A Weekend with Mr. Darcy (7 page)

Katherine drew back the heavy bedroom curtains and looked out over the view that she'd quickly come to think of as her own. The sun was shining and the lake was looking particularly blue, with diamond droplets of light dancing on its surface.

A moorhen tore across the lawn at a tremendous speed, its neck lengthened to cartoonish proportions as it made for the thick clumps of reed by the lake. If she hadn't been asked there as a paid guest, she knew the price of the long weekend was worth it for this view alone.

Turning back to the room with the realization that she couldn't spend the entire break gazing out of the window, she realised how lucky she was and how very precious moments like these were. To be absolutely still and take time to look at the world was something Katherine didn't do very often. She needed this at the moment.

The previous night she'd given in to the emotions she'd bottled up for many weeks and had a jolly good cry. David's announcement that he was married had come at a particularly busy time of term and Katherine had chosen to bury herself in her work and ignore the fact that her heart was broken. The only acknowledgement she'd made had been a slight overdose on her DVD collection of costume dramas—in particular her Austen titles.

The restorative powers of Jane Austen never failed. It was the one thing in life that a girl could rely on, like a good bottle of wine or an expensive box of chocolates. David had dropped his bombshell on a Friday and Katherine had spent the entire weekend on the sofa watching the BBC version of
Pride and Prejudice
—all six hour-long episodes back to back, laughing and crying her way through the trials of the Bennet sisters. Judging by the previous night, however, she obviously hadn't, that weekend, cried herself out over her broken relationship.

‘But I have now,' she said, examining her pale face in the bathroom mirror. It was always the same when she was upset—all the colour drained out of her, leaving her looking like a little ghost. She'd have to do a good repair job with the make-up this morning, unless she wanted to terrify everyone at breakfast. She wondered what the dark-haired gentlemen would think if he saw her now. Would he be as keen to talk to her if he saw Katherine Roberts—the damaged version?

For a moment she thought about the man that seemed so intent on getting to know her.

‘Warwick,' she said to her reflection. It was an unusual name. She'd never heard of it as a first name before, only as a surname.

‘Like Lorna Warwick,' she suddenly said and then laughed. Not that he would have heard of Lorna Warwick. He was probably one of those Jane Austen snobs who ridiculed any other novel that wasn't written by the grande dame herself. So that was the end of their friendship, then. They would have absolutely nothing to talk about if he was a literary snob and couldn't bear to indulge in a bit of Regency fun every now and then. Not that she had been planning to talk to him because she hadn't. The last thing she was looking for was another relationship. She needed a break from men. Well, real ones anyway. Fictional men were fine: they knew their place. You could just pick up a book, flick through to the right page, take your fill of your favourite hero and then return him to the shelf. Job done.

Real men, though, were something to be avoided for the foreseeable future. Look, but don't touch, she thought. No, even looking could be fraught with danger. All romantic interludes began with a pair of gullible eyes and there was no telling where things might lead. Just look at Marianne Dashwood and Willoughby and Elizabeth Bennet and Wickham. Hadn't Willoughby and Wickham been the most dashing, romantic of heroes? Hadn't they been charming and totally above suspicion? Yet they proved to be the most dangerous of men.

‘Like David,' Katherine said. Except he hadn't been quite as dashing. He was a middle-aged university lecturer whose hair was receding a little and who could have benefitted from a couple of sessions a week at the gym. Katherine hadn't minded any of that, though. It was his wit and charm that had bowled her over—his unashamed flattery and the old-fashioned way he had courted her. He posted love letters under her office door, handed her books of poetry with his favourites marked by a rose. He took her out to the very best restaurants and bought her little gifts beautifully wrapped.

‘But he didn't tell you about his wife,' she said aloud. That was it with men, wasn't it? There was always some hidden horror, some terrible secret that just happened to slip their minds as they kissed you to within an inch of your senses.

‘Well, never again,' Katherine said. She would never make the mistake of being taken in by a man.

She smiled with satisfaction at this promise. Once she was home, she'd certainly have lots to tell her dear friend Lorna. Katherine's fingers were almost itching to start the letter right then. Lorna would laugh heartily when Katherine told her about Warwick and how cool she'd been in her response.

