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.
Chapter Thirty
I
must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know I’m being woken by the cold. Opening my eyes, I discover the sun’s disappeared, and with it, Mr Darcy.
Shivering, I stretch out my stiffened limbs and glance around me. Nope, he’s definitely gone. And with him all the picnic stuff. He’s even taken the fur, I notice, looking down at my lap with surprise. Huh, that’s not very chivalrous of him, is it? I think, feeling miffed.
In its place is a single snowdrop. Mr Darcy must have had to go attend to those matters he was talking about and obviously didn’t want to wake me. Instead, he left me this as a parting gift. I pick it up and twirl it between finger and thumb, looking at the delicate white petals.
Quite frankly, I’d rather he’d left me the fur. I’m frigging freezing.
As I’m hoisting myself up from the ground I hear the faint burbling of my cell phone. With frozen fingers I pluck it out of my pocket and see it’s Stella. That’s odd, I only spoke to her this morning. I wonder why she’s calling. I pick up.
‘Em?’
‘Hey,’ I croak, pulling my coat tight and stamping my feet on the ground to get the circulation going. ‘It’s good to hear your voice again.’
‘Is it?’ she snaps grumpily.
For a moment I’m puzzled, then I realise. Oh, shit. So she got the email, then.
‘Freddy’s dating,’ she continues.
‘I know, I forwarded his email, remember?’ I reply. Though now I’m really not sure I did the right thing, I think, feeling my earlier resolve wobbling.
‘Well, I can’t believe it,’ she cries.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s
Freddy
,’ she gasps, as if that makes it obvious.
I suddenly feel very defensive of Freddy. Stella might be my best friend but she’s still out of order.
‘So? The last time he looked he had a penis, didn’t he?’ I retort.
‘Em,’ breathes Stella, shocked, ‘I can’t believe you just said that – you
never
say things like that.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, Stella, but someone’s got to be harsh with you,’ I continue firmly. ‘What did you expect? That Freddy was going to turn into a monk because you didn’t want him?’
‘Oh, c’mon, Em, I didn’t say it like that,’ whines Stella, audibly shaken.
‘True,’ I acquiesce. ‘You didn’t say it
exactly
like that. No, it was more along the lines of “We’re complete opposites. We’d drive each other crazy if we were really a couple. Freddy’s the sweetest person in the whole world, and he’ll make someone a wonderful boyfriend, but not mine” . . .’ As I trail off there’s silence on the other end of the line.
‘But we
are
married,’ she quips weakly, after a moment.
‘Only for a green card. Aren’t you the one who’s always pointing that out?’ I remind her.
Again there’s silence, only this time it’s not broken by a quip. Instead, there’s a heavy sigh.
‘Oh, God, I’ve been such an idiot, haven’t I?’ she whispers finally, her voice thick with remorse.
‘You mean you’ve only just realised?’ I say, but there’s affection in my voice. Stella’s not a bad person, she just didn’t see what was right under her nose.
There’s the sound of a tut and I can imagine her smiling, despite herself.
‘I don’t want Freddy dating other girls,’ she says quietly, almost to herself.
‘Why? Because even though you don’t want him, you don’t want anyone else to have him?’ I propose a little unkindly. I don’t think that’s true, but I have to ask.
‘No, that’s not the reason,’ she fires back, full of indignation. ‘That’s not the reason at all.’
‘So what it is?’ I prompt.
There’s a pause.
‘I love him.’
Her voice is quiet but steady and as I hear those three words I feel like punching the air and yelling, ‘Yes!’ But I’ll leave that to Freddy. And so, containing my excitement, I reply, ‘I think you need to be telling someone else that.’
After making her promise that she would call Freddy and keep me posted, I say goodbye to a somewhat dazed Stella. My hands are almost frozen solid with holding the phone. God, it’s cold.
Rubbing my hands together to try to warm them up, I think about Stella and Freddy, trying to imagine what their conversation might be, what’s going to happen. I hope they can work it out. Stella’s been an idiot, but it seems to me that sometimes you have to lose something before you realise its true value.
Like Spike?
My stomach churns and then –
boom
– there’s Spike’s email again, the newspaper articles about Ernie, Mrs McKenzie’s email . . . Problems, worries, revelations . . . they all come rushing back. With Mr Darcy gone, I’m faced with reality again and with it, a feeling of dread. I know I can’t escape from this any more. I’ve got to deal with it. I’ve got to— Oh, I don’t know what I’ve got to do, but I’ve got to do
something.
Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I take one last look at the view. Hiding away up here isn’t going to help. I need to go back to the hotel and face up to things. Try to figure things out. My eyes search the skyline, as if looking for some clue, some answer, some solution, but of course it’s never as easy as that, is it? And turning away, I set off back down the hill.
Half an hour later I’m freewheeling down a road that leads into the city. Gradually it’s starting to level out and so, not wanting to lose speed, I start pedalling. I turn a corner. The road narrows and winds to the left, then turns into a one-way street. The asphalt gives way to cobbles. So pretty to look at, but brutal when you’re on a bicycle, especially one that doesn’t have a particularly springy saddle. In fact, I’m just thinking about the havoc it’s wreaking on my butt when I nearly collide with a pedestrian.
‘Hey, watch out,’ I yell, braking suddenly and nearly going over the handlebars.
‘Oh, dear. I didn’t see—’
‘
Maeve?
’
In the middle of a breathless apology she stops and pushes her glasses further up her nose to peer at me. ‘Emily! I didn’t see it was you!’
‘You didn’t see it was anyone,’ I gasp, coming to a standstill.
But if she hears my remonstrations, she doesn’t acknowledge them. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ she’s exclaiming instead. Her voice is breathy and high and she looks agitated.
