It’s a full moon and ahead the park is bathed in silvery light. My eyes sweep across the empty expanse of grass, the small lake, the trees … but wait, what’s that? A figure on horseback suddenly appears between the trees, then abruptly halts and gazes directly up at my window. Even from this distance, there’s no mistaking who it is.
Mr. Darcy.
My heart jolts.
Why is he here? What does he want?
I pause, then turn away from the window. There’s only one way to find out.
“Miss Emily,” he says, and nods. Still on horseback, he tips his hat. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Mr. Darcy,” I pant, out of breath from throwing on some clothes and dashing out of the hotel and into the park. “It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning, what are you doing here?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t sleep,” he replies. “I had a lot on my mind.”
A look passes between us and I feel myself blush.
“So I thought I would take a ride in the park to clear my head—” He pauses, and for a moment I think he’s about to say something further, but then he seems to think better of it and continues, “Would you care to join me for a ride? There are stables close by …”
I quickly shake my head. “I think I’ll pass.” I smile ruefully; the memory of my last moonlight ride with Mr. Darcy hasn’t faded despite the years.
He looks puzzled.
“After last time …” I remind him, raising my eyebrows.
“Ah yes, now I remember,” he says. “It was rather eventful.”
Well, that’s one way of putting it, I muse, remembering shrieking as my horse bolted. That was before I hit a tree and blacked out …
“Perhaps we should walk instead.” Dismounting, he tethers his horse to a tree, then holds out his arm so I can loop mine through his.
For a few minutes we walk arm in arm through the park. Neither of us speaks. It’s a comfortable silence. Unlike the silences I’ve been having with Spike lately, I reflect, thinking back to the atmosphere in the apartment before I left. At the memory of Spike, I feel a sudden stab of guilt. Here I am with another man, taking a moonlight walk in the park.
But it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong, is it? I tell myself quickly. And anyway, this isn’t just any man. It’s Mr. Darcy. He’s a gentleman. Plus he’s married. Nothing’s going to happen.
I feel the warmth of his body next to mine.
Is it?
“So, tell me, do you have a suitor?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“A suitor?” My mind snaps back to Spike. “Yes … I suppose you could call him that,” I say, looking at my feet.
“Do you have plans to marry?”
I glance up at Mr. Darcy. He blushes. “I apologize, it’s very impertinent of me, but I noticed you weren’t wearing a wedding ring …”
“I know,” I say, and then, to my complete astonishment, burst into tears.
“Miss Emily, what is wrong?” he exclaims.
Sobbing loudly, I bury my face in his chest to try to stifle my tears. But it’s no good. It’s as if someone just turned on a tap and they’re flowing freely all over my cheeks.
And Mr. Darcy’s immaculate black tailcoat.
Oh God, how embarrassing. Quickly I pull away. “I’m sorry,” I hiccup, wiping my snotty nose on my sleeve. He passes me an immaculate white handkerchief, and I blow my nose loudly. “No …” I shake my head tearfully, “… we’ve been together for four years and he hasn’t asked me …” I give a little sob.
“A very long courtship then,” comments Mr. Darcy gravely.
“… and a few days ago we had a huge fight, and it was awful, and now we’re not speaking …” It’s as if someone just removed a cork from a bottle, and now it’s all pouring out. “… and it’s awful, and I feel terrible, and I miss him, and I don’t know what to do.”
Mr. Darcy puts his arm around to comfort me. “Do not worry yourself about the argument,” he soothes. “My wife, Elizabeth, and I had a terrible misunderstanding before we were married.”
“I know,” I sob.
“You do?” He looks shocked.
“Um … I mean … I know most couples have arguments,” I say, quickly correcting myself.
“And he is in America?”
I nod, and blow my nose again. I know I look a mess, but I don’t care. Whereas once I would have been horrified for Mr. Darcy to see me like this, now all I can think about is Spike.
Mr. Darcy heaves a deep sigh and furrows his brow, deep in thought.
