Page 113 of Me and Mr. Darcy

There was the time we met and he insulted me, our awkward dance at the ball, believing Ernie when he told me all those terrible things about Spike, his letter in the form of an email showing me I’d completely misjudged him, his declaration of love, my awful reaction—

Oh, God. I feel slightly sick.

Because now I’m thinking about it, I realise that, just like Lizzy Bennet, I’ve got it all wrong. And not just about Spike, but about Mr Darcy too . . .

There. I’ve admitted it. And as I do it’s as if a lid bursts open on a box I’ve kept tucked away inside myself and all those nagging doubts I’ve had for the last few days are released and come rushing to the surface. The long, awkward silences, his views about women working, his zero sense of humour and inability to laugh at himself . . .

What was it Spike said that day in Bath? ‘The reality is always more disappointing than the fantasy.’ He was talking about Betty Blue, but he could just as well have been talking about Mr Darcy. In Pride and Prejudice Jane Austen describes Mr Darcy as ‘brooding’, which sounds so attractive, but in truth it turns out it just means he’s sulky; ‘proud’, I’ve fast come to realise, means sexist, and as for him appearing ‘arrogant’, in reality, what it really means is he’s actually quite snobbish.

And finally it hits me. I’m not in love with Mr Darcy. Not even remotely. And you know what? I never was. I was in love with the idea of him and what he represented, but not the reality. Of course that doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to him, who wouldn’t be? As Stella said back in the bookstore, the man’s a female wet dream. But how can anything live up to the airbrushed vision I’ve created in my head all these years? He can’t. And he shouldn’t be made to. Because that’s the thing about Mr Darcy – he’s a female fantasy. But that’s all he is, a fantasy. And that’s what he should remain.

‘Emily?’

A voice right next to my ear snaps me back and I look to see Maeve peering at me.

‘My, my, you were away with the fairies, weren’t you?’ she’s chuckling, pushing her glasses up her nose to peer at me even closer. ‘Haven’t you noticed? Look! We’ve arrived.’

She gestures out of the window, and as I turn sideways I see everyone milling about in the parking lot full of excited chatter and anticipation, and I realise the coach is empty.

‘Sorry. I was engrossed in my book,’ I say, making my excuses, and getting up. ‘You go ahead, I’ll follow you.’

‘Okey-dokey,’ nods Maeve, and then throws me a smile. ‘Gosh, isn’t this exciting? Home of the famous lake scene. Perhaps we’ll see our very own Mr Darcy,’ she says, and raises her eyebrows.

‘I hope so,’ I reply, watching as she turns and begins making her way down the tourbus.

And I really do hope I see him, I think, as I start quickly gathering together my things. Because I’ve also realised something else. Mr Darcy and I can never make this work. And ironically it’s got nothing to do with the weirdness, absurdity and implausibility of it all, and everything to do with something a lot more mundane: irreconcilable differences. Or, to put it in layman’s terms, we’re just too different.

We have views which are, quite literally, worlds apart. And I need to tell him this. But since I don’t have a number I can call him on, a mobile I can text or an email address I can write to, I’m going to have to do it the hard way and tell him face to face.

I feel my resolve falter.

The only problem is, how on earth do you break up with Mr Darcy?

Chapter Thirty-three

‘As most of you probably already know, Lyme Park was turned into one of television’s iconic backdrops when it was used by the BBC in their adaptation of Pride and Prejudice as the setting for Pemberley, the home of our beloved Mr Darcy. It wasn’t entirely loyal to the original novel. Indeed, it’s actually Chatsworth House in Derbyshire that is believed to have been Jane Austen’s inspiration for Pemberley. However, for all you Colin Firth fans, it is here that the famous scene with Mr Firth emerging dripping from the lake was filmed . . .’

There are a few phwoars and whoops of approval from the ladies who have gathered inside the grand entrance of the house to listen to Miss Steane’s introductory speech.

‘. . . and today we are very lucky indeed to be allowed this opportunity. Usually the hall is closed to the general public at this time, but for us Jane Austen fans, the powers that be have made an exception and opened it up to us for a private tour. Bravo!’

Finishing with a flourish, she brings her hands together and sets off a little round of applause. I join in though I wasn’t really listening. I’m too busy thinking about Mr Darcy. About how I have to tell him it’s over, that I can’t see him any more. And how on earth do I find him to tell him?

Wondering where I was going to bump into him again has always seemed so romantic and exciting, but suddenly it isn’t fun any more. I feel a flash of frustration. I don’t want a man who’s mysterious and enigmatic – I want a man I can text. Me, who hates all this constant texting, who’s always complaining it’s so unromantic and takes away the mystery. Now I’d do anything to be able to text “Where R U?!” and press ‘send’.

‘Though Chatsworth House, which Jane Austen visited in 1811, may have been the real background for Pemberley, I think you will probably all agree, ladies, that Lyme Hall would probably be of a more manageable size for Elizabeth when she becomes lady of the house . . .’

A couple of hours later and Miss Steane’s coming to the end of her guided tour. As she leads the way into the last and final room, I glance quickly around, as I’ve done with every room in the house, hoping to catch sight of Mr Darcy. Hoping that he’ll just turn up unexpectedly as he always does. That any minute now I’m going to step into a room or walk through a doorway or turn to the side and he’ll be there. That tall, dark, instantly recognisable figure, the familiar brooding expression, the unmistakable voice with its gravity and perfect vowels.

Yet I’ve looked around every marble bust, behind every stick of furniture and out of every window and I haven’t seen him. Now, with our visit soon to be over, I’m fast losing hope that he’s going to show up. And beginning to think that I might, in fact, never see him again.

At the thought, I feel a strange mixture of sadness and relief. I guess it solves the problem of having to break up with him, and yet somehow it doesn’t feel right – after everything that’s happened, I feel I need to say goodbye properly. I need, to use a dreadful Americanism, to have closure.

After the tour has finished, everyone makes their way to the café and souvenir shop, but instead I go outside and take a look at the view. It really is beautiful here. I hadn’t noticed just how stunning this place is. I was too busy with my head in my book when we first arrived to even notice the impressive drive through the deer park, the hall itself which resembles a sumptuous Italianate palace, surrounded by gardens and fronted by the most incredible reflection in the lake. But now, as I stand here drinking it all in, it fairly takes your breath away.

The hall itself is magnificent, if a little overwhelming and stuffed with clocks, tapestries and woodcarvings, while the seventeen acres of Victorian garden, including an Edwardian rose garden, deer park and woodland, stretch out for ever. But it’s not just the aesthetics, it’s the feel of the place. Lyme Park has got that magical quality to it. I can tell why the BBC chose it. It has a serenity. It’s timeless. You could imagine that nothing has changed in a hundred years – it’s like time has stood still.

I draw in a long breath and stuff my gloved hands further into my pockets. Alone in the clear, fresh January air, I remain here, gazing out at the lake, absently watching the birds in the distance, squawking and swooping across the water and over the branches of the bare trees.