‘. . . and as you can see, we have photocopies of some of Jane’s letters displayed on the walls, and a copy of Cassandra’s portrait of Jane in 1810 hangs over the fireplace . . .’
Turning away from the window, I follow the group into the parlour and stand on tiptoe to see over everyone’s shoulders. Despite being quite tall, it’s difficult to see. Older women, I’m discovering, don’t swap their high heels for comfy flats and crêpe-soled Hush Puppies once they hit sixty – something that I’ve been led to believe. On the contrary, Rose is wearing a pair of killer black stiletto boots with three-inch heels, and Maeve’s tramping around in a pair of vintage brown leather boots, not unlike the ones Lindsay Lohan was wearing in Stella’s copy of
Elle.
In fact, the only person wearing comfy flats with crêpe soles is me.
Dismissing the worrying thought that I’ve been out-fashioned by women old enough to be my grandmother, while simultaneously wishing I’d taken more style advice from Stella rather than hooting with laughter every time she came to work in a wacky new outfit, I peer over the roped area to where Miss Steane is pointing.
‘. . . by the window is the original table where she revised
Pride and Prejudice
and created the Mr Darcy we know and love today,’ she declares, getting rather carried away. ‘And we also have an example of the type of feather quill she would have used to bring him to life. Or could it be, perhaps,
the very one
!’
Wow. I stare at the little round wooden table for a moment, absorbing its significance. Just think, that’s where it all happened. Pretty incredible.
‘Amazing, huh?’ mutters a voice close to my ear.
I jump. Spike, the journalist, is standing next to me. Seeing him again is like a trigger.
‘
pretty dull . . . average-looking
’.
The effect of his words hasn’t dulled. They sting just as hard as when I heard them. I throw him the most withering look I can summon up. I call it my ‘shit-on-my-shoe’ look, and I have to say, it’s pretty effective. I once did it to myself in the bathroom mirror, just to see, and boy, it even made me feel like shit.
Satisfied, I turn away. Well, that’s the last you’re going to be hearing from him, Emily Albright.
‘To think she wrote all her stuff longhand, and with a feather quill. It’s bloody unbelievable, isn’t it? I mean, crikey, I write all my articles on my laptop and it still takes me for ever,’ he chuckles to himself.
Er, hello, is that dumb-ass still talking to me? Doesn’t he realise I’m
blanking
him? The group is shuffling around the parlour, looking at the various objects of historical interest and reading the plastic-covered information that goes with them. Moving sideways, I stare determinedly ahead.
I will not make eye contact. I will not make eye contact.
‘Just imagine not being able to hit the delete key.’
I wish
I
could hit the frigging delete key. That way, I could delete you, I curse silently.
Anger now, Emily, warns a little voice.
I quickly compose myself. I’m not angry. I’m not angry at all. I really couldn’t care less what he said about me.
‘So, you’re a big Jane Austen fan, huh?’ he persists obliviously.
Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough.
‘Listen, buddy, I couldn’t care less about you, your laptop or your stupid newspaper article,’ I snap, rounding on him. ‘So why don’t you go hassle someone else with your questions and leave me alone?’
OK, I take it back. I’m angry. And I’ve made eye contact. Fuck.
‘Whoah.’ He throws up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Who rattled your cage?’
He pretends to back off, his hands still up in the air, a sardonic look on his face. God, that man is so unbearable, I fume.
Finally he turns away and begins excusing his way through the group, his spiral notebook in one hand, a Dictaphone in the other. I stare after him for a moment and notice how the hem of his corduroy jacket is coming unstitched and the way his jeans are so old they’ve worn away by the back pocket and you can see a flash of boxer-short material beneath.
Huh. And I thought British men were supposed to be all smart and stylish. Or at least foppish like Hugh Grant. I mean, just look at him. This guy is such a mess.
Feeling irritated, I turn and focus on a pair of Victorian buckled shoes in a glass case.
Cute, though, I think begrudgingly.
Forty minutes later we’re still slowly making our way around the house. So far we’ve seen the drawing room, the dining parlour, where Jane wrote on the small round table, and been upstairs to the bedrooms to look at the patchwork quilt she made with her mother. Hers was obviously not the life of disastrous dates, vodka martinis and Sunday mornings spent in bed with a hangover, I reflect, thinking about how different my own life is. But at least we do have one thing in common – books.
