Page 103 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘. . . and I brought you a little something to keep you warm,’ he adds, unrolling a large fur.

‘That’s so sweet of you.’ I smile. I feel a wave of affection. So he can be a bit arrogant. So what? He’s also really thoughtful, I tell myself, as he sits down next to me on the blanket and places the fur over my legs.

Next, he carefully arranges the plates, takes out a delicate silver knife with a mother-of-pearl handle and proceeds to cut thin slivers of cheese and slices of bread with a surgeon’s precision. Then he twists opens the glass jar of pâté, flicks open a starched white napkin and fastidiously wipes the rim, removing every last invisible smear of pâté. Finally, the grapes: he examines each one, before plucking off exactly three and arranging them as a piece of artful decoration.

I watch him in fascination. Gosh, everything is so proper and careful, I note, as he hands me a plate.

‘Why, thank you.’ I smile, popping a grape in my mouth. Mmm, yummy. Hungrily biting into the cheese and bread, I glance across at Mr Darcy. With a knife and fork, he divides a grape into halves, cuts a small square of cheese from the slice and then, layering the two on the prongs of his fork, puts them neatly in his mouth.

His manners are impeccable. Embarrassed, I immediately stuff the rest of the cheese and bread in my mouth before he notices, dropping crumbs all over my coat in the process. Oh, God, I’m such a pig. Brushing them off, I look up to see him peering at me quizzically.

‘Messy eater,’ I laugh sheepishly.

I wait for him to laugh with me, but he just says, ‘I see,’ and continues eating.

A vague feeling of unease descends on me, but I ignore it and reach for my knife and fork. Copying him, I spear a grape with my fork. But as the prongs puncture the skin, there’s a sudden squirt of juice and pips. It lands on Mr Darcy’s white shirt. Well, it would, wouldn’t it?

‘Oops, shit,’ I gasp, horrified.

He frowns, puts down his knife and begins dabbing the starched white cotton with his napkin.

‘God, sorry,’ I continue apologising.

‘It is perfectly fine, no need to worry,’ he says, still dabbing.

‘I’m sure it will come out,’ I reassure him.

‘Indeed.’ He nods, pouring water on his napkin and returning to the stain.

Which you can’t even see any more, I think, watching him fussing. I feel a twinge of irritation. He’s being a touch over-dramatic, isn’t he? I mean, it’s just a bit of grape juice.

‘When you get home, just put a sprinkle of salt on it and soak it in the sink.’

‘Thank you. I will suggest it to one of the servants.’

‘Servants?’ I squeak. God, I’d forgotten how posh he is. I mean, who on earth has servants apart from the Queen?

‘Why, yes, of course,’ he replies. ‘Surely you have servants back home in America?’

His assumption is so comical I have to stifle a laugh. I try imagining a butler and a maid bowing and curtseying in my little studio apartment. I can’t. There wouldn’t be enough room for a start.

‘Not really. You can’t get the staff these days,’ I joke, grinning.

Not even a flicker. But then he’s busy pouring me a glass of wine, so he probably didn’t hear me, I decide, noticing how deftly he turns the bottle to prevent spilling a drop, just like they do in restaurants.

I try chasing another grape around my plate with my fork for a few moments, then give up and abandon my silverware with impatience. Well, it is a picnic, I tell myself. There’s no need to be so formal. I mean, it’s not as if we’re in some fancy-schmancy restaurant, is it? I tear off a bit of bread and use it to scoop out the pâté. ‘Yum, this stuff is delicious,’ I enthuse. ‘Did you make it yourself?’

‘No, it was my cook.’

Ah, yes, of course. The servants again. I’d forgotten about them.

‘I’ll have to get the recipe.’ I make an attempt at lightening things up. ‘Take it back to America with me.’

‘When do you leave?’

‘Just a couple more days. Tomorrow we’re driving north to Lyme Park Hall and then on Wednesday night I leave for New York.’

‘Can you not extend your stay?’