“America, the New World, is very different to England,” he continues. “They are two very different places, of that I am sure. However, love is the same all over the world. It is universal. If his heart is true, then he will come for you, Miss Emily.” He meets my gaze, and with an impassioned voice, clasps my hands in his. “Love has no bounds. And if he loves you, truly loves you, he will not let you go.”
The next morning, I’m woken by an impatient Stella.
“Come on, get up, it’s Saturday, we have to go to Portobello Market.”
“Uh … what’s Portobello Market?” I mumble sleepily, trying to bury my head underneath the comforter, but it’s snatched away from me.
“What’s Portobello Market?” repeats Stella, with the same incredulity as if I’ve just asked who’s Obama. “Only the most world-famous market, that’s supposed to be amazing for shopping.”
Opening my eyes, I peer at her blearily. She’s wearing a T-shirt that reads “Caution: Bump Ahead” and one of her new feather boas in bright fuchsia. “I thought you’d already been shopping,” I protest weakly.
She looks aghast. “Shopping isn’t something you do just once,” she exclaims. “It’s a daily practice. Like yoga.” She grabs my jeans and T-shirt and chucks them at me. “And trust me, girlfriend, with your wardrobe, you’re in serious need of practice.”
Thankfully, Portobello Market turns out to be filled with an eclectic mix of stalls—including one selling antique books, I realize with a beat of pleasure.
“Ooh, I’m just going to look over here,” I say to Stella, who’s already dived on a vintage ball gown and is cooing loudly.
“Don’t you have enough books?” she tuts, breaking from her reverie.
“I thought shopping was a daily practice,” I retort. “Like yoga.”
“Humph.” Stella purses her lips, then turns back to the ball gown.
Grinning to myself, I wander across to the stall. Excitement buzzes as I see the faded piles of books, the burgundy leather hardbacks etched with gold stenciling, the lovingly worn paperbacks. Each one ready to transport me to a different world where I’ll meet new and interesting characters. And it’s all here, at my fingertips, I marvel as my gaze sweeps over the different titles.
Unexpectedly, I see an old edition of Pride and Prejudice propped up at the back. Excitement leaps.
“Hi, can I help you?”
I snap back to see the stallholder looking at me.
“What edition is that?” I ask, gesturing to the copy of Pride and Prejudice.
“Oh, crikey, I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.” He smiles apologetically. “I’m just covering for the woman who runs the stall. She’ll be back in five minutes.” He pauses, then continues. “You can have a look at it if you’d like.”
“Oh no, it’s fine, I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to afford it—”
“It’s free to look,” he says, grinning.
“Well, in that case …” I smile as he passes it to me. Carefully I open it and look at the date. It was printed at the beginning of the last century. It’s over a hundred years old, I reflect, thinking of all the people who must have held this book in their hands. As I start to turn the pages a piece of paper falls out, and I bend down to pick it up. It’s probably a price ticket—actually, no, it looks like a note.
I turn it over in my hands. Written in faded ink, in old-fashioned swirly handwriting, it reads:
Be in Kens
ington Gardens at sunset. By the round pond.
You have a surprise.
Mr. D
What the—?
In total astonishment, I stare at it for a moment, a million questions swirling around in my head, then glance up. The young guy minding the stall is talking on his cellphone and hasn’t noticed. Quickly I slip the note into my pocket and hand the book back.
“Thanks, but it’s a bit more than I can afford.”
“No worries,” he says. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Me too,” I reply, and with my heart beating very fast, I hurry away.
Later that afternoon I leave Stella back at the hotel, having her afternoon nap, and make my way to Kensington Gardens at the far end of Hyde Park.
The park has emptied out. The afternoon sunbathers have already gone home, and as I reach the pond, the sun is beginning to sink slowly into the horizon, creating a pomegranate sky.
Filled with anticipation, I wait, scanning the distance for any sign of Mr. Darcy. Then I hear it—the sound of a horse’s hooves—and catch a glimpse of a man on horseback between the trees.
