Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Unfastening something from behind his saddle, he lifts down a small wicker picnic hamper and a thick woollen blanket from one of the side panniers.
He unfolds it and lays it down on the ground, meticulously making sure it’s straight.
Then, unfastening the leather straps of the hamper, he begins pulling out various things.
‘We have some bread, grapes, cheeses, goose-liver paté, a bottle of vintage Bordeaux to wash it all down with . . .’
‘Oh, wow,’ I gasp, somewhat taken aback.
‘. . . and here are the cutlery and plates . . .’ he continues.
Forget the paper and plastic variety. He’s brought real silver knives and forks, and white china plates.
‘. . . and I brought you a little something to keep you warm,’ he adds, unrolling a large fur.
‘That’s so sweet of you.’ I smile. I feel a wave of affection. So he can be a bit arrogant. So what? He’s also really thoughtful, I tell myself, as he sits down next to me on the blanket and places the fur over my legs.
Next, he carefully arranges the plates, takes out a delicate silver knife with a mother-of-pearl handle and proceeds to cut thin slivers of cheese and slices of bread with a surgeon’s precision.
Then he twists open the glass jar of paté, flicks open a starched white napkin and fastidiously wipes the rim, removing every last invisible smear of paté.
Finally, the grapes: he examines each one, before plucking off exactly three and arranging them as a piece of artful decoration.
I watch him in fascination. Gosh, everything is so proper and careful, I note, as he hands me a plate.
‘Why, thank you.’ I smile, popping a grape in my mouth.
Mmm, yummy. Hungrily biting into the cheese and bread, I glance across at Mr Darcy.
With a knife and fork, he divides a grape into halves, cuts a small square of cheese from the slice and then, layering the two on the prongs of his fork, puts them neatly in his mouth.
His manners are impeccable. Embarrassed, I immediately stuff the rest of the cheese and bread in my mouth before he notices, dropping crumbs all over my coat in the process. Oh, God, I’m such a pig. Brushing them off, I look up to see him peering at me quizzically.
‘Messy eater,’ I laugh sheepishly.
I wait for him to laugh with me, but he just says, ‘I see,’ and continues eating.
A vague feeling of unease descends on me, but I ignore it and reach for my knife and fork. Copying him, I spear a grape with my fork. But as the prongs puncture the skin, there’s a sudden squirt of juice and pips. It lands on Mr Darcy’s white shirt. Well, it would, wouldn’t it?
‘Oops,’ I gasp, horrified.
He frowns, puts down his knife and begins dabbing the starched white cotton with his napkin.
‘God, sorry,’ I continue apologising.
‘It is perfectly fine, no need to worry,’ he says, still dabbing.
‘I’m sure it will come out,’ I reassure him.
‘Indeed.’ He nods, pouring water on his napkin and returning to the stain.
Which you can’t even see any more, I think, watching him fussing. I feel a twinge of irritation. He’s being a touch overdramatic, isn’t he? I mean, it’s just a bit of grape juice.
‘When you get home, just put a sprinkle of salt on it and soak it in the sink.’
‘Thank you. I will suggest it to one of the servants.’
‘Servants?’ I squeak. God, I’d forgotten how posh he is. I mean, who on earth has servants apart from royalty?
‘Why, yes, of course,’ he replies. ‘Surely you have servants back home in America?’
His assumption is so comical I have to stifle a laugh. I try imagining a butler and a maid bowing and curtseying in my little studio apartment. I can’t. There wouldn’t be enough room for a start.
‘Not really. You can’t get the staff these days,’ I joke, grinning.
Not even a flicker. But then he’s busy pouring me a glass of wine, so he probably didn’t hear me, I decide, noticing how deftly he turns the bottle to prevent spilling a drop, just like they do in restaurants.
I try chasing another grape around my plate with my fork for a few moments, then give up and abandon my silverware with impatience.
Well, it is a picnic, I tell myself. There’s no need to be so formal.
I mean, it’s not as if we’re in some fancy restaurant, is it?
I tear off a bit of bread and use it to scoop out the paté.
‘Yum, this stuff is delicious,’ I enthuse. ‘Did you make it yourself?’
‘No, it was my cook.’
Ah, yes, of course. The servants again. I’d forgotten about them.
‘I’ll have to get the recipe.’ I make an attempt at lightening things up. ‘Take it back to America with me.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘Just a couple more days. Tomorrow we’re driving north to Lyme Park Hall and then on Wednesday night I leave for New York.’
‘Can you not extend your stay?’
‘I’d love to . . .’ The email from Mr McKenzie’s wife pops back into my mind.
‘But, no, I can’t.’ Having blocked it out this whole time, I suddenly feel the familiar ache of worry. Taking a gulp of wine, I stare into my wine glass.
‘What is it, Emily? You seem troubled.’
