Page 26 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Forty minutes later we’re still slowly making our way around the house. So far we’ve seen the drawing room, the dining parlour, where Jane wrote on the small round table, and been upstairs to the bedrooms to look at the patchwork quilt she made with her mother. Hers was obviously not the life of disastrous dates, vodka martinis and Sunday mornings spent in bed with a hangover, I reflect, thinking about how different my own life is. But at least we do have one thing in common – books.

Entering one of the rooms, I see a showcase that houses an interesting collection of books. My eyes flit across the embossed spines, reading the various titles. Like myself, Jane was obviously a huge fan of reading, I reflect happily, feeling a bond with the author.

She also died single, reminds a little voice inside me.

Right, OK.

Turning away from the showcase, I look at the other members of the group. Absorbed in their pamphlets and brochures, they’re stopping and staring at various points of interest. Maeve is bent over a showcase of family silver, while Rose is peering at some jewellery and brooches and fanning herself with a copy of Sense and Sensibility.

I stifle a yawn. Gosh, my jet lag is really bad. I could do with a little nap.

‘And so, moving on to the admiral’s room. Here you will find memorabilia of her two sailor brothers, Francis and Charles, both of whom had distinguished careers in the Royal Navy . . .’

Hmm, that doesn’t sound very interesting. I glance at my watch. The museum is about to close, so it wouldn’t hurt if I skipped this bit. Maybe I should go for a little walkabout. Go outside and get a bit of fresh air to try and wake myself. I glance out of the window. It’s still raining, but I think I saw some umbrellas at the entrance when we came in.

I hang back as Miss Steane leads the rest of the tour through a doorway, and when I’m sure no one’s looking, I slip quietly out of the room.

I wander into the narrow hallway and go downstairs, looking for the exit. I’m sure we came in this way, but then again, there’s no one worse for directions then me. I turn a corner, then another. It’s strange – the house isn’t very big at all, in fact it’s quite small, but I’ve lost my bearings. No, it’s not this way, I realise, seeing the gift shop ahead and retracing my steps.

Doubling back on myself, I turn a corner. Ahead of me I see a door has fallen closed. Aha, that must be it. Pushing open the door, I walk inside, only to recognise it’s the dining parlour where I was earlier. Damn, it must be the other way. Stifling a yawn, I wander inside anyway. It’s nice and quiet in here. Maybe I can sit down for a little while. Close my eyes for a moment.

Feeling a wave of jet lag, I glance woozily around the room. There’s a wooden chair but it’s the one Jane Austen used to write at her table and it’s sectioned off to the public by a plastic barrier. Of course I can’t sit there. I don’t know if it’s the real thing, but it looks like an antique. It’s, like, two hundred years old or something.

Then again I am really exhausted.

I eye it for a moment. I’ve never been one to break rules, but saying that, there’s no one here and it would be just for a few minutes. I mean, it wouldn’t do any harm, I’d be super careful . . .

Stepping over the plastic barrier, I sink down on to the wooden chair gratefully. Ahhh, that’s better. I lean back and rest my head against the wooden frame. In my head I hear Miss Steane’s words: ‘By the window is the original table where she revised Pride and Prejudice and created the Mr Darcy we know and love today. And we also have an example of the type of feather quill she would have used to bring him to life. Or could it be, perhaps, the very one!’

I look at the small polished table in front of me. In the corner there’s a bottle of ink against which is propped a quill. Of course I can’t touch it. You’re absolutely not allowed to touch any of the items: there’s signs everywhere telling you so in no uncertain terms. I’d really get into trouble.

Saying that, there’s nothing worse than a sign saying ‘Don’t touch’ for making you want to touch something, is there?

I pick up the quill. If I was expecting something spooky to happen, I’m disappointed, and for a moment I just hold it in my fingers to get the feel of it. It’s probably a reproduction anyway, but even so, it’s still fascinating to think Jane Austen wrote a whole book with a pen like this. I mean, can you imagine? A whole book?

I glance at the ink bottle, an idea stirring. Honestly, this is so completely unlike me to be even contemplating this, but how cool would it be to write something? Anything. Just my name even. Of course I can’t.

But of course I know I’m going to.

Unscrewing the lid, I dip the nib, and using the back of a piece of paper that was in my pamphlet, I press it carefully against the blank page and write Emily, then with small, scratchy strokes, add & Mr Darcy. I smile sheepishly at myself. Look at me. It’s like I’m thirteen years old again and back at school. And just for the hell of it I begin doodling Emily Darcy, Mr & Mrs Darcy, Emily 4 Darcy and a little love-heart with two arrows through it.

My smile turns into a wide yawn and I stop to let it out. Oh, wow, I really am dog-tired. Putting down the quill, I rub my watering eyes. It feels as if I’ve got lead weights plonked on top of my eyelids. The waves of jet lag are coming thick and fast now. I’m going to have to close my eyes. Just for a moment . . .

‘Ahem.’

I must have dropped off, because the next thing I’m jolted awake by someone coughing. I open my eyes to see a man over by the fireplace. Tall and broad, he has thick black hair curling over his collar and dark eyebrows that look like two smudges of charcoal. They’re pitched together in curiosity.

‘Hello, can I help you?’ he says.

‘Uh . . . ?’ Still half asleep, I prop myself upright and blearily survey my surroundings, taking a moment to register. Uh, where am I?

Then it hits me. Oh, shit.

Hastily I jump up from the chair. Shit, shit and double shit. Trust me to fall asleep and get caught.

‘I . . . um . . .’ Suddenly I realise I’ve drooled on my chin. Oh, God, how embarrassing. My cheeks burning, I wipe my chin with my sleeve. ‘Sorry . . . I . . . um . . . was just resting for a moment . . .’ I trail off uncertainly as the stranger crosses the room and I suddenly notice his odd clothes. He’s wearing a frock coat, breeches and a white shirt with this funny high-necked collar and some kind of cravat. I glance down at his feet. And what’s with the riding boots?

Puzzled, I watch him as he strides confidently around the large dining table in the middle of the room. That’s funny. It’s set for dinner, but I don’t remember candles being lit.