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 opens the glass jar of pâté, flicks open a starched white napkin and fastidiously wipes the rim, removing every last invisible smear of pâté. 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, shit,’ 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 over-dramatic, 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 the Queen?
‘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-schmancy restaurant, is it? I tear off a bit of bread and use it to scoop out the pâté. ‘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.’
My 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.
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.