Chapter Twelve
Leaving the rest of the party behind, I quickly find a quiet patch of frosty grass behind the cathedral and collapse onto 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:
1. What a weird coincidence. What on earth is he doing here?
2. 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.
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.
What’s come over me?
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 Cottage,’ 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 sure 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 for 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 had!’ 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 Cancún,’ 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 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 . . .