Me and Mr Darcy (39 page)

Finishing with a flourish, she brings her hands together and sets off a little round of applause. I join in though I wasn’t really listening. I’m too busy thinking about Mr Darcy. About how I have to tell him it’s over, that I can’t see him any more. And how on earth do I find him to tell him?

Wondering where I was going to bump into him again has always seemed so romantic and exciting, but suddenly it isn’t fun any more. I feel a flash of frustration. I don’t want a man who’s mysterious and enigmatic – I want a man I can text. Me, who hates all this constant texting, who’s always complaining it’s so unromantic and takes away the mystery. Now I’d do anything to be able to text
“Where R U?!”
and press ‘send’.

‘Though Chatsworth House, which Jane Austen visited in 1811, may have been the real background for Pemberley, I think you will probably all agree, ladies, that Lyme Hall would probably be of a more manageable size for Elizabeth when she becomes lady of the house . . .’

A couple of hours later and Miss Steane’s coming to the end of her guided tour. As she leads the way into the last and final room, I glance quickly around, as I’ve done with every room in the house, hoping to catch sight of Mr Darcy. Hoping that he’ll just turn up unexpectedly as he always does. That any minute now I’m going to step into a room or walk through a doorway or turn to the side and he’ll be there. That tall, dark, instantly recognisable figure, the familiar brooding expression, the unmistakable voice with its gravity and perfect vowels.

Yet I’ve looked around every marble bust, behind every stick of furniture and out of every window and I haven’t seen him. Now, with our visit soon to be over, I’m fast losing hope that he’s going to show up. And beginning to think that I might, in fact, never see him again.

At the thought, I feel a strange mixture of sadness and relief. I guess it solves the problem of having to break up with him, and yet somehow it doesn’t feel right – after everything that’s happened, I feel I need to say goodbye properly. I need, to use a dreadful Americanism, to have closure.

After the tour has finished, everyone makes their way to the café and souvenir shop, but instead I go outside and take a look at the view. It really is beautiful here. I hadn’t noticed just how stunning this place is. I was too busy with my head in my book when we first arrived to even notice the impressive drive through the deer park, the hall itself which resembles a sumptuous Italianate palace, surrounded by gardens and fronted by the most incredible reflection in the lake. But now, as I stand here drinking it all in, it fairly takes your breath away.

The hall itself is magnificent, if a little overwhelming and stuffed with clocks, tapestries and woodcarvings, while the seventeen acres of Victorian garden, including an Edwardian rose garden, deer park and woodland, stretch out for ever. But it’s not just the aesthetics, it’s the feel of the place. Lyme Park has got that magical quality to it. I can tell why the BBC chose it. It has a serenity. It’s timeless. You could imagine that nothing has changed in a hundred years – it’s like time has stood still.

I draw in a long breath and stuff my gloved hands further into my pockets. Alone in the clear, fresh January air, I remain here, gazing out at the lake, absently watching the birds in the distance, squawking and swooping across the water and over the branches of the bare trees.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

Broken from my reverie, I turn to see Miss Steane walking across the path to join me. I feel a beat of regret. I don’t feel much up to talking. I want to be alone.

‘Oh, yeah, very.’ I nod. ‘We don’t get views like this in New York,’ I add, for something to say. My knack for small talk seems to have deserted me.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ she enthuses. Joining me, she stares straight ahead out at the view.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, at her delicate features, the curls of hair escaping from her fur hat, which matches her muffler. You know, she really does remind me of someone. I’ve been wracking my brains all week, but I just can’t think who.

‘So have you enjoyed your literature lover’s trip, Miss Albright?’ She suddenly turns and catches me looking at her.

‘Oh, yeah.’ I nod, quickly looking away again. ‘It’s been . . .’ I search for the word. Well, what word sums up this roller coaster of a week? I can’t think of one. Does one even exist? ‘. . . Interesting,’ I manage.

Miss Steane looks satisfied by my reply.

‘Which has been your favourite part?’

I hesitate. Before, I would have definitely said Mr Darcy. Well, I wouldn’t have
said
it, but I would have thought it. But now? Now, I’m not so sure. Everything is so jumbled up and messy and confused. I don’t really know what to think.

