Jane Austen Made Me Do It (41 page)

I turn it over in my hands. Written in faded ink, in old-fashioned swirly handwriting, it reads:

What the—?

In total astonishment, I stare at it for a moment, a million questions swirling around in my head, then glance up. The young guy minding the stall is talking on his cellphone and hasn't noticed. Quickly I slip the note into my pocket and hand the book back.

“Thanks, but it's a bit more than I can afford.”

“No worries,” he says. “Hope you find what you're looking for.”

“Me too,” I reply, and with my heart beating very fast, I hurry away.

Later that afternoon I leave Stella back at the hotel, having her afternoon nap, and make my way to Kensington Gardens at the far end of Hyde Park.

The park has emptied out. The afternoon sunbathers have already gone home, and as I reach the pond, the sun is beginning to sink slowly into the horizon, creating a pomegranate sky.

Filled with anticipation, I wait, scanning the distance for any sign of Mr. Darcy. Then I hear it—the sound of a horse's hooves—and catch a glimpse of a man on horseback between the trees.

Mr. Darcy?

But I don't have a chance to find out as all at once I'm distracted by a commotion, the sound of a horse neighing followed
by a loud yell. Twirling around I catch sight of someone falling into the water, the squawking of swans as they take flight.

What the hell?

I look over to see a man pulling himself out of the pond. His hair is dripping wet, his white T-shirt is clinging to his broad frame, and I'm suddenly reminded of Colin Firth in the BBC adaptation of
Pride and Prejudice
—my heart skips a beat. I can't see his face but it must be Mr. Darcy! For a brief moment my eyes flick over his strong shoulders, the muscles in his back as he hauls himself onto dry land, and despite myself I feel a spike of desire. A connection so strong it's as if he's wrapped a piece of string around my heart and is tugging it, pulling me toward him, drawing me closer—

No, stop!
cries a voice inside my head.
You love Spike. You only feel this way about Spike
. I fight the urge, determined to resist, and as I do it suddenly hits me. I don't want Mr. Darcy, I
never
wanted Mr. Darcy. I want Spike. Images of our life together flash before me: drinking coffee together in the morning, snuggling up under the covers in bed at night, laughing at each other's silly jokes, fighting over the TV remote, celebrating by eating Chinese food in our pajamas when he's made a deadline … I love our life together. I don't want to lose it. I
can't
lose it.

It's like a wake-up call. A sob rises in my throat and I zone back to see the sopping-wet figure brush the hair away from his face and turn toward me—

Oh my God.

It can't be. Except it is.

It's Spike!

I stand there in shocked amazement. I can't quite believe what I'm seeing. I watch as he walks over to me, muddy water squelching out of his boots.

“What are you doing here?”
I gasp.

“Funny you should ask that.” He's smiling ruefully.

“But how … when …?”

He shushes me. “Hey, I'm the one that's supposed to be asking all the questions.”

Wordlessly I stare at him, totally bewildered.

And then before I can say another word, he drops down to one soggy knee and, pulling out a ring, asks the most important question of all.

“Will you marry me?”

Of course I say yes. And after I've managed to stop crying tears of joy, we walk hand in hand back to the hotel to break the happy news to Stella.

“So how did you know where to find me?” I ask, looking up at Spike. “How did you know I'd be in the park?”

“Well, I went to your hotel first, so I got your note.”

“What note?”

“The one you left behind reception asking me to meet you in the park.” He smiles. “I have to say, I was a bit taken aback. How did you know I was even flying over? It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“It was a surprise!” I protest. “I had no idea you were coming to England.”

“But you left me the note,” he counters.

I stare at him in confusion, trying to make sense of it all. “Do you have it?”

“Erm … yeah … hang on …” He tugs a crumpled piece of paper out of his wet jeans. It's all soggy, and the ink has bled, but even so I can still make out the distinctive old-fashioned handwriting. Quickly I pull out my own note and compare. It's the same.

I open my mouth to say something, but Spike isn't paying attention.
Staring fixedly ahead, he's still talking, “… and then when I got here, there was some nutter on a horse …”

“Nutter on a horse?”

“Yeh, he was wearing some crazy costume—you know, top hat, tailcoat …”

Mr. Darcy
.

“… he was galloping so fast I had to jump out of the way, otherwise he would have knocked me over, which is how come I ended up falling in the lake, but then he disappeared and you appeared …”

Did he set all this up? Did he send the notes? But how? It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense—

“… and I got to propose, and you said yes.”

Spike turns to me, and wrapping his arms around my waist, he pulls me close. And as he bends down to kiss me, every question disappears.

The rest of the weekend flies by. It's fun to be in London with your best friend and your fiancé.
Fiancé
. I almost can't believe it's for real. Almost. Because all I have to do is glance down at the diamond sparkling on my finger and I'm in no doubt: there's a lot of things I'm not sure about, but this is one thing I
definitely
haven't dreamt up.

“So, have we got everything?”

I look up from my ring to see Stella, laden down with souvenirs and gifts. We're at Heathrow, about to board our flight back to New York, and she's making the most of the duty-free shopping.

“Well, I need something to read on the plane …” I reply, spotting a bookstore ahead.

