Page 104 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘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.’