Chapter Twelve #2
My head starts spinning, and I look up at the man sitting next to me, taking in his shiny riding boots and tight black breeches, his frock coat and fob watch, his stiff white starched collars, his cravat, the cleft in his chin .
. . My mind casts itself back over the last twenty-four hours: his appearance at the museum yesterday, the fire burning in the grate, the wallpaper, his formal introduction, how the plastic barrier seemed to vanish . . .
And now the images are becoming muddled, thrown out of sequence as I try to remember everything.
Big things, little things, freaky things, unexplainable things.
The letter to his sister, his newspaper dated 1813, his sudden disappearance when Spike entered the parlour and his reappearance out of the blue today .
. . I look about me. And there’s never anyone around when he’s here, just me . . .
It could all be an elaborate foil, but – I take a deep breath to steady myself for what’s coming next – what if I allow for the possibility that it’s not? I pause, knowing I’m about to think the unthinkable. What if he really is who he says he is?
What if he really is Mr Darcy?
‘You’re shivering, would you like my scarf?’
I snap back to see him unknotting the white silk scarf from round his neck.
I nod mutely. There has to be a rational explanation, there just has to, but I can’t think of one.
And the part of me that’s in love with Mr Darcy and has spent the last year going on one shitty date after another doesn’t want there to be.
As he wordlessly leans close and tenderly places his scarf round my shoulders, I catch my breath.
None of this makes sense, but what if sometimes things don’t have to make sense?
That just because you can’t explain it doesn’t mean it’s not real.
Like UFOs and ghosts and crop circles . .
. and a character from a book come to life.
Emily, stop it. You’re being ridiculous. This is crazy. This guy’s obviously bananas and it’s rubbing off on you! Come on, girl, get a grip.
Suddenly I’m struck by an idea, and diving into my bag, I rummage around until I find what I’m looking for – my copy of Pride and Prejudice. Tugging it out, I brandish it at him in evidence. ‘Mr Darcy is a character in a book. This book,’ I say out loud as if to silence my insane thoughts.
He seems genuinely surprised. ‘I? Am in a book?’
‘Yes, by Jane Austen. It’s all about you – I mean, Mr Darcy,’ I correct myself quickly. God, even I’m at it now. ‘Look,’ I gasp exasperatedly. I thrust my copy of the book into his hands. Now some rational explanation will have to appear. Well, he can’t argue with this evidence, can he?
For a moment he sits very still and erect, the slim volume in his hands, a look of suspicion on his face.
‘This is a book?’
I nod feverishly.
‘How strange. There is no cover,’ he says, looking genuinely perplexed.
‘Haven’t you ever seen a paperback before?’ I retort impatiently.
And then a thought hits. In Mr Darcy’s day books would have been bound in leather, paperbacks didn’t even exist, which would explain—
Quickly I brush the thought aside. Like I said, it’s impossible.
Slowly he turns the book over, his thumb rubbing the cover, his brow furrowed, then cautiously he opens it and turns to the first page. I watch his eyes scanning the text. Totally absorbed, he flicks over a few more pages. He looks completely bewildered.
‘You are indeed right,’ he says measuredly after a few moments.
‘I know,’ I reply with a sense of satisfaction.
But there’s something else: a stab of disappointment.
He almost had me thinking it must be true, what with the outfit and the newspaper.
OK, so it’s completely insane and impossible and a complete fantasy, but what girl wouldn’t want to meet the real Mr Darcy?
I mean, can you imagine? That would have been pretty amazing.
He looks up at me, his face sombre. ‘I am in a book. As are my dear friends Mr Bingley and his sister . . .’ With the book laid open on his knee, he looks down again at the pages, as if deep in thought, and then, almost imperceptibly, I catch a faint smile appear on the corners of his mouth.
‘I have to admit I am most flattered that someone should write a book about me.’
Er, wait a moment, that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.
‘Thank you for showing me this. I feel honoured. It is quite a compliment, isn’t it?
’ he continues, looking up at me. The pride is audible in his voice, and I have to say, he seems very pleased with himself.
‘Although it rather disproves your theory that I do not exist,’ he adds, his eyes twinkling.
‘Not only am I here in the flesh, but I am also here in black and white.’
Completely thrown, I open my mouth to say something, although I’m not quite sure what.
I mean, is this guy simply crazy? Admittedly, he seems perfectly normal, apart from his clothes, and he is really attractive .
. . God, that would be just my luck, wouldn’t it?
I finally meet someone I’ve got real chemistry with and he turns out to be a total fruit-loop.
‘But there is one thing I don’t understand . . .’