‘And quite right you were too!' Lorna would surely tell her. ‘These men must be put in their place.'

Katherine sighed. If only Lorna were there, she thought. What fun they would have together!

***

Across the hall from Katherine's room, Robyn was waking up, stretching full length under the warm duvet, and staring up at the beautiful plasterwork above the light on the ceiling. It was a far cry from her own bedroom many miles away in Yorkshire with the strange damp patch that glowered down at her each morning. How lovely it must be to live in such elegance, she thought. Getting out of bed on the wrong side would be impossible when one had sash windows on one side and exquisite pieces of furniture on the other. Come to think of it, it would be hard to get out of bed at all when you owned one as beautiful as the one Robyn was occupying. Did she really want to leave its warm comfort when she could spend the day in bed with Mr Darcy? Or even a whole weekend with Mr Darcy? Now there was a thought and if a girl couldn't get away with that at a Jane Austen weekend, then where could she?

Robyn sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. It was always a bit tangled and springy first thing in the morning, and she needed to tame it before breakfast.

Getting out of bed and taking a shower, she tried not to think about the night before. After Jace's appearance, she'd hidden herself away in her room for more than an hour and then got angry that she was letting him ruin her weekend. She then ventured downstairs and quietly joined the film group just in time to see Colonel Brandon carrying a broken Marianne in his arms. It was one of her favourite scenes, and she always adored the moment when, after her fever breaks, Marianne notices Colonel Brandon in the doorway of her bedroom, seeing him as if for the first time, and thanks him.

As ever, in times of trouble Jane Austen was, in the words her sister Cassandra used to describe her, ‘the soother of every sorrow,' and Robyn was able to put all nonheroes out of her mind.

Having washed and dressed, Robyn swapped the beauty of her bedroom for the splendour of the dining room, shyly entering and noticing that she was one of the last down.

‘Oh, my dear!' a voice suddenly accosted her. ‘We were all so worried about you.'

Robyn nearly died of embarrassment right there on the spot.

‘I'm Doris,' the white-haired lady said, taking Robyn's arm as if she were some kind of invalid and leading her to the table. ‘Doris Norris. I kept a seat for you.'

‘Thank you,' Robyn said, catching Katherine's eye on the other side of the table. She winked, but there was nothing more she could do to rescue her friend.

‘We all felt absolutely dreadful for you last night after that young man of yours ruined the evening for you,' Doris said.

‘Well, he didn't really—'

‘He should be ashamed of himself,' Doris continued unhindered. ‘He doesn't deserve a nice girl like you, does he? How long have you two been together?'

‘Since school,' Robyn said, not really wanting to launch into the history of Jace and her at the breakfast table.

‘He was your first love, was he?' Doris asked. ‘I know how that one goes. My Henry was my first love. Well, after Mr Darcy, that is. We met when we were eighteen and were married for fifty-four years.' She paused, probably waiting for the intake of breath that usually greeted this piece of information.

‘That's amazing,' Robyn said.

Doris nodded. ‘We were in it for the long haul in my day. Not like marriages these days with divorces as easy as pie.'

‘But you wouldn't want to be trapped in a dreadful relationship,' Robyn said as she poured herself an orange juice from a glass jug.

‘Of course not,' Doris said. ‘So you have to choose wisely in the first place, don't you?'

Robyn sighed. As kind as she meant to be, Doris wasn't helping.

Doris took a sip of coffee and gave a little chuckle. ‘Your young man,' she said, ‘it's not exactly the sort of behaviour we expect at a Jane Austen Conference.'

‘No,' a stern-looking woman said from the other side of the table. She had a great cliff bosom and reminded Robyn of a terrifying headmistress she once had. ‘
Not
the sort of thing we expect at Purley.' She gave Robyn a look to suggest that she'd been responsible for the whole thing. Robyn thought it best to avoid eye contact and eat her breakfast as quickly as possible.

‘Don't let Mrs Soames get you down,' Katherine told her when they left the dining room together ten minutes later. ‘She likes nothing more than a good moan.'

‘She scared me stiff!' Robyn admitted, thinking of the glare that had accosted her over the cornflakes.

Katherine shook her head. ‘Don't let her get the better of you. I'm sure she comes to these weekends to find fault, not pleasure.'

