I hang back as Miss Steane leads the rest of the tour through a doorway, and when I’m sure no one’s looking, I slip quietly out of the room.
I wander into the narrow hallway and go downstairs, looking for the exit. I’m sure we came in this way, but then again, there’s no one worse for directions then me. I turn a corner, then another. It’s strange – the house isn’t very big at all, in fact it’s quite small, but I’ve lost my bearings. No, it’s not this way, I realise, seeing the gift shop ahead and retracing my steps.
Doubling back on myself, I turn a corner. Ahead of me I see a door has fallen closed. Aha, that must be it. Pushing open the door, I walk inside, only to recognise it’s the dining parlour where I was earlier. Damn, it must be the other way. Stifling a yawn, I wander inside anyway. It’s nice and quiet in here. Maybe I can sit down for a little while. Close my eyes for a moment.
Feeling a wave of jet lag, I glance woozily around the room. There’s a wooden chair but it’s the one Jane Austen used to write at her table and it’s sectioned off to the public by a plastic barrier. Of course I can’t sit there. I don’t know if it’s the real thing, but it looks like an antique. It’s, like, two hundred years old or something.
Then again I am really exhausted.
I eye it for a moment. I’ve never been one to break rules, but saying that, there’s no one here and it would be just for a few minutes. I mean, it wouldn’t do any harm, I’d be super careful . . .
Stepping over the plastic barrier, I sink down on to the wooden chair gratefully. Ahhh, that’s better. I lean back and rest my head against the wooden frame. In my head I hear Miss Steane’s words: ‘By the window is the original table where she revised Pride and Prejudice and created the Mr Darcy we know and love today. And we also have an example of the type of feather quill she would have used to bring him to life. Or could it be, perhaps, the very one!’
I look at the small polished table in front of me. In the corner there’s a bottle of ink against which is propped a quill. Of course I can’t touch it. You’re absolutely not allowed to touch any of the items: there’s signs everywhere telling you so in no uncertain terms. I’d really get into trouble.
Saying that, there’s nothing worse than a sign saying ‘Don’t touch’ for making you want to touch something, is there?
I pick up the quill. If I was expecting something spooky to happen, I’m disappointed, and for a moment I just hold it in my fingers to get the feel of it. It’s probably a reproduction anyway, but even so, it’s still fascinating to think Jane Austen wrote a whole book with a pen like this. I mean, can you imagine? A whole book?
I glance at the ink bottle, an idea stirring. Honestly, this is so completely unlike me to be even contemplating this, but how cool would it be to write something? Anything. Just my name even. Of course I can’t.
But of course I know I’m going to.
Unscrewing the lid, I dip the nib, and using the back of a piece of paper that was in my pamphlet, I press it carefully against the blank page and write Emily, then with small, scratchy strokes, add & Mr Darcy. I smile sheepishly at myself. Look at me. It’s like I’m thirteen years old again and back at school. And just for the hell of it I begin doodling Emily Darcy, Mr & Mrs Darcy, Emily 4 Darcy and a little love-heart with two arrows through it.
My smile turns into a wide yawn and I stop to let it out. Oh, wow, I really am dog-tired. Putting down the quill, I rub my watering eyes. It feels as if I’ve got lead weights plonked on top of my eyelids. The waves of jet lag are coming thick and fast now. I’m going to have to close my eyes. Just for a moment . . .
‘Ahem.’
I must have dropped off, because the next thing I’m jolted awake by someone coughing. I open my eyes to see a man over by the fireplace. Tall and broad, he has thick black hair curling over his collar and dark eyebrows that look like two smudges of charcoal. They’re pitched together in curiosity.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ he says.
‘Uh . . . ?’ Still half asleep, I prop myself upright and blearily survey my surroundings, taking a moment to register. Uh, where am I?
Then it hits me. Oh, shit.
Hastily I jump up from the chair. Shit, shit and double shit. Trust me to fall asleep and get caught.