Mr. Darcy?
But I don’t have a chance to find out as all at once I’m distracted by a commotion, the sound of a horse neighing followed by a loud yell. Twirling around I catch sight of someone falling into the water, the squawking of swans as they take flight.
What the hell?
I look over to see a man pulling himself out of the pond. His hair is dripping wet, his white T-shirt is clinging to his broad frame, and I’m suddenly reminded of Colin Firth in the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice—my heart skips a beat. I can’t see his face but it must be Mr. Darcy! For a brief moment my eyes flick over his strong shoulders, the muscles in his back as he hauls himself onto dry land, and despite myself I feel a spike of desire. A connection so strong it’s as if he’s wrapped a piece of string around my heart and is tugging it, pulling me toward him, drawing me closer—
No, stop! cries a voice inside my head. You love Spike. You only feel this way about Spike. I fight the urge, determined to resist, and as I do it suddenly hits me. I don’t want Mr. Darcy, I never wanted Mr. Darcy. I want Spike. Images of our life together flash before me: drinking coffee together in the morning, snuggling up under the covers in bed at night, laughing at each other’s silly jokes, fighting over the TV remote, celebrating by eating Chinese food in our pajamas when he’s made a deadline … I love our life together. I don’t want to lose it. I can’t lose it.
It’s like a wake-up call. A sob rises in my throat and I zone back to see the sopping-wet figure brush the hair away from his face and turn toward me—
Oh my God.
It can’t be. Except it is.
It’s Spike!
I stand there in shocked amazement. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. I watch as he walks over to me, muddy water squelching out of his boots.
“What are you doing here?” I gasp.
“Funny you should ask that.” He’s smiling ruefully.
“But how … when …?”
He shushes me. “Hey, I’m the one that’s supposed to be asking all the questions.”
Wordlessly I stare at him, totally bewildered.
And then before I can say another word, he drops down to one soggy knee and, pulling out a ring, asks the most important question of all.
“Will you marry me?”
Of course I say yes. And after I’ve managed to stop crying tears of joy, we walk hand in hand back to the hotel to break the happy news to Stella.
“So how did you know where to find me?” I ask, looking up at Spike. “How did you know I’d be in the park?”
“Well, I went to your hotel first, so I got your note.”
“What note?”
“The one you left behind reception asking me to meet you in the park.” He smiles. “I have to say, I was a bit taken aback. How did you know I was even flying over? It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“It was a surprise!” I protest. “I had no idea you were coming to England.”
“But you left me the note,” he counters.
I stare at him in confusion, trying to make sense of it all. “Do you have it?”
“Erm … yeah … hang on …” He tugs a crumpled piece of paper out of his wet jeans. It’s all soggy, and the ink has bled, but even so I can still make out the distinctive old-fashioned handwriting. Quickly I pull out my own note and compare. It’s the same.
I open my mouth to say something, but Spike isn’t paying attention. Staring fixedly ahead, he’s still talking, “… and then when I got here, there was some nutter on a horse …”
“Nutter on a horse?”
“Yeh, he was wearing some crazy costume—you know, top hat, tailcoat …”
Mr. Darcy.
“… he was galloping so fast I had to jump out of the way, otherwise he would have knocked me over, which is how come I ended up falling in the lake, but then he disappeared and you appeared …”
Did he set all this up? Did he send the notes? But how? It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense—
“… and I got to propose, and you said yes.”
Spike turns to me, and wrapping his arms around my waist, he pulls me close. And as he bends down to kiss me, every question disappears.
The rest of the weekend flies by. It’s fun to be in London with your best friend and your fiancé. Fiancé. I almost can’t believe it’s for real. Almost. Because all I have to do is glance down at the diamond sparkling on my finger and I’m in no doubt: there’s a lot of things I’m not sure about, but this is one thing I definitely haven’t dreamt up.
