‘An actor?’ He seems surprised. ‘Why, no.’ He smiles, seemingly amused by my question. I smile back, but to be honest, now I’m a bit lost. I mean, I’m not sur
e what to make of it. If he’s not an actor, then who is he?
Still feeling a bit woozy, I try thinking of some logical explanation to what’s going on here. Is he playing some joke? Is someone going to jump out from the bench in a moment and shout, ‘You’ve been punked!’ or whatever they shout here in England.
I glance around, but everything is peaceful and quiet. There’s absolutely no one around. Just me and this dark, handsome, English stranger.
Then I get a scary thought: what if he’s some weirdo murderer who goes around pretending he’s Mr Darcy to lure gullible young women like me to their doom?
In my mind I suddenly see a newspaper spinning towards me, like in one of those old black-and-white movies, and the headline:
THE TRAGIC DEATH OF A HOPELESS
ROMANTIC – MURDERED BY HER LOVE
OF LITERATURE
‘We begged her to come to Cancün,’ says close friend Stella, recently engaged to Scott, 29, an advertising executive. ‘But she wanted to meet Mr Darcy.’
Right, that does it. I’ve got to just come out with it.
‘Look, what’s going on here?’ I blurt, looking him straight in the eye. Hell, I’m American. We like to straight-talk.
He seems shocked by my abruptness. ‘Pardon me, but I am afraid I do not quite follow.’
‘You. Turning up again. In that outfit. Saying you’re Mr Darcy,’ I continue, feeling emboldened. ‘If you’re not an actor, then who are you?’
‘Mr Darcy,’ he says simply.
I look at him for a moment, trying to figure him out and failing. I really like this guy, but a joke’s a joke. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.’
‘How can that be impossible?’
‘Because you don’t exist,’ I say simply. ‘Unfortunately,’ I add with a rueful murmur.
‘In that case, could you explain to me how I happen to be sitting here next to you? Are you suggesting that I am in fact a ghost? A figment of your imagination?’ he replies archly.
Now he’s saying it, it does sound a bit far-fetched.
Er, hello? More far-fetched than him saying he’s Mr Darcy?
‘If it’s any consolation, I too find your presence a little disconcerting,’ he confesses, seeing my discomfort. Leaning forwards, elbows on knees, he rakes his fingers through his hair. ‘And I am also confused as to why our paths keep crossing.’
I glance sideways at his hunched figure and feel an unexpected warmth of affection. ‘Not as confused as I am,’ I reply softly.
‘Yesterday, after seeing you in the parlour, I wondered if I had seen you at all.’
‘Me too,’ I say, nodding vigorously.
‘You seemed to appear from nowhere and then disappear into thin air.’
‘Exactly,’ I gasp. I feel a wave of relief. So I’m not going loopy. There’s obviously a rational explanation for all of this.
But what?
For a few moments we remain perfectly still. Neither of us speaks, but the unspoken questions are whirling around us, as if we’re two figures in a snowglobe. How . . . ? Why . . . ? Who . . . ? I close my eyes. I feel dizzy.
‘I wondered if perhaps I’d imagined you.’
I hear his voice, low and measured, and I open my eyes to see he’s gazing at me as if he can’t quite believe it himself.
He leans back against the bench and folds his arms. ‘I must tell you, Miss Emily, everything about you, from your dress to your speech to your manner is like nothing I have ever experienced before.’
‘I could say the same about you.’ I smile shyly.
Moreover, there’s definitely something happening between us. And I’m definitely not imagining that.
‘Is that true?’ he demands, never taking his eyes from mine.
‘Absolutely.’ I nod. I feel slightly flustered. Is he flirting with me? My stomach tipple-tails. Jeez, this is crazy. I almost have to pinch myself.
I pinch myself.
Nope, he’s still here. On the bench. Sitting next to me. Flirting.
Feeling my crush rearing its lovesick head, I meet his gaze and for a beat we just look at each other. Only it’s a bit longer than a beat – it’s sort of like you’ve slowed it down and stretched it to make it last just that little bit longer. Long enough to make it feel significant. Long enough to feel a tingling all the way up your back to the nape of your neck . . .
‘So, what are you doing here in Winchester?’ I ask, partly out of suspicion, partly in an attempt to drag the conversation back to some kind of normality. As much as I’m loving sitting here with a handsome stranger, I need to at least try and get a grip.
‘I travelled here with my good friends, who are fascinated by the stained glass in the windows. However, I am afraid that I am not, and so instead I chose to come outside. My intention was to read my newspaper . . .’
He waves it at me as if in evidence that he’s not really stalking me, and it’s then I see something. My breath catches in the back of my throat.
What the . . . ?