‘You've met her before?'

‘Unfortunately, yes. She usually sits in the front row of my talks, wobbling that great bosom of hers in disdain. She's called Frances Soames and a nastier piece of work I have yet to meet.'

‘I'll do my best to avoid her,' Robyn said.

‘Come on,' Katherine said, ‘we've got a hot date with Mr Darcy.'

The morning session titled Undressing Mr Darcy was, perhaps, one of the most popular events at the Purley Hall conference. Given by the History Wardrobe, it was a presentation in which a handsome actor performed a sort of Regency striptease revealing almost everything that a fine pair of pantaloons could hide. It was always something to get excited about, and there was a bit of a scramble for front row seats when the doors to the Gainsborough Room were opened, with Robyn, Katherine, and Doris getting prime positions.

‘I've seen this three times now,' Doris said with a naughty smile.

Robyn giggled. ‘Well, it's new to me, although I've tried to imagine it a fair few times—usually after watching the Colin Firth production.'

‘Is he your perfect Darcy?' Katherine asked.

Robyn nodded. ‘I think it's the way his hair curls just a little bit, and I love those intense looks he gives Elizabeth.'

‘I can't remember the last time I experienced an intense look,' Doris said. ‘But I have a dreadful suspicion that it was from my optician when he was examining me for my new bifocals.'

They all laughed.

‘Are you seeing anyone, Katherine?' Robyn dared to ask. ‘Any Mr Darcy in your life?'

Katherine cleared her throat. ‘No,' she said. ‘Not at the moment.'

‘What?' Doris said. ‘A beautiful young woman like you? You should have at least four of five beaux after you at any time.'

‘She has at least one here,' Robyn said, instantly receiving a glare from Katherine.

Doris turned around in her chair. ‘Who is he? Is he here now?'

‘I can't see him yet,' Robyn said. ‘But he's very good-looking.'

‘Is he that nice young man with the dark hair?' Doris asked.

Robyn nodded. ‘He ran over Katherine's foot with a suitcase.'

‘You say that like it's romantic,' Katherine complained.

‘Wasn't it just a little bit like Marianne twisting her ankle and being scooped up by Willoughby?' Robyn said.

‘No, it wasn't,' Katherine said. ‘It was very painful and not in the least romantic, and I'm trying to steer clear of him now.'

A gentleman sat down heavily in the front row next to Doris, but it wasn't the dark-haired man with the lethal suitcase they'd been talking about. It was an elderly man with a shock of white hair that made him look like a guinea pig. He was one of the few men attending the conference and it was a great pity that he wasn't in the mould of a hero.

‘What's this talk called?' he asked, turning round to squint at Doris.

‘Undressing Mr Darcy,' Doris said.

‘What?'

‘Undressing Mr Darcy!'

‘Undressing? Who's undressing?' he asked, looking quite shocked.

‘It's an actor in costume,' Doris explained.

‘An actress?' he said, his eyes lighting up.

Doris waved her hand and gave up. He'd find out sooner or later.

Sure enough, as everyone took their seats, a lady in Regency costume entered the room and a hush descended. Robyn smiled as she looked over the long white gown the woman was wearing and a pair of the daintiest of shoes Robyn had ever seen. The woman had delicate fabric flowers in her hair and the whole ensemble made Robyn want to give up her twenty-first century jeans and trainers forever.

The costume historian began the talk by asking audience members what they thought Mr Darcy really looked like because there was very little description of him and his clothes in
Pride and Prejudice
.

‘What's she saying?' asked the old man next to Doris. ‘Is she the one who's undressing?'

Doris didn't have time to explain because Mr Darcy strode into the room.

‘Oh, my, gracious me!' Doris said. ‘He's magnificent!'

Robyn giggled. It was as if Doris were seeing him for the first time. Her whole face had filled with wonder, and Robyn couldn't blame her. Standing seven feet tall from the soles of his elegant black boots to the top of his Directoire hat, he was the perfect Fitzwilliam Darcy and with his haughty good looks and his confident pose, Robyn felt as if she'd been transported back in time to the Meryton Ball and that she was seeing the same Mr Darcy that Elizabeth would have seen.

The fun then began when the costume historian started disrobing him.

