A Weekend with Mr. Darcy (15 page)

Katherine and Warwick were in the first group to tour the house and amongst the first to enter its rooms. As soon as they were out of sight of the room steward in the drawing room, Warwick grabbed Katherine's hand and pulled her towards him, kissing her firmly on the mouth.

‘Warwick!' she protested, but it was rather feeble as protests went because he kissed her again straightaway and she didn't complain. Well, not at first. Not until they heard footsteps behind them. ‘Really,' she said, ‘in the home of Jane Austen! There must be a law against such things.'

He grinned at her. ‘And what's wrong with that? I'm sure our author would have approved. Wasn't love the key to all her books?'

‘I just feel so guilty,' Katherine said, self-consciously straightening her hair in case she'd been ruffled.

‘Why?'

Katherine thought for a moment. ‘I suppose I think of this place as being a bit special. It's almost like a church.'

Warwick smiled.

‘You don't think I'm crazy?'

‘No,' he said. ‘I know exactly what you mean.' They smiled at one another and then moved on through to the dining parlour, where a small table and chair had been set by the window.

‘This was the room she wrote in.'

‘It's lovely,' Warwick said. ‘Nice and bright although I couldn't write next to a window that looks out over the village.'

‘Do you write?' Katherine asked with a smile.

Warwick frowned. ‘I mean, if I were a writer, I think I'd be distracted by a window. I'd be too interested in watching what my neighbours were getting up to. I'd have to have my back to the window.'

‘I wonder how she wrote,' Katherine said. ‘I mean, did she mind people interrupting her? Could she enter the world of her book and shut everything else out? There's that gorgeous scene in the film
Miss Austen Regrets
when Cassandra walks into the room while Jane is writing, and she stops and her pen is hovering over the paper until her sister leaves. I love that. I think I'd be like that if I wrote fiction.'

‘Have you ever wanted to?'

‘What, write fiction?'

Warwick nodded.

‘No. I'm quite happy with my nonfiction. I like researching the facts. Fiction is my escape at the end of a long day. I don't think I'd ever want to write it. What about you?'

Warwick shrugged. ‘I love books. I love reading them and buying them and selling them.'

‘But not writing them?'

‘I don't know,' he said, clearing his throat.

But Katherine wasn't really listening. She was looking at the grand portrait of one of Jane Austen's brothers, Edward Knight, the one who'd been adopted by a rich family.

‘How strange it seems to us now to send one of your children away to be raised by somebody else—with their name too.'

‘And their fortune,' Warwick pointed out. ‘If Edward hadn't left the Austens and become a Knight, his mother and sisters wouldn't have had this cottage.'

‘No,' Katherine said. ‘I wonder what would have happened to them.'

‘Jane and Cassandra would have had to marry.'

‘Oh!' Katherine said. ‘And if Jane had married, she probably wouldn't have written. She'd have had another role to play.'

‘I guess so.'

‘Thank goodness for the Knight family then and for Edward.'

‘But what if Jane
had
fallen in love?' Warwick asked. ‘What if she'd met the right man and married?'

‘Then I don't think we would have the books.'

‘Would you make that sacrifice—for the happiness of Jane?'

Katherine bit her lip. ‘You mean, would I rather she'd married the man of her dreams and never written a word?'

‘Yes.'

‘I don't think she would have done it,' Katherine said at last. ‘I don't think it was in her. I think her writing was everything. No man could have been loved more than her darling books.'

‘You really think so?'

Katherine nodded. ‘And thank goodness for that,' she said, moving on to the next room.

***

When Robyn finally entered the cottage, she had to remind herself to keep breathing. She simply couldn't help holding her breath. This was it, she thought—the moment she'd so long anticipated—and it was every bit as magical as she imagined it would be.

The rooms were small but full of light and there was much to look at. It was lovely to see all the bits of furniture and imagine things being used by Jane, especially the little writing desk by the window.