Printed in black and white and staring out at me from the corner of the newspaper is the date. Only instead of saying, ‘29 December 2006,’ it reads, ‘29 December 1813.’ I look at it, rub my eyes and then look back at him.
‘They’ve printed the date wrong.’
‘You seem to make a habit of not believing things. First me, then The Times of London,’ he says, his dark eyes flashing.
‘But it’s wrong . . .’ I protest, taking it from him and scanning the headlines. Hang on, it’s not just the date, all these articles don’t seem right either. They seem to be referring to things that are part of history. As if this paper really is nearly two hundred years old. It just doesn’t add up. Unless . . .
My head starts spinning, and I look up at the man sitting next to me, taking in his shiny riding boots and tight black breeches, his frock coat and fob watch, his stiff white starched collars, his cravat, the cleft in his chin . . . My mind casts itself back over the last twenty-four hours: his appearance at the museum yesterday, the fire burning in the grate, the wallpaper, his formal introduction, how the plastic barrier seemed to vanish . . .
And now the images are becoming muddled, thrown out of sequence as I try to remember everything. Big things, little things, freaky things, unexplainable things. The letter to his sister, his newspaper dated 1813, his sudden disappearance when Spike entered the parlour and his reappearance out of the blue today . . . I look about me. And there’s never anyone around when he’s here, just me . . .
It could all be an elaborate foil, but – I take a deep breath to steady myself for what’s coming next – what if I allow for the possibility that it’s not? I pause, knowing I’m about to think the unthinkable. What if he really is who he says he is?
What if he really is Mr Darcy?
‘You’re shivering, would you like my scarf?’
I snap back to see him unknotting the white silk scarf from round his neck. I nod mutely. There has to be a rational explanation, there just has to, but I can’t think of one. And the part of me that’s in love with Mr Darcy and has spent the last year going on one shitty date after another doesn’t want there to be.
As he wordlessly leans close and tenderly places his scarf round my shoulders, I catch my breath. None of this makes sense, but what if sometimes things don’t have to make sense? That just because you can’t explain it doesn’t mean it’s not real. Like UFOs and ghosts and crop circles . . . and a character from a book come to life.
Emily, stop it. You’re being ridiculous. This is crazy. This guy’s obviously bananas and it’s rubbing off on you! Come on, girl, get a grip.
Suddenly I’m struck by an idea, and diving into my bag, I rummage around until I find what I’m looking for – my copy of Pride and Prejudice. Tugging it out, I brandish it at him in evidence. ‘Mr Darcy is a character in a book. This book,’ I say out loud as if to silence my insane thoughts.
He seems genuinely surprised. ‘I? Am in a book?’
‘Y
es, by Jane Austen. It’s all about you – I mean, Mr Darcy,’ I correct myself quickly. God, even I’m at it now. ‘Look,’ I gasp exasperatedly. I thrust my copy of the book into his hands. Now some rational explanation will have to appear. Well, he can’t argue with this evidence, can he?
For a moment he sits very still and erect, the slim volume in his hands, a look of suspicion on his face.
‘This is a book?’
I nod feverishly.
‘How strange. There is no cover,’ he says, looking genuinely perplexed.
‘Haven’t you ever seen a paperback before?’ I retort impatiently.
And then a thought hits. In Mr Darcy’s day books would have been bound in leather, paperbacks didn’t even exist, which would explain—
Quickly I brush the thought aside. Like I said, it’s impossible.
Slowly he turns the book over, his thumb rubbing the cover, his brow furrowed, then cautiously he opens it and turns to the first page. I watch his eyes scanning the text. Totally absorbed, he flicks over a few more pages. He looks completely bewildered.
‘You are indeed right,’ he says measuredly after a few moments.
‘I know,’ I reply with a sense of satisfaction. But there’s something else: a stab of disappointment. He almost had me thinking it must be true, what with the outfit and the newspaper. OK, so it’s completely insane and impossible and a complete fantasy, but what girl wouldn’t want to meet the real Mr Darcy? I mean, can you imagine? That would have been pretty amazing.
He looks up at me, his face sombre. ‘I am in a book. As are my dear friends Mr Bingley and his sister . . .’ With the book laid open on his knee, he looks down again at the pages, as if deep in thought, and then, almost imperceptibly, I catch a faint smile appear on the corners of his mouth. ‘I have to admit I am most flattered that someone should write a book about me.’
Er, wait a moment, that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.
‘Thank you for showing me this. I feel honoured. It is quite a compliment, isn’t it?’ he continues, looking up at me. The pride is audible in his voice, and I have to say, he seems very pleased with himself. ‘Although it rather disproves your theory that I do not exist,’ he adds, his eyes twinkling. ‘Not only am I here in the flesh, but I am also here in black and white.’
Me and Mr. Darcy Page 12