‘Um . . . all of it,’ I say finally. ‘It’s all been great.’

‘And did you read Mr Hargreaves’s email?’

‘Yeah,’ I reply, before it registers what she’s just asked me. I look at her sharply. Miss Steane is looking at me, her hazel eyes bright in the winter sunshine. ‘How did you . . . ?’

‘Know he’d written to you?’ she finishes, and smiles. ‘I gave him your email address.’ There’s a beat. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

I pause for a moment, allowing this to register. ‘No, of course not.’ I shake my head. And then, looking back at her, ask quickly, ‘Did he tell you what happened? What he was going to put in the email?’

‘No. I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell me.’ She stares at me for a few moments, as if deep in thought, before finally speaking. ‘Prejudice can be a terrible thing, Emily. As can pride,’ she says quietly, and looks at me soberly. ‘You know, Jane Austen always made her heroines feisty. They stuck by their principles, went after what they wanted, were not afraid to admit when they were wrong.’ She looks at me, her eyes flashing. ‘Not doing anything can be worse than doing the wrong thing.’

I absorb her words. They resonate within me. I turn them over in my mind and am about to say something when I’m distracted by what looks to be someone swimming in the lake. Surely not – it’s
January.
I crinkle up my forehead and squint to see better. The swimmer is pulling himself out of the water. Christ, he’s still in his clothes. He must be
freezing.
You can see his nipples from here, right through his white shirt that’s wet through and clinging to his chest . . .

Holy shit. It’s the famous lake scene. Except it’s not Colin Firth . . .

‘It’s Mr Darcy,’ I gasp, before I can help myself.

As soon as I’ve said it I clamp my mitten over my mouth, wishing I could stuff the words right back in again. Fuck. Me and my big mouth. Why did I have to go and say that? My tour guide’s going to think I’m totally nuts.

I glance at Miss Steane, but she hasn’t flinched. Instead she’s still standing there, perfectly poised. She turns to me, a faint smile of amusement playing on her lips. ‘I hate to say it, but he’s not a patch on Colin Firth, is he?’

‘No, he’s not,’ I laugh – and then freeze.

What the . . . ?

Did she just . . . ?

I open my mouth but no words come out. Which is weird as there are a million of the things whirling round in my head right now, forming a million different questions.

But I don’t have time to ask any of them. I need to talk to Mr Darcy before he disappears again. I look sharply back down at the lake. Shit, he’s already striding away across manicured lawns.

‘I gotta go,’ is all I can manage to stammer. And without even a backwards glance, I begin hurtling down the hill after him.

By the time I get to the bottom, he’s gone.

I scan left and right, hoping to catch sight of him, but seeing nothing I slow down and come to a standstill by a large hedge. I bend double and drop my hands to my knees to catch my breath. My heart is thumping like a piston, so hard it feels as if it might burst right out of my chest. Jesus, I had no idea I was so unfit.

I stay like that for a few moments, waiting until my breathing returns to normal, staring at my grassy, mud-splattered boots and wondering what I’m going to do next. Heaving a sigh, I push my hair out of my eyes and focus. I might not be an Olympic athlete, but it didn’t take me long to run down that hill. He’s got to be around here somewhere. But where?

I take a gamble and head towards the gardens. Now, I don’t know the first thing about gardens. Living in New York, the most green-fingered I’ve ever got is growing some chili peppers on my windowsill. I used to have the most beautiful shocking-pink orchid Stella bought me, but when all the flowers fell off I thought I’d killed it and threw it away. Only to learn that, apparently, that’s what’s supposed to happen, and new flowers grow. Suffice to say, Stella
killed
me.

However, you don’t have to be an expert to see that these gardens are something else. Even in winter there are all these amazing-looking shrubs and plants, hedges displaying some incredible – and
very
steady-handed – topiary, manicured borders, ornate trellises, formal nurseries and a maze of pathways winding round. On any other occasion I would love to take my time and wander along them, like when I was little and I used to go to nurseries with my dad and wander around the greenhouses, looking at all the different plants, inhaling the humid scent of soil and flowers. But right now there’s something I need to do, a conversation I need to have: I owe it to Mr Darcy.