‘I . . . um . . .’ Suddenly I realise I’ve drooled on my chin. Oh, God, how embarrassing. My cheeks burning, I wipe my chin with my sleeve. ‘Sorry . . . I . . . um . . . was just resting for a moment . . .’ I trail off uncertainly as the stranger crosses the room and I suddenly notice his odd clothes. He’s wearing a frock coat, breeches and a white shirt with this funny high-necked collar and some kind of cravat. I glance down at his feet. And what’s with the riding boots?
Puzzled, I watch him as he strides confidently around the large dining table in the middle of the room. That’s funny. It’s set for dinner, but I don’t remember candles being lit.
‘Are you lost?’ His voice is deep and softly spoken. Replacing a slim volume into the showcase in the corner, he turns to face me.
‘Um . . .’ I falter. Up close I can’t help noticing he has one of those sexy clefts in his chin that movie stars always have. I don’t think I’ve seen a man with one of those in real life. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I was lost exactly,’ I begin. ‘I’m actually here with a tour . . .’
‘A tour?’ he repeats, furrowing his brow.
I nod. ‘Yeah, but I just wanted to get some air . . .’ I explain, gesturing outside ‘. . . but it’s raining.’
Only it’s not raining. Looking out of the window, I’m surprised to see that instead of gloomy grey skies, it’s bright outside. Shafts of winter sunshine are bouncing in through the panes of mullioned glass and shining on the walls, brightening up the wallpaper.
Wallpaper that had seemed so faded and old earlier, but now looks much more vibrant and colourful, as if it was only decorated yesterday . . . And it’s much warmer, I realise, remembering how chilly it was in here before.
Then I spot a fire burning in the grate. I could have sworn it wasn’t lit before.
‘Someone’s lit a fire,’ I point out, somewhat obviously. Or am I wrong? Was it lit before? To be honest, I can’t remember. I’m feeling so muddled. I’m vaguely aware of my forehead throbbing, and I press my fingertips to my temples. It must be the jet lag. My head feels thick and woolly, as if it’s packed with cotton balls. I’m not thinking straight. Quickly, I pull myself together.
‘Yes, I asked the housekeeper.’ He nods, his face impassive. ‘It gets rather cold in here towards late afternoon.’
‘I can imagine,’ I reply, briskly unfurling my scarf from round my neck and beginning to fold it up. I’m in mid-fold when it registers. Did he just say he instructed the housekeeper? As in this is his house?
Realisation dawns. Oh, shit. Trust me. He’s probably the owner of Chawton Manor. Aren’t all the big stately homes and historical houses still privately owned and just opened up to the public to pay for the upkeep or something? God, he’s probably a member of the British aristocracy. Which would explain the funny clothes, I realise, peering at him uncertainly. He must have been hunting or fishing or something.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise,’ I begin apologising. ‘I had no idea you lived here. I didn’t mean to intrude.’
His dark eyes are sweeping across me like searchlights and I’m suddenly aware I’m doing this flicky thing with my hair that I always do when I like someone. Feeling like a dork, I stop doing it immediately and fold my arms self-consciously.
‘You are not. I am merely visiting.’
‘You are?’ I feel a rush of relief. ‘Snap. Me too.’ I smile, then holding out my hand, add, ‘I’m Emily.’
He seems slightly taken aback by my introduction and for a moment there’s an awkward pause. Shit. I’m probably being too chatty. I do that sometimes when I’m nervous. And he does seem kind of shy.
‘Forgive me,’ he apologises. ‘I have not introduced myself properly.’
Flick
ing out his black velvet coat tails, he steps towards me and, ignoring my outstretched hand, bows his head politely. Then he looks up and fixes me with the most intense, velvety brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
‘I, am Mr Darcy.’
Chapter Eight
I stare at him in bewilderment.
What the . . . ?
For a moment I’m too startled to say anything. I don’t know how to react.
Then I burst out laughing.
‘Oh, ha, ha, very funny! I get it.’ I grin widely. ‘This is one of those working museums and you’re one of those people who dress up in costume and role-play, aren’t you?’ Suddenly it’s all making perfect sense. The clothes. The formality. The quaintly old-fashioned way of speaking.
