Page 101 of Me and Mr. Darcy

But then, that night, I saw him with Maeve. The way he was, all laughing and jokey, showing her pictures of his grandchildren, I realised he hadn’t learned his lesson. That’s exactly how he was with Mum. (By the way, just for the record, they’re not his grandchildren. He doesn’t have any. Neither did he ever have a wife who was tragically killed in a car accident. And that engagement ring that was his mother’s? Stolen from one of his ‘ex-fiancées’.) I couldn’t bear to see him doing it again. Taking advantage of someone like Maeve.

So that morning on the coach on the way to Winchester Cathedral, I decided to tell her in confidence about my mum. She was shocked. Who wouldn’t be? She was probably disappointed and upset too, and for that I’m sorry. But the way I see it, I saved her from getting a whole lot more hurt in the long run. This way, Maeve will never have to go through what my mum and all those other women had to go through.

To this day, my mum’s never seen a penny of that thirty thousand pounds. She’s due to retire soon and it was meant to be her nest egg, but to be honest, it was never about the money. Money is just money, but you can’t put a price on a broken heart, can you?

I know what you’re thinking right now. It’s my word against his, right? And he’s the kind old man and I’m the asshole. Which is why I’ve included some press clippings from the time. I don’t expect you to believe me, Emily, but it’s there in black and white – so you decide for yourself.

But before you read them, I’ll say bye. For what it’s worth it was good meeting you. And if you’ve made it this far, thanks for listening.

Spike

Chapter Twenty-nine

I don’t know how to describe my feelings reading Spike’s email. I think I went through every emotion possible. Indignation, disbelief, anger, annoyance, horror, guilt, remorse. I do know that I sat down on my bed with every intention of not believing him. As far as I was concerned, I’d already made up my mind. He was guilty of every accusation I’d thrown at him.

And yet, the more I read, the more my prejudices began to crumble. With every page I turned, the evidence became more and more overwhelming. Until there was no doubt in my mind: I’d judged him and I’d got it wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. I didn’t even need to see the newspaper articles to know that.

I read them anyway. The headlines screamed out at me. ‘LOVE RAT’, ‘THE RUNAWAY GROOM’, ‘HE STOLE HER HEART AND HER SAVINGS’.

Accompanying them were pictures of a man with dyed brown hair and moustache, but there was no mistaking it was Ernie. Sweet, defenceless Ernie. The innocent victim. Survivor of a jealous attack by Spike, a man half his age.

Shit. How did I get it so wrong?

I sit on the edge of the bed, breathing, trying to stay in control. My mind is reeling. I have no idea what to do. My first instinct is to run downstairs and send Spike an email apologising, but after everything I said, all my accusations, the way I behaved towards him, it seems pretty lame. An email, after what I’ve said and done? To be honest, I wouldn’t blame him if he told me to go to hell.

Maybe instead I should just leave it. After all, I’ve done enough damage already. Just try to forget all about it. Pretend it never happened.

But it did.

Remorse stabs. I think about Ernie, about how I was utterly taken in by him, how I was so quick to believe his stories about Spike. Why? Because I wanted to believe them. Because they supported my opinion of him, confirmed my first impressions. I wanted to be right.

And yet you couldn’t have been more wrong, could you, Emily?

Guilt and shame wash over me – and fear. It’s a scary thought when you realise you can’t trust your own judgement. That your pride and prejudices can completely blind you to the truth. It makes me wonder how many times I’ve got it wrong before – I just never found out.

The room suddenly feels stuffy and claustrophobic. I need to go out and get some fresh air. Try and clear my head. So much has happened I can’t think straight. What with these revelations from Spike about Ernie and the email from Mr McKenzie’s wife, my head’s all over the place.

Tugging on my boots and thick winter coat, I go downstairs. You can rent bikes from the front desk and I choose a black one with a straw basket. It’s more Miss Marple than Lance Armstrong, but trying to look cool is the least of my concerns right now, and climbing on to the saddle I set off up away from the town.

It feels good to be on a bike. I fill my lungs with cold air and push down on the pedals. Soon the roads turn into lanes and the houses give way to open fields. I keep cycling. I don’t notice my sore buttocks, or the twinge of my ankle, just the regular motion of the pedals, the feeling of the cold wind ruffling through my hair. With every revolution of the wheels, I feel myself growing calmer, more steady, as I leave the city behind and climb higher and higher. None of it makes sense, but this does. Cycling is so straightforward. You pedal, you move forwards. Why can’t life be as simple?

After a while the burning in my thighs becomes too much, and I dismount and lean my bicycle against an old metal gate adjoining a stone wall. Up ahead, there’s some woods and through the clearing in the trees I can see a castle. Oh, wow, that must be the same castle I rode to last night with Mr Darcy. What was it called? Ah, yes, I remember now: Sham Castle – because it’s not actually real.

I start heading towards it. The hill’s pretty steep and by the time I enter Bathwick Woods I’m out of puff. I slow down. The going is a lot tougher here. It’s hard to make out the path and there’s plenty of exposed rock and tree roots to catch you out – God knows how I negotiated it last night on horseback – but after about five minutes I come out on the other side. The castle is to the right of me, and yet it looks completely different in the daylight. Not at all how I remember. Made of creamy-coloured Bath stone, it had looked totally genuine last night, but now up close I can clearly see it’s all a sham.

In summer this place is probably teaming with tourists, but now it’s deserted, and sitting down on the grass, I rest my head against the stonework and take in the view. Surrounded by seven hills, the city of Bath lies beneath me, its Georgian architecture, which had seemed so grand and impressive at street level, now looks like a miniature model from a town-planner’s office.

I rub my puffy eyes and tilt my head to look at the grey sky above me. It looks like it might rain. A typical New Year’s Day. Except it’s not, is it? There’s nothing typical today. That heavy feeling I had inside returns and I heave a sigh. I can’t think about it any more. I’m too tired. I didn’t sleep well last night. And what with the after-effects of the ball, the concussion, the revelations, I just want to close my eyes for a moment and block everything out.

After a few moments I feel a warmth on my face and open my eyes to discover the sun emerging from behind a cloud. Shafts of bright sunlight pierce through the gaps of blue and I have to shade my eyes with my hand to see anything. In the far distance I notice someone approaching. I squint, trying to make them out. It’s a man, I realise, as he fast approaches. And he’s on horseback.

Mr Darcy.

Overjoyed, I watch as he gallops up to me, his cheeks flushed with the January wind, his dark, heavy brows almost obscuring his eyes.

‘I was hoping I might find you here,’ he says, dismounting and striding towards me.

I smile and jump up to greet him. After everything that’s happened I have a sudden desire for a hug, for someone to hold me tightly and tell me everything’s going to be OK.