‘That must be the best job in the world,' Doris whispered to Robyn and Katherine.

‘I don't know why I didn't think of it,' Katherine said. ‘It sure beats marking essays.'

The Regency woman began by removing the hat and coat, showing off a crisp white shirt and a beautiful gold-striped waistcoat. There were gasps from the audience and Robyn's mouth dropped open. Why didn't men dress like that anymore, she wondered. T-shirts and fleece jumpers just didn't get the same reaction, did they?

The hat had been placed on a little dressing table behind them that was set with an oval mirror and gave the feeling that one was really inside Mr Darcy's private rooms, watching him being disrobed.

The undressing continued with layer after layer being carefully removed.

‘That woman's undressing him!' the old man next to Doris said.

‘She certainly is,' a woman said with a laugh from the row behind him. ‘It's what most of us have come on the weekend for!'

A few giggles came from the audience, especially when Mr Darcy began to unbutton his fall-front trousers. The old man next to Doris was looking a bit flustered at this stage. His face had turned quite red and he looked as if he was about to explode.

Alas, Mr Darcy was going to leave something to the imagination of the audience and the costume historian allowed him to keep his Regency drawers on, asking him to put on his banyan—a very elegant man's dressing gown, resplendent in green and gold. A huge round of applause erupted and as Mr Darcy posed for the audience one last time, the presentation came to an end.

***

Robyn ventured out of the hall. After the noise and laughter of the Undressing Mr Darcy presentation, she needed to be quiet for a few moments, and she'd been longing to explore the grounds. It was one of the drawbacks of the weekend—there were many wonderful talks and activities, but it left very little time to oneself, and Robyn was eager to see more of Purley.

Once she walked through the great front door, three shallow steps led Robyn down to the gravel driveway where she turned right to follow the gardens under the great cedar tree after which her bedroom had been named. She looked up into its dark green depths and wondered at the people who must have walked by it through the centuries. She always thought of trees as the silent witnesses to history which would sound like a hippie thing, were she to tell anyone so she tended not to.

Rounding the side of the house, she entered a sheltered garden where tiny pink roses tumbled over a wall that had mellowed to a beautiful orange-red and was crumbling happily around the edge of the garden. A great herbaceous border overflowed with autumn flowers in deep oranges and hot pinks, and Robyn followed a gravel path that led to three white seats in a secluded corner, inviting guests to sit and absorb the loveliness around them.

Beyond the formal garden, the grounds spread down to the lake and the open fields. It was the sort of view very few people could hope to own, and Robyn felt privileged at being there and owning a little bit of it for the space of a long weekend.

She followed a formal hedge around the back of the house, and that's when she spotted the stable block. Walking towards it, she saw that it was a perfect square of redbrick buildings with a large arched gateway above which sat a squat clock tower. The time on the clock was wrong, but everything else was right, Robyn thought as she entered the yard and looked at the friendly faces of the half dozen horses peering at her from their shady stables. There was a dappled grey with pale eyes and a beautiful chestnut with a white blaze, and then there was a horse that looked exactly like Black Beauty, with a dazzling white star above his eyes.

Robyn had always loved horses; then again, she'd always loved any animal. She stood for a moment, wondering whom she should say hello to first, finally choosing the grey with the pale eyes.

‘Hello, my lovely,' she said, stroking the grey muzzle that was as soft and warm as living velvet. ‘Aren't you a beauty?' He nodded his head which made her smile. ‘You understand me, don't you?' She reached up to scratch behind his right ear.

‘He'll have your arm off if you're not careful,' a voice suddenly said.

Robyn leapt backwards from the stable door and turned around to see a tall man in blue jeans and a torn white T-shirt. It was the handsome man on horseback who'd escorted the drunken Jace from the dining room the night before.

‘He won't really bite me, will he?' Robyn asked.

The man laughed. ‘Only joking,' he said. ‘Wouldn't hurt a fly, would you, Pops?'

Robyn watched as the man leant forward and dropped a kiss on the pale muzzle.

‘Poppin's as gentle as they come,' he said. ‘I'm Dan, by the way,' he added, turning to Robyn. ‘I didn't get a chance to introduce myself last night.' He held out a large hand, and Robyn shook it, her tiny hand quite lost in his.