Mr Darcy’s tone is kindly, but I don’t answer. Gazing at the burgundy liquid, I’m wondering where on earth to start. Now I’ve opened the door to my worries, they all come barging in again. Spike, Ernie, Mr McKenzie . . .
‘It looks like I might lose my job at the bookstore,’ I hear myself blurting after a pause. ‘My boss, Mr McKenzie, might be selling the store. He’s not been well. I understand, but . . .’ I sigh despondently. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
It feels good to just say it out loud.
‘You are employed?’
I look up to see Mr Darcy gazing at me in total astonishment. In fact, he’s looking more astonished at this suggestion than anything that’s happened these past few days.
‘Yup. In one of the best bookstores in New York. McKenzie’s,’ I say, with more than a little pride in my voice. I can’t help it. It happens every time.
‘You work in a bookshop?’ he repeats in disbelief.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it was more along the lines of sympathy and understanding.
‘Well, for the moment.’
‘But surely you have a private income from your family? A trust fund, perhaps?’
‘’Fraid not.’ I grin, thinking about Mom and Dad. A trust fund? I don’t even get a postcard. ‘But anyway, even if I did, I’d still want to work. I love my job.’
Mr Darcy rakes his fingers through his hair and studies my face. He seems to be having difficulty computing what I’ve just said.
‘I must confess I am shocked, Emily,’ he says after a moment.
His voice is thick with disapproval and I feel my smile slide.
‘An educated woman such as yourself should not be working.’
I feel myself stiffen. ‘But what about your servants? Aren’t they women?’ I counter, trying to keep my cool.
‘Well, yes, of course. But domestic employment is both acceptable and a necessity for the lower classes.’
Now it’s my turn to look at him in astonishment. ‘Servants’ was bad enough, but did he just say the lower classes? I look at him incredulously. I honestly can’t believe what I’m hearing. I knew he was posh, but I had no idea he was such a snob.
‘A woman’s place is in the home. As a wife and mother.’
Yes. He really did say that.
‘But that’s so sexist,’ I cry.
He looks bewildered, as if he’s never heard of the word.
Probably because he hasn’t, I realise. In fact, he’s probably not even aware of the concept. In which case I shouldn’t really be angry at him, should I? I mean, it’s not his fault he’s totally ignorant. I can’t accuse him of something if he doesn’t even know what it is.
‘Surely you are not suggesting women should seek out a living the same as men?’ he’s asking pompously.
I take it back. Yes, I can.
‘Of course!’ I gasp, infuriated. ‘Why shouldn’t women work the same as men? My career is very important to me.’
‘Obviously your customs are not the same in America,’ he says gravely. ‘But here we do things differently. And, I have to say, properly.’
‘Bullshit!’
His face pales and he struggles to repress his emotions.
Watching him, I have a flashback to Spike losing his temper and part of me can’t help wishing Mr Darcy would do the same.
But of course he won’t, he’s always so goddamn composed the whole time.
I used to think it was sexy, but now I just find it frustrating.
His eyes flash moodily and as I look into his dark irises with the tiny flecks of grey, I think about all the months and years I’ve fantasised about dating Mr Darcy. Wanting every man to be him.
And now here we are. Together. Arguing.
‘Look, I didn’t mean to snap,’ I begin. First Spike, now Mr Darcy, what’s wrong with me? ‘It’s just—’ I break off.
Just what, Emily? It’s that voice again. Only this time it’s more persistent. That he’s acting like a selfish, sexist pig? A stuck-up snob? A crashing bore?
‘I should be getting back,’ I finish quietly, trying to block out the voice.
‘I understand.’ He nods solemnly. ‘I also have matters to attend to.’ His chest heaves, as if there’s a lot going on underneath the surface, and he turns away from me to look out towards the valley.
‘I forget how beautiful it is here, with the view of the town,’ he says quietly, after a brief pause.
I follow his eyes. He’s right. It is stunning. ‘Yeah, it’s awesome,’ I murmur in agreement.
For a moment we stay like that, gazing out at the majestic scenery that sweeps beneath us, the rolling hills set against the backdrop of the vast expanse of sky. It’s quiet. There’s no one around. Just the two of us.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr Darcy turn to me, his brow furrowed. ‘Perhaps we can just sit a while longer?’
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I continue staring resolutely out towards the skyline.
It’s so big it puts everything into perspective.
Does it really matter if I don’t share the same views as Mr Darcy?
I mean, of course he’s going to have a different opinion from me on certain things, it’s totally understandable.
We’re from two completely different worlds. Right?
‘I think I can manage a few minutes,’ I say finally, meeting his gaze.
‘Excellent.’
He reaches for my hand, but as he interlaces his fingers through mine, I can’t help feeling disturbed by our row. Our opinions are so different. Too different. I don’t know if I can ever reconcile myself to those of Mr Darcy. And more importantly, would I want to?
Troubled, I rest my head on his shoulder and silence those nagging doubts.
For now, anyway.