I snap back to see my dark, handsome stranger flicking through the book, his smile having vanished. ‘Why are the rest of the pages empty?’
‘Empty?’ I repeat.
Oh, God, I was right. He is crazy.
‘Look.’
With my heart sinking, I watch him hold out the book and fan through the second half.
Typical, just typi—
Hang on a minute.
I feel a jolt of astonishment. Instead of the pages being full of printed text, they’re all entirely blank.
But how could that be? It’s impossible.
All at once I wobble and a tiny flicker of doubt catches alight inside me. Something very weird is going on here. I was just reading that book on the coach. That book was normal before, and yet now—
‘How did you do that?’ I gasp, snatching it from him.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ he says simply.
I’m thumbing through the book now, as if somehow expecting the rest of the story to reappear, but the pages remain resolutely blank.
There’s probably a hundred or so of them.
White, empty pieces of paper. I stare at them in disbelief, trying to think of a rational explanation.
But there isn’t one. How can words from a page simply disappear? Vanish into thin air?
‘Is it some kind of trick?’ I gasp in confusion. I’ve seen my dad make playing cards disappear up his sleeve, but actual text . . . ‘Are you a magician or performance artist?’
He looks troubled. ‘I assure you I am Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. Why will you not believe me?’
‘But then how . . .?’ I trail off. ‘It just doesn’t make sense,’ I mutter, shaking my head.
‘Miss Albright?’
I’m suddenly aware of a shadow falling over me and I twirl round on the bench to see Miss Steane standing right beside us.
‘Have you heard a word I’ve been saying?’
How long has she been there? I’ve clearly been so transfixed by Mr Darcy that I didn’t hear her coming. I turn back to Mr Darcy, ready to explain—
Except the bench is now empty . . .
‘I was saying we’re due to leave any minute. If you don’t hurry inside immediately, you will miss out on the opportunity to visit one of our most important literary sites.’
Where’s he gone? I feel a crushing disappointment. With my heart thumping I run my hand over the space next to me on the bench. It’s still warm from where he was sitting. I couldn’t have imagined him. And yet – I put my hands to my throat – his scarf isn’t there any more.
‘Miss Albright?’
‘Um . . . yeah, coming,’ I say, feeling all disorientated.
‘Well, come along now. Chop chop,’ she cheers, vigorously clapping her tiny leather-gloved hands together. ‘Even though I say it myself, I think you’ll find the stained glass fascinating.’ There’s a pause, and then she peers at me suspiciously. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Er . . . yeah . . . I was feeling a bit light-headed, but I’m fine now,’ I reply, trying to sound casual when I’m anything but. I press my throbbing temples. We didn’t even get the chance to maybe arrange to see each other again. I stand up shakily. That’s if he was even real in the first place.
‘Forgive me if I’m intruding, but I understand you were at the local drinking establishment last night.’
Gosh, what is it with everyone? I’m like the talk of the whole tour.
‘Um . . . yes, I went with Maeve. The two single girlies,’ I say jokingly.
If I’m expecting her to disapprove, I’m wrong. ‘Excellent. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love,’ she says wisely, then adds confidingly, ‘I would, however, advise staying away from the cider.’
Oh, my God, who told her?
‘Alrighty. Ready?’ she barks, advice over.
‘Um . . . yes . . . absolutely.’
Taking a deep lungful of fresh air, I stick my hands in my pockets, but as I turn to follow Miss Steane she cries, ‘Oh, look,’ and points at something half hidden in the grass underneath the bench.
‘What’s that?’ I ask, feeling a thump of excitement.
‘He must have dropped his scarf,’ she remarks, before continuing her brisk pace towards the cathedral.
As she walks away, her footsteps crunching rhythmically on the gravel, I bend down to pick it up. So I didn’t imagine it. I feel butterflies inside as I press it against my nose. It smells just like him. That same distinctive mix of cologne and shaving cream.
I quickly tuck the scarf in my coat pocket and hurry after my tour guide. Which is when something suddenly registers. Hang on a minute.
‘Miss Steane?’
About to walk through the doorway, she turns. ‘Yes?’
‘You just said he must have dropped his scarf.’
She looks at me, her face impassive, completely unreadable. For a second there I could have sworn I caught a flash of uncertainty, a flicker of something, but now it’s gone again and she’s ushering me inside.
‘Did I? Oh, silly me, a slip of the tongue,’ she says breezily. ‘I meant you.’ And without further ado, she thrusts a pamphlet into my hand and launches into her guidebook speech. ‘Now, if you look straight ahead, you’ll see the impressive Gothic nave built in 1858 . . .’