Chapter Twenty-Nine
I don’t know how to describe my feelings reading Spike’s email.
I think I went through every emotion possible.
Indignation, disbelief, anger, annoyance, horror, guilt, remorse.
I do know that I sat down on my bed with every intention of not believing him.
As far as I was concerned, I’d already made up my mind.
He was guilty of every accusation I’d thrown at him.
And yet, the more I read, the more my prejudices began to crumble.
With every page I turned, the evidence became more and more overwhelming.
Until there was no doubt in my mind: I’d judged him and I’d got it wrong.
Horribly, horribly wrong. I didn’t even need to see the newspaper articles to know that.
I read them anyway. The headlines screamed out at me: ‘love rat’, ‘the runaway groom’, ‘he stole her heart and her savings’.
Accompanying them were pictures of a man with dyed brown hair and a moustache, but there was no mistaking it was Ernie. Sweet, defenceless Ernie. The innocent victim. Survivor of a jealous attack by Spike, a man half his age.
Shit. How did I get it so wrong?
I sit on the edge of the bed, breathing, trying to stay in control.
My mind is reeling. I have no idea what to do.
My first instinct is to run downstairs and send Spike an email apologising, but after everything I said, all my accusations, the way I behaved towards him, it seems pretty lame.
An email, after what I’ve said and done?
To be honest, I wouldn’t blame him if he told me to go to hell.
Maybe instead I should just leave it. After all, I’ve done enough damage already. Just try to forget all about it. Pretend it never happened.
But it did.
Remorse stabs. I think about Ernie, about how I was utterly taken in by him, how I was so quick to believe his stories about Spike. Why? Because I wanted to believe them. Because they supported my opinion of him, confirmed my first impressions. I wanted to be right.
And yet you couldn’t have been more wrong, could you, Emily?
Guilt and shame wash over me – and fear. It’s a scary thought when you realise you can’t trust your own judgement. That your pride and prejudices can completely blind you to the truth. It makes me wonder how many times I’ve got it wrong before – I just never found out.
The room suddenly feels stuffy and claustrophobic. I need to go out and get some fresh air. Try and clear my head. So much has happened I can’t think straight. What with these revelations from Spike about Ernie and the email from Mr McKenzie’s wife, my head’s all over the place.
Tugging on my boots and thick winter coat, I go downstairs. You can rent bikes from the front desk and I choose a black one with a straw basket. Climbing onto the saddle, I set off away from the town.
It feels good to be on a bike. I fill my lungs with cold air and push down on the pedals.
Soon the roads turn into lanes and the houses give way to open fields.
I keep cycling. I don’t notice my sore buttocks, or the twinge of my ankle, just the regular motion of the pedals, the feeling of the cold wind ruffling through my hair.
With every revolution of the wheels, I feel myself growing calmer, more steady, as I leave the city behind and climb higher and higher.
None of it makes sense, but this does. Cycling is so straightforward.
You pedal, you move forwards. Why can’t life be as simple?
After a while the burning in my thighs becomes too much, and I dismount and lean my bicycle against an old metal gate adjoining a stone wall.
Up ahead, there’s some woods and through the clearing in the trees I can see a castle.
Oh, wow, that must be the same castle I rode to last night with Mr Darcy.
What was it called? Ah, yes, I remember now: Sham Castle – because it’s not actually real.
I start heading towards it. The hill’s pretty steep and by the time I enter Bathwick Woods I’m out of puff.
I slow down. The going is a lot tougher here.
It’s hard to make out the path and there’s plenty of exposed rock and tree roots to catch you out – God knows how I negotiated it last night on horseback – but after about five minutes I come out on the other side.
The castle is to the right of me, and yet it looks completely different in the daylight.
Not at all how I remember. Made of creamy-coloured Bath stone, it had looked totally genuine last night, but now up close I can clearly see it’s all a sham.
In summer this place is probably teeming with tourists, but now it’s deserted, and sitting down on the grass, I rest my head against the stonework and take in the view.
Surrounded by seven hills, the city of Bath lies beneath me, its Georgian architecture, which had seemed so grand and impressive at street level, now looks like a miniature model from a town-planner’s office.
I rub my puffy eyes and tilt my head to look at the grey sky above me.
