Chapter Eight #2
He throws me a filthy look. ‘Yeah, well, unfortunately for me, it is. I was sent to look for you.’ His voice is laden with impatience. ‘The museum’s about to close. Everyone’s waiting for you on the coach.’
Shit. I feel really guilty. I don’t care what Spike thinks, but I do care about everyone else. ‘I got lost,’ I say defensively.
‘Lost?’ repeats Spike, his voice dripping with scorn.
As if I’m totally useless, I think, feeling annoyed at both myself and Spike.
‘And I got talking to Mr Darcy,’ I can’t resist adding.
Spike looks at me as if I’ve just gone mad. ‘Yeah, right. Pull the other one.’
‘Don’t believe me if you don’t want to.’ I shrug.
‘But the museum has obviously got someone to dress up as him. Maybe you should interview him. For your article,’ I add, smiling serenely.
‘Ask him a few questions about what it’s like being every woman’s fantasy,’ I say, my eyes flicking to Spike’s crumpled shirt that’s buttoned up all wrong. ‘He’s back there, in the parlour.’
I can see Spike is interested, but he’d never admit it. I start walking away.
‘Are you winding me up?’ he calls after me.
I turn and catch him tucking in his shirt tails. He stops immediately.
‘Me?’ I gasp, pretending to look shocked. ‘As if I’d do such a thing.’ Turning back round, I keep walking.
One. Two. Three.
I glance over my shoulder and catch Spike tugging his notebook out of his pocket and retrieving a pen from behind his ear. He doesn’t see me and, switching back into confident-journalist mode, he strides into the room.
I tiptoe down the hallway and wait outside the dining parlour, ready to eavesdrop.
Except—
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ huffs Spike, suddenly reappearing and catching me hiding out in the corridor. I jump back as he fires me a condescending look.
‘What do you mean? What’s funny?’ I snap.
‘We obviously don’t share the same sense of humour,’ he continues, not answering my question. ‘But that’s probably because the British actually have one.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Your famous sense of irony,’ I retort. I tell you, I’m really beginning to lose my patience with this guy.
‘Well, it’s slightly more sophisticated than playing a somewhat childish practical joke,’ he fires back.
‘Who’s playing a practical joke?’ I gasp, annoyed.
‘You,’ he accuses. ‘Saying some bloke calling himself Mr Darcy is in there.’ He stabs a finger towards the parlour.
‘But he is,’ I cry, my temper ignited. And grabbing him by his corduroy elbow, I march him back through the doorway.
Oh.
My indignation caves in as I take in the scene before me. Dammit. He’s right. There is no Mr Darcy. How frigging annoying. I can’t think of anything worse than being proved wrong by some sanctimonious know-all—
Something makes me stop my internal rant.
Wait a moment. It’s not just that . . . My eyes flick quickly around the room.
Now I’m thinking about it, everything looks different, or should that be the same?
The plastic barrier is back by the window, and the fire seems to have gone out in the grate.
Puzzled, I glance out of the window and am surprised to see how dark it’s become.
And it’s raining, I notice. Well, I guess that explains why the wallpaper is looking all dingy and faded again . . .
‘Like I said. Fucking hilarious,’ snaps Spike.
His voice pulls me back, and I look at him. ‘But he was here a minute ago,’ I protest in confusion.
Spike throws me a filthy glare, shakes his head and pushes past me. ‘I’ll see you back on the coach,’ he mutters, stalking back down the corridor. ‘After you’ve said goodbye to your imaginary friend,’ he adds sarcastically.
God, he really is a dick. Listening to his footsteps retreating, I flop back against the wall and stare into space.
Still, that is weird about the guy disappearing.
I glance across at a small doorway in the corner of the room.
I wonder if that leads somewhere? Somewhere restricted to the public?
I guess he must have left through there.
Although I only left a moment ago and he was writing a letter over on the other side of the room, I recollect, glancing across at the empty chair.
Hmm, what a shame. He was really nice too.
Wandering over to the writing table, I take a look. Everything is as it was before: the desk with the letter, the feather quill and delicate, square-cut glass bottle of purpley-black ink. Only now there’s a letter.
Wow, he wrote that quickly. I take a closer look at it.
Addressed to ‘Dearest sister’ and signed ‘Darcy’, the handwriting is typically old-fashioned, all swirls and loops and difficult to read, and yet .
. . No, but that can’t be right. The paper’s gone all yellow and the ink is faded. It looks really old.
I rub my dry eyes and stare at it for a moment.
Nope, he can’t have written that. It’s impossible.
It must be one of Jane Austen’s original letters that’s been moved.
It was probably displayed on the dining table or something, and I just didn’t notice it.
Which isn’t surprising, seeing as I was so tired.
Am so tired, I think, yawning. God, why do I feel so groggy?
I turn to leave and then, suddenly, a thought strikes. Why would Jane Austen write a letter pretending to be from one of her characters?
I think about it for a moment. It doesn’t make sense.
I know there must be a simple explanation, but I can’t figure it out.
And right now I don’t have time to, I tell myself, zoning back in and throwing my bag over my shoulder.
If I don’t leave now, I’m going to miss the coach and then Spike will never let me hear the last of it.
He’ll be even more unbearable than he is already. If that’s possible.
And you know what? From what I’ve seen so far of Spike I-think-I’m-so-great Hargreaves, I think it probably is.