There were many items in the house that ‘may have' been owned by Jane and things such as chamber pots that were ‘typical' of her day, but a very special item in the museum collection had belonged to Jane and had been very special to her, a beautiful topaz cross. It was in a drawer in a room called the vestibule, which was a kind of hallway, and Robyn gasped as she opened it. She'd heard about the cross before. Three were in the drawer: a large one that had belonged to Edward Knight's wife and two smaller ones bought for Jane and Cassandra by their brother.

Robyn looked at them with quiet wonderment, longing to touch Jane's cross and place it around her own neck, to feel those warm yellow gemstones against her skin. But she could only look at them tucked safely in the display drawer so close it was tantalizing.

Moving upstairs, Robyn entered the room that had once been Jane and Cassandra's bedroom. It was a modest-sized room, about the same size as Robyn's own bedroom, and it felt funny to be standing there with its replica bed, closet and chairs. A framed lace collar hung on one of the walls.

‘Worked by Jane Austen,' Robyn read with a wistful smile, imagining the author's hands at work on this very piece that was in front of her.

In another room was a patchwork quilt that Jane, her sister, and their mother had made. Robyn gazed at the floral-festooned diamond shapes made from old dresses belonging to them and their nieces. Which patches would have belonged to Jane? she wondered. She was transfixed. It was so bright and pretty that she longed to stroke the warm fabric, but behind glass, it was safe from the hands of fans. Just as well, really; otherwise things would be ruined in no time. No matter how well-intentioned people were, they still had an urge to reach out and physically touch the past.

***

As Robyn made her slow progress around the rest of the house, Katherine and Warwick were in the gift shop.

‘Look!' Warwick said, holding up a hardback. ‘They have your book.'

Katherine looked at him wide-eyed. ‘Shush!' she said. ‘Put it back.'

‘But I'm going to buy it. I want you to sign it for me. You should sign all these. They've got…' he counted, ‘five.'

Katherine shook her head.

‘They should know who's standing in their shop.'

‘Warwick!'

‘Aren't you proud of your book? You're being stocked at Jane Austen's house!'

She smiled. ‘Of course I'm proud; I just don't need everyone to know about it.'

‘You're funny,' he said.

She shook her head. ‘I'm sure you'd be the same. Writers are very modest people, you know. If we weren't, we wouldn't be writers; we'd be performers or something, shouting our talents from every platform.'

‘But you're speaking this weekend,' he said.

‘And it's a rare exception to my rule,' Katherine told him. ‘I love these weekends. I can be who I really am.'

‘And what's that?' he asked.

‘A Janeite,' she said and then sighed in delight. ‘It's just so wonderful being able to say that out loud. You know, if I so much as hinted such a thing at St Bridget's, I'd be flogged. They'd chase me across the quad and I'd never be allowed to darken the name of fine literature again.'

Warwick smiled. ‘I hate book snobs.'

‘So do I,' she said. ‘At least there's a good range of fiction here although I can't see any of Lorna Warwick's.'

‘It doesn't surprise me.'

‘No? But I'm sure they'd sell well here. Maybe we should suggest it.'

‘No!' Warwick said.

‘Why not? You were all for me announcing myself a minute ago. Why not do our friend Lorna a favour?'

‘I want to see the garden,' he said, scratching his nose and looking uncomfortable.

Katherine hastily bought a Jane Austen recipe book, a book about manners, and when she was quite sure Warwick was out of sight, an I Love Darcy bookmark.

‘Got anything nice?' he asked her when she joined him.

She nodded. ‘Just some more books for the collection,' she said, hoping he wouldn't look inside her bag.

‘I wish I could show you mine,' he said.

‘Your books?'

He nodded.

‘Do you have a shop? I'd love to see that.'

‘No,' he said. ‘Everything's done from home.'

‘I guess that's easier these days,' she said. ‘So many lovely old bookshops are closing, but I guess rents make things difficult. Did you used to have a shop?'

‘Er, no,' he said, stopping to read a notice board in the garden about the flowers on display.

‘How many books do you have at any one time?'