‘Role-play?’ he repeats in confusion. ‘I am afraid I do not understand.’
I must say, he’s really good at playing Mr Darcy. He’s just like I imagine him to be. And just as good-looking. Better even.
‘Though it took me a moment to work it out,’ I confess. ‘You really had me going there.’
‘Going where?’ he replies innocently.
‘You know, with the funny clothes and everything . . .’
Puzzled, he looks down at himself, then back at me. ‘Forgive me, I was not going to mention it, but I was thinking the same about yourself.’ He seems to be bracing himself for what he’s about to say next. ‘I do not want to be rude, but are those trousers you are wearing?’
I look down and immediately regret my choice of clothing. I’m wearing my baggy old pink cords. Stella’s been telling me to chuck these away for years, but I’ve never listened. They’re about two sizes too big for me and subsequently really comfy. They’re also, for the exact same reason, deeply unflattering.
Insecurity grips. He’s right. What on earth am I wearing? ‘Trousers’ suggests fashionable and figure-hugging. These are neither. I look terrible. I look like someone’s sofa.
‘Oh, these old things?’ I say, trying to brazen it out and pretend I don’t care. God, it’s always the way, isn’t it? Why is it that when you do put on some make-up and blow-dry your hair you don’t bump into anyone vaguely attractive, and then when you step out looking like this, you bump into this. It’s like some horrible law of the universe or something. Like having a credit note. Before, you covet everything in that store, but as soon as you get a credit note, guaranteed you’ll never find anything you want ever again. It’s so unfair.
I look at this now. Underneath that Victorian costume, he’s obviously one of those really trendy types. I can just tell. He looks like one of Stella’s friends, with the long sideburns and the dark, floppy hair that falls just so over his forehead. And I know for a fact that hair doesn’t do that without a lot of product.
‘I got them in a sale. They didn’t have my size . . .’ I can hear myself gabbling as I always do when I find someone really attractive. It’s like my tongue winds itself up like a clockwork toy. ‘. . . But they were reduced from fifty bucks to only fifteen, so I couldn’t say no.’
And that’s another thing I always do – tell people how much I pay for things – it’s as if I have to boast about my bargains and what a savvy shopper I am. Realising I’ve done it again, I cringe inwardly.
‘Bucks?’
‘Oh, I forgot, we’re talking pounds now,’ I correct myself while doing a quick calculation in my head. ‘It’s probably roughly about ten pounds. Or quid,’ I add, feeling a twinge of pride that I’m picking up the lingo.
‘I think you must be mistaken.’
‘Am I? Oops, probably. Math has never been my strong subject, I must admit.’ I quickly redo the figures. ‘No, I think that’s about right.’ I smile self-consciously as he peers at my lords in disbelief.
‘They cost ten pounds?’ He looks at me with concern. ‘I find that very hard to believe. That would be rather a lot of money.’
A typical man’s response, I note, thinking about the reaction of every boyfriend I’ve ever had when I’ve come home from a rare shopping trip and showed them my purchases. Why do men always think clothes should cost the price of a beer?
‘Did you have them tailored?’
‘No, they’re from Gap.’
‘And where might that be?’
I stare at him, incredulous. ‘You’re telling me you’ve never heard of Gap?’
His face is serious. ‘Should I have?’
I’m about to answer when it dawns on me that I’m being completely thick. Of course he’s heard of Gap, he’s just pretending not to. This is all part of the act. It’s probably really important he stays in the role for his job.
‘Silly me, of course not.’ I smile knowingly.
His face relaxes, and thinking it might be rather fun, I decide to play along.
‘But maybe you need to get out more,’ I tease.
OK, make that flirt.
‘I can assure you I do go out,’ he protests haughtily. ‘Only last week I went hunting with Mr Bingley.’
I stifle a giggle. Honestly, I’m going to have to say something. I won’t be able to keep this role-playing thing up. Glancing around to make sure there’s no one about but me, I lean towards him in confidence. He smells deliciously of cologne, and my stomach does this funny flip-flopping thing.