Immediately I feel a thud of dread. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ I ask.
Maeve seems unable to speak.
‘What? Tell me!’ God, now I’m really worried.
Wringing her gloved hands, she bites her lip and looks at me. Oh, hell, I’m right. She’s bracing herself to tell me bad news.
‘Right, c’mon,’ I say, taking charge. ‘We need to get you a drink.’
‘OK, tell me what’s going on.’
We’re ensconced in the only place we could find open in Bath on New Year’s Day: the Gate of India, an empty, flock-wallpapered restaurant with bad lighting and delicious poppadoms, which Maeve is absently crumbling as her words tumble over themselves.
‘This morning I received a phone call.’
‘A phone call from whom?’
‘From my brother, Paddy.’
‘You mean the brother in Spain?’
‘Aye, I’ve only got the one.’ She nods furiously, making a start on demolishing a new poppadom. ‘He was in Spain with his daughter for Christmas, I think I mentioned it . . .’
‘Oh, yeah.’ I remember now. I nod. And you also mentioned he was the brother who threw you out when you were pregnant, I think coldly, remembering her story from yesterday – though it feels like days ago – and how I’d resolved to hate him ever since.
‘Well, he’s back in Ireland now, and he rang me this morning, after breakfast. At first I was worried – I thought something bad must have happened.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, Paddy never rings me, especially not on my mobile. Says it costs far too much money.’
What? Not even to wish you a Happy New Year? I want to protest, but we’re interrupted by a waiter who comes to take our order. I ask for a couple of brandies, then change it to peppermint teas at Maeve’s request. The waiter looks grumpy and tries to push some garlic naan on us before finally giving up with a weary resignation and leaving us to continue our conversation.
‘So?’ I encourage.
‘So, anyway, I knew something was up. At first I thought it was the children.’ Maeve pauses and takes a deep breath. ‘But thank goodness, no, they’re fine.’ She smiles as she thinks of them. Then, remembering herself, continues: ‘It’s to tell me I’ve had a phone call from a woman by the name of Shannon.’
I gesture her to go on.
‘She was looking for a Maeve Tumpane.’
‘How did she get your number?’
Maeve shrugs. ‘Mine’s a rare surname – there aren’t many in the directory. I suppose it was just a case of ringing them all up.’ Pushing her glasses up her nose, she peers at me uncertainly.
‘And what did your brother say?’ I prompt. Despite Maeve’s initial eagerness to tell her news, she seems somewhat dazed by it.
‘He asked what her business was.’ Maeve smiles, almost apologetically. ‘Paddy can be very brusque on the phone.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ I murmur, before I can help myself.
‘He’s not a bad man, you know, Emily. He did what he thought was best.’
I look at Maeve’s pleading expression and realise that I’m doing it again. Letting my prejudice get in the way. Maeve’s right. He probably did do what was best at the time, and who am I to judge him for it now? Nearly forty years later. A girl from the noughties who lives in New York City, where men can walk down Fifth Avenue in drag and no one bats an eyelid.
‘Of course he did.’ I smile, and reaching across the plastic tablecloth I squeeze her hand. There can be no doubt that Maeve has forgiven her brother for what happened all those years ago. It’s just a shame that it took her so long to forgive herself.
‘So what did she say? This Shannon?’ I ask, bracing myself for bad news.
‘That the Maeve she was looking for would be in her late fifties now, and if there was such a person fitting that description living there, to pass on the message that Shannon O’Toole wanted to get in touch.’
A look passes between us.
‘And there was something else,’ says Maeve quietly.
My chest tightens. I daren’t ask.
‘She said it was very important to tell me that her middle name was Orla, as it was the name first given to her when she was born.’
For a moment neither of us speaks. Oh my God, this isn’t what I was expecting at all. I look at Maeve’s face across from me at the table. Her pale blue eyes wide behind the lenses of her glasses. Her small, delicate features now worn with age. I can’t begin to imagine the enormity of this news for her.
‘It’s my daughter, Emily. It’s my daughter come to find me,’ she whispers eventually.
‘But are you sure?’ I say gently, feeling both a sense of fear and joy. ‘I mean, I don’t want you to get your hopes up – there could be some kind of mistake . . .’
‘I’ve spoken to her.’
Wham. Out of the blue. Just like that.
‘
You have?
’
‘She left a number. I called her.’
I can feel my eyes saucer-wide. It’s not so much that Maeve has spoken to her that’s so astonishing, it’s the way Maeve seems so proactive. So determined. So fearless. The old Maeve would never have picked up that phone. She was too guilty, too heavy with remorse, too scared.
‘And?’ is all I can manage to say.
‘She sounded lovely, Emily,’ says Maeve quietly, but I detect the sound of relief and pride in her voice. ‘She’s a social worker and lives in Birmingham with her husband, Richard. She told me that she’d always wondered about me. That she’d wanted to find me for a long time, but while her adoptive mother was alive she never felt it was right to ask her about me, out of respect for her feelings.
‘But then when she passed away she got in touch with an agency that helps you trace birth parents. They found me straight away, but then she started to have doubts. What if I rejected her? What if I had a new life now, with more children of my own? What if I was ashamed of her and wanted to keep her a secret?’ Maeve looks at me incredulously, as if she can’t believe that anyone could ever think such a thing.
‘She kept my details in a drawer for over a year, then apparently she heard from the agency that they’d had an enquiry about a Maeve Tumpane’s daughter . . . Actually, that was the bit that I didn’t understand . . .’ She breaks off and shakes her head. ‘Or maybe I got that bit wrong. I don’t know, I can’t remember now. I was so overwhelmed by it all, Emily, I could barely take it in.’