‘Thousands,' he said. ‘I can't stop buying. Like you.'

‘I expect you've got a lot more than me, though,' she said. ‘What's your favourite?'

‘I rather like those roses,' he said, pointing to the profusion of delicate blooms that encircled the cottage door.

‘No!' Katherine laughed. ‘Book! What's your favourite book?'

‘Well, I have some first edition Walter Scotts.'

‘Wow! I'd love to see them. Maybe I could visit some time.'

‘Well,' he said, ‘I'm not sure that's a good idea. The place is a mess; it really is.'

‘Perhaps you just need a woman's touch,' Katherine said. ‘I'd be happy to help. I love a good sort out—especially if it involves books.'

‘You don't need to do that,' Warwick said, tugging on his right ear and looking decidedly uncomfortable.

‘But it would be fun.'

‘It wouldn't,' he said. ‘Trust me.' He cleared his throat, his mouth twisting into funny shapes.

Katherine thought it best not to pursue the matter. He was obviously rather embarrassed about his untidy collection of books.

‘I think I'll take a walk down to the church,' Warwick said. ‘Before the coach is due to leave.'

Katherine nodded. ‘I'm going to stay here for a while,' she said. ‘I'll see you later?'

She watched him and sighed as he left the garden. She hadn't meant to make him feel uncomfortable, and she regretted having pushed herself forward. Still, she thought it would be fun to see his collection of books, and she'd misguidedly thought that he'd want to show it to her.

‘The mystery of men,' she thought as she left the gardens to get a pot of tea at Cassandra's Cup.

***

Warwick's strides were long and fast as he left Chawton Cottage. He didn't really want to see St Nicholas's Church or Chawton House and he'd already paid his respect to Jane Austen's mother and sister—the two Cassandras—in the churchyard. He just needed to get away.

Why did Katherine always bring the conversation around to books? Okay so they were attending a literary conference and book talk was bound to be high on the agenda, but things had been getting a little too close for comfort back there, and he felt that her eyes were burrowing into his very being. Had she been suspicious, he wondered, or was he just being paranoid? She had no way of knowing who he really was.

Passing a row of pretty cottages on his right, he dared to look back. Katherine was nowhere in sight, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He needed a few moments to get himself together.

‘What an idiot I've been!' he cursed to himself. What do you think you're playing at? This isn't a game—this is real life, and if she ever finds out what you've done—

But how could she? He wasn't going to tell her. Not yet, anyway.

‘So what's the plan?' he asked himself, thinking of their night together and how completely he had lost himself with Katherine. She was everything and more than he had dreamed of, and he could never risk hurting her but if he wanted to have a future with her, then she'd have to know the truth. There was no alternative, was there?

Unless I give up writing and start up a business as an antiquarian, he thought. She was actually worth it too, wasn't she? She would be worth giving up everything for, but could he really do that? No, probably not. Writing was in his blood; he had a feeling sometimes that his very veins were filled with ink. He couldn't give that up no matter how much in love he was.

‘What a mess!' He cursed. This really was turning into a frighteningly Lorna Warwick–like plot but with one alarming difference: he wasn't at all sure it was going to have a happy ending.

***

When Robyn finally surfaced from the house and entered the sunny garden, she felt wonderfully mellow and replete, as if she'd eaten a fine meal and couldn't possibly manage anything else, but then she remembered St Nicholas's Church and knew she couldn't leave until she paid her respects to the two Cassandras.

It was a pleasant walk along the lane, and Robyn smiled at the pretty thatched cottages, their gardens full of autumn blooms. How wonderful to live in Jane Austen's village, she thought, or was it a pain with ardent fans like herself peering over their walls and trying to see in through the windows?

She continued down the lane, passing a school and more houses and then a field full of shire horses. Next came the great sweep of driveway that led to Chawton House, the one-time home of Jane Austen's brother, Edward. Flanked by neat emerald grass, the drive led the eye to a hint of house at the end of it, three storeys high with great mullioned windows and a cavern-like door.