‘You can drop the Darcy act,’ I whisper. ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone.’
He stares at me in confusion. ‘I am afraid I do not understand.’
‘Really?’ I persist, raising my eyebrows in a nudge-nudge-wink-wink kind of way.
‘Really,’ he replies, completely stone-faced.
OK, I give up. This guy obviously takes his job very seriously. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get him out of character. He’s probably like one of those method actors.
‘Don’t worry, forget it.’ I smile.
But he doesn’t smile back. Instead, he studies my face with his dark, liquid eyes. My chest tightens. There’s something very sexy about him, yet I can’t work him out. One minute he seems shy and almost gauche, and the next he has an air of arrogance about him. It’s a lethal combination.
‘Your accent, where is it from?’ he’s asking now. ‘I have been trying to place it, but—’
‘New York,’ I blurt, breaking his gaze and looking away. He’s making me all jittery.
‘New York?’ His expression is one of astonishment. ‘You are from America?’
Just the way he speaks is adorable. He has that lovely deep voice and the sexiest English accent.
Er, hello, now it’s your turn to say something, Emily.
‘Um . . . yeah. I’m here on a literature tour – you know, a week exploring the English countryside, visiting museums, places of interest, like, for example, Bath and Winchester . . .’
Hearing myself blabbering off my itinerary, I cringe inwardly. Oh, God, what am I doing? I sound like a moron. Normally I can be counted on to come out with a witty one-liner, or at least something vaguely amusing, but today I don’t know what’s happened to me.
You like him. That’s what happened to you, Emily.
‘. . . and it’s been really great so far. I’ve met a lot of interesting people.’ I break off and see he’s watching me with apparent fascination. I wonder if he’s got a girlfriend?
I smile shyly and this time he smiles back. It’s a slight, awkward, unsure smile, almost as if smiling isn’t something he does very much, which of course makes it incredibly seductive. Who wants to be smiled at by someone who throws them out willy-nilly? No, this smile feels special. I feel special.
‘Would that include myself?’ he asks quietly.
Flip-flop. There goes my stomach again.
‘Um . . . yeah,’ I manage a wobbly reply. He must have a girlfriend – he’s far too gorgeous to be single.
‘Well, then allow me to return the compliment.’
Oh, go on then – if you must, I feel like quipping. Thankfully I don’t.
There’s a pause and a look passes between us. If he wasn’t
way out of my league, I’d think he liked me.
‘Look, I should be going,’ I say reluctantly, my voice coming out all high and tinny. I swallow hard and try to compose myself. Honestly, Emily, what’s come over you? It’s like you’ve got a crush or something.
‘Yes, I too have matters I need to attend to. A letter I promised to write to my sister.’
‘Well, nice to meet you, Mr Darcy,’ I say pointedly, holding out my hand again to shake his.
He glances at my outstretched hand, then bows his head. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, too, Miss Emily,’ he says, his eyes lingering on me.
OK, so it’s official. I have a crush. A full-blown, adolescent crush.
I stand there for a moment, not wanting to leave as I know I’m never going to see him again, but knowing I’ve got to. After all, I can’t stand here all day just gawping at him, can I? I have to preserve some modicum of cool. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old New Yorker, the manager of a bookstore, a mature adult with a pension plan and the beginnings of faint pencil lines around her eyes. I can’t be going around acting like some giddy, love-struck teenager.
Even if right now I feel like one.
Tossing my hair over my shoulder in what I hope is a sophisticated, yet casual move, I turn and walk confidently across the room. Reaching the door, I tug it open, then glance back. He’s seated at the little writing table, the fading sunlight from the window casting him almost in silhouette. Huh, he must have moved the plastic barrier as it’s not there any more, I muse. Back ramrod straight, he’s dipping his quill in the ink, tapping the nib against the glass neck of the bottle. He’s obviously found some sheaves of paper from somewhere as, with a steady hand, he begins writing his letter. I have to say I’m impressed. You’ve got to hand it to the museum: he’s pretty goddamn realistic. If you didn’t know better, you really would think he’s Mr Darcy come to life.