And sticking my childhood memories firmly in my pocket, I hurry off down one of the paths.

After a while of zigzagging backwards and forwards and weaving left and right, on the lookout for a flash of his tailcoat, a whiff of his cologne or the sound of gravel crunching under his footsteps, I’m beginning to lose hope. It’s getting late, we’ll be leaving soon and there’s
still
no sight of him. I’m totally at a loss.

I’m also, I abruptly realise, totally lost.

Shit.

Slowing down my pace, I glance around me, trying to find my bearings. OK, no problem, I just have to find the sun as that will tell me— Actually, I’m not exactly sure what that will tell me – but anyhow I can’t find the sun as the sky is now heavy with a dark wadding of clouds and it looks like it’s going to rain any minute. Double shit.

I try looking for other clues. Only I’ve been looking ahead for Mr Darcy the whole time and haven’t been paying attention to anything else. I can’t remember any clues. In fact, I can’t even remember if I just turned left by that fountain or right. Or did I go straight?

I gaze doubtfully at the myriad of paths. It’s like a maze with all these tall hedges on either side. Gut instinct is telling me that I came from that direction, but then gut instinct once told me that gate 20 at JFK Airport was ‘that way’ and I ended up going completely the wrong way, nearly missing my flight and being whooshed through the airport on an electric cart with a flashing light and a siren blaring in order to make it. The word ‘embarrassing’ doesn’t even come close.

Spotting an old stone bench, I abandon my attempts at orientation and wander over to it. It’s tucked away under an even older-looking tree and covered in lichen and moss, but I sit down anyway. Instantly I can feel the cold seeping through the denim of my jeans. I try tugging my coat underneath myself, but it’s not long enough and won’t stretch. Defeat stabs.

Ever get that feeling that nothing’s going right? That you’ve totally messed up? That whatever you do, you’re not going to be able to make it right again? That it’s too late?

Pressure thumps against my temples and I feel a flash of weariness. I’m tired. I’ve had enough. I can’t go chasing around the countryside for a man who’s not supposed to exist. Just so I can break up with him. Just so I can say goodbye.

Unexpectedly, I feel a wetness on my cheek and a big fat tear rolls down my face. Furiously I brush it away with the sleeve of my coat. But another one appears, and another, and another, until my sleeve is all wet and the tears are coming thick and fast.

I give up. I totally and utterly give up on everything. I give up trying to find Mr Darcy, I give up hoping Spike will forgive me, and I give up believing that somehow I’m going to fix things and there’s going to be a happy ending.

And hugging my knees to my chest, I bury my face in my scarf and sob my foolish heart out.

 

I
don’t know how long I stay like that. Curled up tight into a ball, my shoulders shaking. Or how long I would have stayed like that if I hadn’t felt a hand on my arm.

Even before I look up, I know who it is.

‘Emily, dear, whatever is the matter?’

Mr Darcy is peering down at me, his sharp features etched with surprise. I sniff frantically, rubbing away the strands of damp hair that are sticking to my clammy face. I want to feel relieved that he’s here, I
should
feel relieved, but I don’t. Everything’s such a mess. I’m such a mess, I think miserably, sniffing again, as my nose won’t stop running. God, I must look terrible.

Without saying anything Mr Darcy offers me a white handkerchief. I take it gratefully and wipe my puffy eyes, streaking the cotton with big black smudges of eyeliner and mascara, and then blow my snotty nose. Oh, what the hell. Forget the feminine mystique, I don’t care any more. Screwing the handkerchief into a ball in my fist, I finally raise my swollen eyes to look at him.

As usual, he’s standing there, immaculately groomed and completely stoic. Stoic to the point of impassive.

‘Emily, please. Why are you crying?’

There’s a faint air of impatience in his voice and I notice his hand is still resting on my arm. Now more than ever do I want someone to just put their arms round me and give me a hug, instead of being all repressed and brooding.

‘I was looking for you, I saw you swimming, but I couldn’t find you . . .’ I sniff, my voice coming out a bit trembly.