Entering one of the rooms, I see a showcase that houses an interesting collection of books. My eyes flit across the embossed spines, reading the various titles. Like myself, Jane was obviously a huge fan of reading, I reflect happily, feeling a bond with the author.
She also died single, reminds a little voice inside me.
Right, OK.
Turning away from the showcase, I look at the other members of the group. Absorbed in their pamphlets and brochures, they’re stopping and staring at various points of interest. Maeve is bent over a showcase of family silver, while Rose is peering at some jewellery and brooches and fanning herself with a copy of
Sense and Sensibility.
I stifle a yawn. Gosh, my jet lag is really bad. I could do with a little nap.
‘And so, moving on to the admiral’s room. Here you will find memorabilia of her two sailor brothers, Francis and Charles, both of whom had distinguished careers in the Royal Navy . . .’
Hmm, that doesn’t sound very interesting. I glance at my watch. The museum is about to close, so it wouldn’t hurt if I skipped this bit. Maybe I should go for a little walkabout. Go outside and get a bit of fresh air to try and wake myself. I glance out of the window. It’s still raining, but I think I saw some umbrellas at the entrance when we came in.
I hang back as Miss Steane leads the rest of the tour through a doorway, and when I’m sure no one’s looking, I slip quietly out of the room.
I wander into the narrow hallway and go downstairs, looking for the exit. I’m sure we came in this way, but then again, there’s no one worse for directions then me. I turn a corner, then another. It’s strange – the house isn’t very big at all, in fact it’s quite small, but I’ve lost my bearings. No, it’s not this way, I realise, seeing the gift shop ahead and retracing my steps.
Doubling back on myself, I turn a corner. Ahead of me I see a door has fallen closed. Aha, that must be it. Pushing open the door, I walk inside, only to recognise it’s the dining parlour where I was earlier. Damn, it must be the other way. Stifling a yawn, I wander inside anyway. It’s nice and quiet in here. Maybe I can sit down for a little while. Close my eyes for a moment.
Feeling a wave of jet lag, I glance woozily around the room. There’s a wooden chair but it’s the one Jane Austen used to write at her table and it’s sectioned off to the public by a plastic barrier. Of course I can’t sit there. I don’t know if it’s the real thing, but it
looks
like an antique. It’s, like, two hundred years old or something.
Then again I am really exhausted.
I eye it for a moment. I’ve never been one to break rules, but saying that, there’s no one here and it would be just for a few minutes. I mean, it wouldn’t do any harm, I’d be super careful . . .
Stepping over the plastic barrier, I sink down on to the wooden chair gratefully. Ahhh, that’s better. I lean back and rest my head against the wooden frame. In my head I hear Miss Steane’s words: ‘
By the window is the original table where she revised
Pride and Prejudice
and created the Mr Darcy we know and love today. And we also have an example of the type of feather quill she would have used to bring him to life. Or could it be, perhaps
, the very one
!
’
I look at the small polished table in front of me. In the corner there’s a bottle of ink against which is propped a quill. Of course I can’t touch it. You’re absolutely not allowed to touch any of the items: there’s signs everywhere telling you so in no uncertain terms. I’d really get into trouble.
Saying that, there’s nothing worse than a sign saying ‘Don’t touch’ for making you want to touch something, is there?
I pick up the quill. If I was expecting something spooky to happen, I’m disappointed, and for a moment I just hold it in my fingers to get the feel of it. It’s probably a reproduction anyway, but even so, it’s still fascinating to think Jane Austen wrote a whole book with a pen like this. I mean, can you imagine?
A whole book?
I glance at the ink bottle, an idea stirring. Honestly, this is so completely unlike me to be even contemplating this, but how
cool
would it be to write something? Anything. Just my name even. Of course I can’t.
But of course I know I’m going to.
Unscrewing the lid, I dip the nib, and using the back of a piece of paper that was in my pamphlet, I press it carefully against the blank page and write
Emily
, then with small, scratchy strokes, add &
Mr Darcy.
