Chapter Seven #2
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 than 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 onto 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, Me and Mr 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 Cottage.
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.’
Flicking 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.’