“So, have we got everything?”
I look up from my ring to see Stella, laden down with souvenirs and gifts. We’re at Heathrow, about to board our flight back to New York, and she’s making the most of the duty-free shopping.
“Well, I need something to read on the plane …” I reply, spotting a bookstore ahead.
“Oh, that reminds me, I got you something,” says Spike, digging in his backpack. He produces a paper bag and gives it to me. “I thought you might be in need of some reading material.”
It’s a book. But not just any book. It’s the copy of Pride and Prejudice that I saw in Portobello Market!
“Oh wow, how did you know?” I cry in astonishment, throwing my arms around him and giving him a big hug. Over his shoulder I catch Stella grinning.
“You could say a little birdie told me,” says Spike.
“A big birdie,” she corrects, patting her pregnant stomach.
Breaking away, I look back at the book. Wordlessly I trace my fingers over the cover, then carefully I look inside. And there, on the first page, is an inscription.
This is how it all began.
Here’s to a happy ending.
I love you.
Your Mr. D, Spike xxx
I feel as if I’ve been dipped in melted happiness. It’s the happy ending I’ve always wanted, and feeling like the luckiest girl in the world, I slip the book back into its bag. Which is when I notice the name of the shop printed on its side: Anne Jauste Books.
Wait a minute … the cogs in my head start turning … isn’t that an anagram for Jane Austen? My memory flicks back to that day at Portobello Market … the young guy was only minding the stall for the real stallholder … Anne Jauste … Jane Austen … My mind starts whirling. Are they the same person? Did she have something to do with bringing me and Spike back together again? Just like she had something to do with me meeting Spike all those years ago on that guided book tour, only then she went under the name of Miss J. Steane and worked as a tour guide …
Quickly I pull myself together. Of course that’s totally crazy. It’s impossible.
Er yeah right, I’ve heard that before.
Who knows what’s real and what isn’t real—if I dreamt up Mr. Darcy or if he really did come back to give me some much-needed advice. But as I think about the la
st few days, about Mr. Darcy, about this book and how it all worked together to bring me and Spike back together again, I feel a warm glow. And smiling to myself, I give silent thanks.
To Jane Austen and the wonderful Mr. Darcy, wherever you are. Thank you.
ALEXANDRA POTTER is an award-winning author. To date she has written eight bestselling novels and is working on her ninth. Her books have been translated into more than a dozen languages and are sold worldwide. In 2007 she won the Jane Austen New Regency Award for Best New Fiction for Me and Mr. Darcy. Her latest novel, You’re Not the One, is published by Plume. She is currently traveling the world researching her next book.
www.alexandrapotter.com
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that if it wasn’t for vampires, werewolves, zombs, and Jane Austen, I would not be outside Principal Oakes’s office right now, while he and Mom and Dad and Mrs. Pilkington, the guidance counselor, discussed my Problem.
They crack the door, thinking I overhear what’s going down, I’ll figure I’m busted, and take a plea deal, like a week’s detention over getting suspended. But until they got DNA, the Fifth Amendment is a fourteen-year-old’s best friend.
So Principal Oakes thanks Mom and Dad for coming and they go, “Is anything wrong?” and he goes, “Not wrong, per se,” which is his way of saying, “Yes, there is something wrong,” and Mrs. Pilkington goes, “We’ve been a little concerned about James’s behavior,” which is her way of saying, “James is seriously freaking us out.”
“What behavior?” Dad asks.
I hear the taptaptap of Principal Oakes’s pencil on his coffee mug. “It’s not any one thing. More like a lot of little things.”
“For example?”
That was Mom. She fires off the “for example,” stick a fork in it. Don’t do your homework and try to float with “I had other stuff I had to do”? Mom goes, “For example?” and The Argument Ends There.
“For example—the way he’s been coming to school. His attire,” Mr. Oakes said.
“His attire?” Mom could go the full Lady Catherine de Bourgh in three syllables flat.
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