I smile sheepishly at myself. Look at me. It’s like I’m thirteen years old again and back at school. And just for the hell of it I begin doodling
Emily Darcy, Mr & Mrs Darcy, Emily 4 Darcy
and a little love-heart with two arrows through it.
My smile turns into a wide yawn and I stop to let it out. Oh, wow, I really am dog-tired. Putting down the quill, I rub my watering eyes. It feels as if I’ve got lead weights plonked on top of my eyelids. The waves of jet lag are coming thick and fast now. I’m going to have to close my eyes. Just for a moment . . .
‘Ahem.’
I must have dropped off, because the next thing I’m jolted awake by someone coughing. I open my eyes to see a man over by the fireplace. Tall and broad, he has thick black hair curling over his collar and dark eyebrows that look like two smudges of charcoal. They’re pitched together in curiosity.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ he says.
‘Uh . . . ?’ Still half asleep, I prop myself upright and blearily survey my surroundings, taking a moment to register. Uh, where am I?
Then it hits me. Oh, shit.
Hastily I jump up from the chair.
Shit, shit and double shit.
Trust me to fall asleep and get caught.
‘I . . . um . . .’ Suddenly I realise I’ve drooled on my chin. Oh, God, how embarrassing. My cheeks burning, I wipe my chin with my sleeve. ‘Sorry . . . I . . . um . . . was just resting for a moment . . .’ I trail off uncertainly as the stranger crosses the room and I suddenly notice his odd clothes. He’s wearing a frock coat, breeches and a white shirt with this funny high-necked collar and some kind of cravat. I glance down at his feet. And what’s with the riding boots?
Puzzled, I watch him as he strides confidently around the large dining table in the middle of the room. That’s funny. It’s set for dinner, but I don’t remember candles being lit.
‘Are you lost?’ His voice is deep and softly spoken. Replacing a slim volume into the showcase in the corner, he turns to face me.
‘Um . . .’ I falter. Up close I can’t help noticing he has one of those sexy clefts in his chin that movie stars always have. I don’t think I’ve
seen
a man with one of those in real life. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I was lost exactly,’ I begin. ‘I’m actually here with a tour . . .’
‘A tour?’ he repeats, furrowing his brow.
I nod. ‘Yeah, but I just wanted to get some air . . .’ I explain, gesturing outside ‘. . . but it’s raining.’
Only it’s not raining. Looking out of the window, I’m surprised to see that instead of gloomy grey skies, it’s bright outside. Shafts of winter sunshine are bouncing in through the panes of mullioned glass and shining on the walls, brightening up the wallpaper.
Wallpaper that had seemed so faded and old earlier, but now looks much more vibrant and colourful, as if it was only decorated yesterday . . . And it’s much warmer, I realise, remembering how chilly it was in here before.
Then I spot a fire burning in the grate. I could have sworn it wasn’t lit before.
‘Someone’s lit a fire,’ I point out, somewhat obviously. Or am I wrong?
Was
it lit before? To be honest, I can’t remember. I’m feeling so muddled. I’m vaguely aware of my forehead throbbing, and I press my fingertips to my temples. It must be the jet lag. My head feels thick and woolly, as if it’s packed with cotton balls. I’m not thinking straight. Quickly, I pull myself together.
‘Yes, I asked the housekeeper.’ He nods, his face impassive. ‘It gets rather cold in here towards late afternoon.’
‘I can imagine,’ I reply, briskly unfurling my scarf from round my neck and beginning to fold it up. I’m in mid-fold when it registers. Did he just say
he
instructed the housekeeper? As in this is
his
house?
Realisation dawns. Oh, shit. Trust me. He’s probably the owner of Chawton Manor. Aren’t all the big stately homes and historical houses still privately owned and just opened up to the public to pay for the upkeep or something? God, he’s probably a member of the British aristocracy. Which would explain the funny clothes, I realise, peering at him uncertainly. He must have been hunting or fishing or something.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise,’ I begin apologising. ‘I had no idea you lived here. I didn’t mean to intrude.’
His dark eyes are sweeping across me like searchlights and I’m suddenly aware I’m doing this flicky thing with my hair that I always do when I like someone. Feeling like a dork, I stop doing it immediately and fold my arms self-consciously.