Page 45 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Er, hello? More far-fetched than him saying he’s Mr Darcy?

‘If it’s any consolation, I too find your presence a little disconcerting,’ he confesses, seeing my discomfort. Leaning forwards, elbows on knees, he rakes his fingers through his hair. ‘And I am also confused as to why our paths keep crossing.’

I glance sideways at his hunched figure and feel an unexpected warmth of affection. ‘Not as confused as I am,’ I reply softly.

‘Yesterday, after seeing you in the parlour, I wondered if I had seen you at all.’

‘Me too,’ I say, nodding vigorously.

‘You seemed to appear from nowhere and then disappear into thin air.’

‘Exactly,’ I gasp. I feel a wave of relief. So I’m not going loopy. There’s obviously a rational explanation for all of this.

But what?

For a few moments we remain perfectly still. Neither of us speaks, but the unspoken questions are whirling around us, as if we’re two figures in a snowglobe. How . . . ? Why . . . ? Who . . . ? I close my eyes. I feel dizzy.

‘I wondered if perhaps I’d imagined you.’

I hear his voice, low and measured, and I open my eyes to see he’s gazing at me as if he can’t quite believe it himself.

He leans back against the bench and folds his arms. ‘I must tell you, Miss Emily, everything about you, from your dress to your speech to your manner is like nothing I have ever experienced before.’

‘I could say the same about you.’ I smile shyly.

Moreover, there’s definitely something happening between us. And I’m definitely not imagining that.

‘Is that true?’ he demands, never taking his eyes from mine.

‘Absolutely.’ I nod. I feel slightly flustered. Is he flirting with me? My stomach tipple-tails. Jeez, this is crazy. I almost have to pinch myself.

I pinch myself.

Nope, he’s still here. On the bench. Sitting next to me. Flirting.

Feeling my crush rearing its lovesick head, I meet his gaze and for a beat we just look at each other. Only it’s a bit longer than a beat – it’s sort of like you’ve slowed it down and stretched it to make it last just that little bit longer. Long enough to make it feel significant. Long enough to feel a tingling all the way up your back to the nape of your neck . . .

‘So, what are you doing here in Winchester?’ I ask, partly out of suspicion, partly in an attempt to drag the conversation back to some kind of normality. As much as I’m loving sitting here with a handsome stranger, I need to at least try and get a grip.

‘I travelled here with my good friends, who are fascinated by the stained glass in the windows. However, I am afraid that I am not, and so instead I chose to come outside. My intention was to read my newspaper . . .’

He waves it at me as if in evidence that he’s not really stalking me, and it’s then I see something. My breath catches in the back of my throat.

What the . . . ?

Printed in black and white and staring out at me from the corner of the newspaper is the date. Only instead of saying, ‘29 December 2006,’ it reads, ‘29 December 1813.’ I look at it, rub my eyes and then look back at him.

‘They’ve printed the date wrong.’

‘You seem to make a habit of not believing things. First me, then The Times of London,’ he says, his dark eyes flashing.

‘But it’s wrong . . .’ I protest, taking it from him and scanning the headlines. Hang on, it’s not just the date, all these articles don’t seem right either. They seem to be referring to things that are part of history. As if this paper really is nearly two hundred years old. It just doesn’t add up. Unless . . .

My head starts spinning, and I look up at the man sitting next to me, taking in his shiny riding boots and tight black breeches, his frock coat and fob watch, his stiff white starched collars, his cravat, the cleft in his chin . . . My mind casts itself back over the last twenty-four hours: his appearance at the museum yesterday, the fire burning in the grate, the wallpaper, his formal introduction, how the plastic barrier seemed to vanish . . .

And now the images are becoming muddled, thrown out of sequence as I try to remember everything. Big things, little things, freaky things, unexplainable things. The letter to his sister, his newspaper dated 1813, his sudden disappearance when Spike entered the parlour and his reappearance out of the blue today . . . I look about me. And there’s never anyone around when he’s here, just me . . .

It could all be an elaborate foil, but – I take a deep breath to steady myself for what’s coming next – what if I allow for the possibility that it’s not? I pause, knowing I’m about to think the unthinkable. What if he really is who he says he is?