“Oh, that reminds me, I got you something,” says Spike, digging
in his backpack. He produces a paper bag and gives it to me. “I thought you might be in need of some reading material.”

It's a book. But not just any book. It's the copy of
Pride and Prejudice
that I saw in Portobello Market!

“Oh wow, how did you know?” I cry in astonishment, throwing my arms around him and giving him a big hug. Over his shoulder I catch Stella grinning.

“You could say a little birdie told me,” says Spike.

“A big birdie,” she corrects, patting her pregnant stomach.

Breaking away, I look back at the book. Wordlessly I trace my fingers over the cover, then carefully I look inside. And there, on the first page, is an inscription.

I feel as if I've been dipped in melted happiness. It's the happy ending I've always wanted, and feeling like the luckiest girl in the world, I slip the book back into its bag. Which is when I notice the name of the shop printed on its side:
Anne Jauste Books
.

Wait a minute … the cogs in my head start turning … isn't that an anagram for
Jane Austen
? My memory flicks back to that day at Portobello Market … the young guy was only minding the stall for the real stallholder … Anne Jauste
 … Jane Austen …
My mind starts whirling. Are they the same person? Did she have something to do with bringing me and Spike back together again? Just like she had something to do with me meeting Spike all those years ago on that guided book tour, only then she went under the name of Miss J. Steane and worked as a tour guide …

Quickly I pull myself together. Of course that's totally crazy. It's impossible.

Er yeah right, I've heard that before.

Who knows what's real and what isn't real—if I dreamt up Mr. Darcy or if he really did come back to give me some much-needed advice. But as I think about the last few days, about Mr. Darcy, about this book and how it all worked together to bring me and Spike back together again, I feel a warm glow. And smiling to myself, I give silent thanks.

To Jane Austen and the wonderful Mr. Darcy, wherever you are. Thank you.

I
t's a truth universally acknowledged that if it wasn't for vampires, werewolves, zombs, and Jane Austen, I would not be outside Principal Oakes's office right now, while he and Mom and Dad and Mrs. Pilkington, the guidance counselor, discussed my Problem.

They crack the door, thinking I overhear what's going down, I'll figure I'm busted, and take a plea deal, like a week's detention over getting suspended. But until they got DNA, the Fifth Amendment is a fourteen-year-old's best friend.

So Principal Oakes thanks Mom and Dad for coming and they go, “Is anything wrong?” and he goes, “Not wrong,
per se,
” which is his way of saying, “Yes, there is something wrong,” and Mrs. Pilkington goes, “We've been a little concerned about James's behavior,” which is
her
way of saying, “James is seriously freaking us out.”

“What behavior?” Dad asks.

I hear the
taptaptap
of Principal Oakes's pencil on his coffee mug. “It's not any
one
thing. More like a lot of little things.”

“For example?”

That was Mom. She fires off the “for example,” stick a fork in it. Don't do your homework and try to float with “I had other stuff I had to do”? Mom goes, “For
example
?” and The Argument Ends There.

“For example—the way he's been coming to school. His attire,” Mr. Oakes said.

“His
attire
?” Mom could go the full Lady Catherine de Bourgh in three syllables flat.

Taptaptaptaptap
. “I know we don't have a dress code—
per se
—but don't you think the way he's dressing—every day a button-down shirt, slacks. A, um, tie?”

And Mom goes, “In the hall, I saw two kids with their incisors capped with fangs, a half dozen girls with Kabuki makeup and black lipstick, and someone of indeterminate gender who was sporting a tail.”

That was Elton. Nobody was a hundred percent on whether Elton was a girl or a guy, and these days there's a whole buncha-lotta you Do Not Ask, or you're doing time in a Sensitivity Awareness Program. Or SAP, for short.

Mr. Oakes sighed. “And it's his language.”

“His language?”

“It's not just the ‘please' and ‘thank you' and ‘I beg your pardon' and—”

“Excuse me?”

“That too. Not just
what
he says, Mrs. Austen, it's the
way
he says it. His teachers tell me when he's called on, he stands up. He holds doors open for them. He's gotten extremely …”

“ ‘Well behaved, polite, and unassuming?' ”

Pull off to the side, here comes Jane Austen. “Well behaved, polite, and unassuming” is off
Pride and Prejudice
. Mom thinks
Pride and Prejudice
is The Best Novel Ever and Jane Austen is the best writer who ever lived, who ever will live, and this is one point
that You Do Not Want To Argue About. The joke in our house is that Mom married Dad for his last name, except that sometimes I don't think it's a joke. Dad told me once that Mom wanted to call me Fitzwilliam, and I don't think that's a joke, either.

Now Mrs. Pilkington jumps in, 'cause it kills her not to
have her share of the conversation
. “When we see unusual behavior like this, students getting overly careful about manners and dress, the reason is usually … what I'm trying to say …”

“You're not accustomed to your students exhibiting good manners?”

“Well … not
per se
,” goes Mr. O.

And Mom goes, “ ‘Which makes his good manners the more valuable.' ” That's off
Emma
. Mom goes Austen on you, she's making fun, or she's fed up. I could tell she was getting fed up.

“Mrs. Austen, there's no reason to be defensive. We all want the same thing here.”