‘I'm Robyn,' she said. ‘Robyn Love.'

Dan's eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘Really?'

‘Yes.'

‘Love by name, love by nature?' he asked.

Robyn felt the beginnings of a blush creep over her cheeks and turned to face the horse again. ‘You didn't tell me
your
last name,' she said, changing the subject as quickly as she could.

‘Harcourt,' he said.

Robyn turned to face him. ‘Like Dame Pamela,' she said, remembering that he might be the actress's boy toy, but he was clearly more than that. She'd gone and married him! So this was Dame Pamela's secret husband, was it? Robyn's brain raced. No, that couldn't be right, could it? She'd been Pamela Harcourt for longer than this man had been alive.

‘What's the matter?' he asked, clearly seeing her confusion. ‘You don't think I'm Pamela's husband, do you?'

‘No!' Robyn cried. ‘I mean, I didn't think anything.' Suddenly, she felt like Catherine Morland in
Northanger Abbey
when Henry Tilney realises that she suspected his father of murdering his mother. How did that heartbreaking line go? ‘
If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to—Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained.'

How awful! Was Dan as appalled at her as Henry had been at Catherine?

‘Let me put you right,' Dan said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘I'm Pammy's little brother.'

‘Oh,' Robyn said, a modicum of relief in her voice.

‘We share the same father—as do half the population of England. I fear our father will not stop until his last breath has left him.'

Robyn gave a little smile. ‘I'm sorry… I didn't mean to…'

‘Don't worry about it,' Dan said. ‘It's a mistake that's been made before, and dear Pammy's gone out with guys far younger than me.' He shrugged his shoulders, and then his sunny expression vanished. ‘Hang about. I seem to have lost my two friends,' he said. ‘Moby? Biscuit? Here, boys!'

Robyn watched as two dogs came running into the yard. There was a tiny Jack Russell terrier who was a blur of chestnut and white and a much older golden Labrador whose gait was decidedly slower than his companion's.

‘
There
you are,' Dan said, bending to pat the old dog while the younger terrier jumped wildly around his legs.

‘Which is which?' Robyn asked.

‘Well, this mad ball of fur is Biscuit,' Dan said, grabbing the terrier and placing him on his shoulder, where the dog perched with ease, making Robyn laugh. ‘And this is Moby.'

‘Moby?'

‘Moby dog.'

Robyn grinned. ‘I like it,' she said, crouching down to pat the old dog. ‘And you all live here?'

‘Kind of,' he said, running a hand through his coppery blond hair. ‘I've got a little place right here.'

‘In the village?'

‘In the stables,' he said, nodding to the clock tower. ‘Just a couple of small rooms, but it's nice to get away from London.'

‘And that's where you live normally?'

‘Hard to tell,' Dan said, lifting Biscuit off his shoulder and placing him on the ground, where the little dog scooted off to chase a pigeon that had dared to land nearby. ‘I've got this so-called luxury flat—all glass and chrome. It's got a deluxe kitchen, all the mod cons you could dream of, and it overlooks the Thames, but this is the place I want to be.' He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Smell that,' he suddenly said.

Robyn inhaled. ‘What is it?'

‘Do you like it?'

Robyn took another good big sniff. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘I do.'

‘It's horses. That's the best smell in the world, isn't it? Horses, hay, and leather.'

‘And London doesn't smell like that, does it?'

‘Nope,' he said, reaching forward to stroke Poppin's head. ‘Pammy's been great—she's always wanted these stables full of horses, and I get to look after them.'

‘And the place in London?'

‘I guess I should rent it out. I don't really use it much. I jacked in my city job months ago.'

Robyn smiled.

‘What?'

‘I guess that's something I'd like to do too,' she said.

‘You work in the city?'

‘No. A town in Yorkshire, but the job bores me silly.'

‘And what would you like to do?' he asked.

Robyn started. She'd never been asked that question before. ‘What would I like to do? Well,' she paused. What could she possibly say? That she'd like to sit in her garden all day with her Jane Austen novels, watching over her chickens? You couldn't make a living from that, could you? ‘I guess something wonderful. Something inspiring. Something that means you're not always looking at the clock, wondering how long it is before you can go home.'