Page 112 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Of course it soon gets round about Ernie’s disappearance and it doesn’t take long before rumours begin circulating. According to Hilary, who has it on good authority, Ernie was spotted on New Year’s Eve with a woman from the ball.

Apparently they appeared ‘deep in conversation’, is how Hilary puts it, which reminds me of those murder mysteries you get on TV, where the victims are always last seen ‘deep in conversation’ with a stranger before their untimely death. Not that I’m implying Ernie has now turned from a con man into a murderer, I’m just saying.

Credence is further added to this story by Rupinda, who, with much jangling of the dozens of thin, gold bracelets she wears on her arms, relates her visit to a newsagent’s yesterday where she’d encountered Ernie and the aforementioned mystery woman (now a blonde, with bad posture that could be dramatically improved by yoga, according to Rupinda). Ernie, however, did not see Rupinda, and he and the blonde were overheard talking about their last-minute vacation to Jamaica.

Or at least that’s what she thought she heard, admits Rupinda, when quizzed by Rose, but then perhaps it wasn’t that at all. In fact, now she’s thinking about it, she can’t be one hundred per cent sure it was Ernie after all, as she was too busy flicking through Spiritual Health Monthly. There’s a universal groan of disappointment from those on the coach who’ve been listening to all this with bated breath, and Rupinda is crossly accused of having an overactive imagination by Miss Steane, who then tells everyone to stop making idle assumptions and to look to the left as we’re passing a famous viaduct built by the Romans.

Me? I don’t know who or what to believe. Maybe Hilary and Rupinda are right, maybe Miss Steane is, or maybe none are and it’s something completely different. Either way, he’s gone.

I glance sideways at Maeve. Her face tilted to the window, she’s gazing at the scenery and smiling absently to herself, and I know that even if we never find out what happened to Ernie, one thing is certain: she’s had a lucky escape. And for that, we have Spike to thank. Because if it wasn’t for him, this story might have had a very different ending altogether.

It’s a long drive to Cheshire and an hour into our journey we’ve left the countryside far behind and are on the grey concrete monotony of an English motorway.

I think about Bath. About leaving it behind. Part of me is sad, the way you’re always sad when you’ve looked forward to visiting somewhere or doing something for so long, and now it’s over, but to be honest, I’m also rather relieved. It’s got a lot of wonderful memories, most of them revolving around Mr Darcy – our amazing first date on the lake, riding up to the moonlit Sham Castle on New Year’s Eve, the butterflies in my stomach when he turned to kiss me – but it has some pretty painful ones too.

My mind leapfrogs back to my furious row with Spike, then leapfrogs off again.

But like I said, there’s nothing I can do about that now. I’ve just got to try to forget about it.

Half an hour of fidgeting later, my sweater screwed up underneath my chin in a makeshift pillow, I give up trying to snooze like everyone else is doing. It’s impossible. There’s too much going on in my head. Sitting upright, I dig around in my bag, pull out my copy of Pride and Prejudice and turn to my book-marked page.

With everything that’s been going on, I haven’t got very far in – I’m still only near the beginning. Saying that, this is one of my favourite scenes in the book. It’s where Elizabeth and Mr Darcy are at Netherfield Ball, and Mr Darcy has just asked her for the next dance. Taken by surprise she says yes, but when he walks away, she wonders what on earth she was thinking. Her friend Charlotte tries to console her:

‘I dare say you will find him agreeable.’

‘Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil.’

God, I totally know how she feels, I muse, thinking about Spike, then quickly trying not to. Remember your decision, Emily? I tell myself firmly. Turning over the page, I continue reading about what happens when they actually get on the dance floor: I always feel a bit sorry for Elizabeth here. She’s so earnest in her defence of Wickham and yet she totally gets it wrong.

‘I remember hearing you once say, Mr Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.’

‘I am,’ said he, with a firm voice.

‘And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?’

‘I hope not.’

‘It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.’

Saying that, she’s such a hypocrite. If anyone’s blinded by prejudice, it’s Elizabeth! I think, my mind flicking back over the earlier scenes. She’s been totally against Mr Darcy from the very beginning, ever since he hurt her pride by calling her ‘pretty dull’ and ‘average-looking’.

I catch myself.

What? No, I’ve got that wrong – it was Spike who called me that. Mr Darcy called Elizabeth ‘tolerable’ and ‘not pretty enough’. I shake my head. How weird. Where did that just come from? Brushing it aside, I turn back to the page.

‘May I ask to what these questions tend?’

‘Merely to the illustration of your character,’ said she, endeavouring to shake off her gravity. ‘I am trying to make it out.’

But she’s not really, is she? I tell myself. It’s pretty obvious Elizabeth has already made her mind up about Mr Darcy, and she’s using this to have a dig. I mean, let’s face it, the only reason Elizabeth was so quick to believe Wickham’s story, and without even a scrap of evidence to support it, was because it backed up her opinion of Mr Darcy as a total bastard. It made her feel right. It justified her dislike of him.

And the only reason I know this for certain, is because I felt exactly the same that day in the café when Ernie told me his story, I think regretfully. Honestly, talk about a coincidence.

Except—

Suddenly the parallels are too many to ignore and it’s like a light goes on in my head. Hang on a minute. This could be written about me and Spike, just replace the names and it’s us.

No sooner has the thought struck than I can’t believe I haven’t noticed this before. I start flicking through the pages in the book. In fact, the more I’m thinking about it, the more similarities are jumping out at me, I realise, my memory simultaneously flicking through a rollerdeck of past conversations, arguments, glances, emotions . . .