It looks like it might rain. A typical New Year’s Day.
Except it’s not, is it? There’s nothing typical about today.
That heavy feeling I had inside returns and I heave a sigh.
I can’t think about it any more. I’m too tired.
I didn’t sleep well last night. And what with the after-effects of the ball, the concussion, the revelations, I just want to close my eyes for a moment and block everything out.
After a few moments I feel a warmth on my face and open my eyes to discover the sun emerging from behind a cloud.
Shafts of bright sunlight pierce through the gaps of blue and I have to shade my eyes with my hand to see anything.
In the far distance I notice someone approaching.
I squint, trying to make them out. It’s a man, I realise, as he fast approaches. And he’s on horseback.
Mr Darcy.
Overjoyed, I watch as he gallops up to me, his cheeks flushed with the January wind, his dark, heavy brows almost obscuring his eyes.
‘I was hoping I might find you here,’ he says, dismounting and striding towards me.
I smile and jump up to greet him. After everything that’s happened I have a sudden desire for a hug, for someone to hold me tightly and tell me everything’s going to be OK.
Impulsively I throw my arms round him and bury my face in his broad shoulder. ‘Boy, am I glad to see you,’ I gasp, closing my eyes and breathing in his familiar cologne.
Happiness mixes with relief. Gosh, he really does have the best shoulders to cry on, I think, feeling all the tension in my body release with his embrace.
Although, hang on, he’s not actually embracing me, I notice, suddenly realising how stiff he is. In fact, I’m the one hugging him. He’s just standing here with his back ramrod straight and his hands held firmly down by his sides.
I pull away self-consciously.
‘Um . . . Happy New Year,’ I say lamely.
‘Yes. Indeed.’ Mr Darcy coughs awkwardly and stares at the ground.
For the first time I get a glimpse of what it would be like to go out with someone who’s brooding and aloof and has all these repressed emotions.
I mean, it all sounds very attractive and sexy in the book, but in real life I want someone who can give me a bear hug.
‘I have been looking for you,’ he begins, clasping his hands behind his back in a gesture that doesn’t need a body-language expert to tell me he’s obviously extremely uncomfortable with my public outburst of affection.
But then it’s not his fault, is it? I tell myself, feeling a bit sorry for him. I suppose the ladies of his day didn’t go around flinging their arms round men and expecting bear hugs. They just made a sampler or something.
Swallowing hard, he looks up at me and meets my eyes.
‘I was very worried about you, Emily. I went back to the stables last night in the hope that you would have made it back safely. When I found Lightning but no sign of you, I rode to your hotel. However, there was no light at your window, and by then it was very late and . . .’ He takes a breath and composes himself.
‘It gives me great relief to find that you are not hurt.’
Oh, God. With everything that’s been happening, I’d completely forgotten that the last time I saw him he had been knocked off his horse. But now, listening to him speaking, I suddenly realise I haven’t even asked him if he’s OK. Even worse, I hadn’t even thought about it until this very moment.
‘Thanks.’ I smile gratefully. ‘But what about you? I saw you fall—’
‘Thrown,’ he bristles.
‘Oh, right, thrown,’ I repeat, feeling a little piqued by the way he just corrected me.
‘Fortunately, I am a skilled equestrian and therefore I escaped injury.’
‘Phew, that’s lucky.’
‘Oh, it had nothing to do with luck,’ he says arrogantly.
That told you, Emily.
A line from Pride and Prejudice about Mr Darcy suddenly springs to mind: ‘One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man with family, fortune, every thing in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud.’
Yeah, well, I don’t, I think irritably.
‘So, have you eaten lunch?’ he asks.
His tone is once more polite, but I’m half inclined to fib and say yes, as I’m still feeling a bit rankled. My pet peeve is arrogance. Saying that, I haven’t eaten anything at all today, just the coffee at breakfast. As if on cue my stomach gives a faint gurgle of complaint.
‘No, not yet,’ I mumble.
‘Excellent. I brought us a little something.’ He nods, and strides over to his horse.
Trepidation stabs. Oh, no, not that again. I don’t think my buttocks can take another horse-ride. This time I’m just going to come out and say no.
‘No need to look so worried,’ he adds, catching my expression. ‘It is not like the last surprise.’