Page 68 of Me and Mr. Darcy

I feel a jolt as I remember. ‘New Year’s Eve,’ I murmur. ‘Wow, I totally forgot.’

‘You forgot,’ repeats Maeve in disbelief. She looks at me aghast. ‘But it’s the big ball tonight.’

‘God, yeah, of course,’ I gasp, suddenly thinking about it. ‘I lost track of time, what with the time difference and travelling . . .’

And meeting Mr Darcy, I think, my mind flashing back to last night. Just a few hours ago I was walking with him across this very square, which had been deserted but for the two of us. It had been magical. Thinking about it now, my stomach flutters with excitement and I bury my nose in his white silk scarf, which I’ve taken to wearing, and inhale its delicious scent.

‘I understand,’ nods Maeve, not understanding at all. ‘It can be a difficult time when families are apart. Sometimes you just want to forget about it.’ Patting my arm reassuringly, she peers at me intently, her face reminiscent of an owl’s in her huge wide-framed spectacles.

I’m about to tell her she’s mistaken and I’m absolutely fine being apart from my family, when I get the sense that she’s actually talking about herself.

‘Are your family back in Ireland?’ I ask cautiously. I don’t want her to think I’m being nosy. Since the other day when she snapped at me on the bus I’ve been careful to keep our conversations very surface, which is one of the reasons why I decided not to tell her what Ernie told me. Part of me wants to set the record straight, but the other part is afraid to get involved. Shoot the messenger and all that. Plus, he did make me promise to keep it a secret. Still, it’s such a shame. I think Ernie and Maeve would have been great together.

‘Oh, there’s only my brother, Paddy, and he’s spending Christmas and New Year’s Eve at his daughter’s villa in Spain . . .’

She’s smiling brightly as she talks, but her eyes betray a certain sadness. I’ve always presumed Maeve was single, but now it strikes me that perhaps she’s a widow. That would explain the sad look she always has, as if she’s in mourning for someone, I think, glancing at Maeve’s ring finger. I’m sure I didn’t notice her wearing a ring before, but maybe—

‘I never married,’ she says, catching me looking.

‘Oh, I . . . didn’t mean . . .’

Seeing my embarrassment, Maeve quickly reassures me. ‘It’s all right, dearie, people often wonder.’

‘So you never wanted to?’ I ask curiously.

She hesitates for a moment, as if thinking about something, then says matter-of-factly, ‘It just never happened for me, that’s all.’ Stuffing her hands in the pockets of her rather drab woollen coat, she gestures across to a group of children building a snowman in the square. ‘My goodness, will you look at them. Isn’t that wonderful?’

And with that our conversation ends and we pause for a few moments to watch them, all bundled up in stripy scarves and woollen mittens, their faces bursting with innocent excitement as they make eyes out of buttons and a nose from a carrot. And no doubt the topic would have switched to something else entirely and I would have forgotten all about it if I hadn’t happened to glance across at Maeve and see a look in her eyes that belies the smile on her face. It’s that haunted look again. And right there and then I know for sure there’s a lot more than Maeve’s telling me. I just don’t know what it is.

But this time I’m determined to find out.

‘What is it, Maeve?’ I begin uncertainly.

She doesn’t answer and continues staring resolutely ahead, but I can see the muscles in her jaw clench tightly. Regret stabs. Oh, shit. What did I do that for? I shouldn’t have said anything. What’s it got to do with me?

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I’m now saying quickly. ‘It’s none of my business . . .’

‘I had a daughter.’

I’m silenced.

‘When I was eighteen. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I named her Orla,’ she continues, speaking in the past tense. ‘They only let me hold her for a few minutes and then they took her away.’

I feel a rush of sadness. Oh, God. So that’s what it is. That’s why she always looks so terribly sad. Maeve had a baby girl and she must have died. How awful.

‘I think about her every day.’

I look at Maeve. Her eyes are watering behind her thick glasses and I want to say something to comfort her, but I don’t know what. The tried-and-tested words seem so trite. There’s a whole canyon of grief that she’s kept bottled up inside. How can I even begin to imagine what she’s been through?

‘I wonder where she is, what she’s doing, if she has her own children now,’ continues Maeve, who’s talking quietly to herself.

I feel a jolt of confusion.

‘She’s grown up?’

Maeve nods. ‘She turned thirty-seven this year.’

‘But I thought, I mean, the way you were speaking—’ I break off.