Page 48 of Me and Mr. Darcy

As she walks away, her footsteps crunching rhythmically on the gravel, I bend down to pick it up. So I didn’t imagine it. I feel butterflies inside as I press it against my nose. It smells just like him. That same distinctive mix of cologne and shaving cream.

I quickly tuck the scarf in my coat pocket and hurry after my tour guide. Which is when something suddenly registers. Hang on a minute.

‘Miss Steane?’

About to walk through the doorway, she turns. ‘Yes?’

‘You just said he must have dropped his scarf.’

She looks at me, her face impassive, completely unreadable. For a second there I could have sworn I caught a flash of uncertainty, a flicker of something, but now it’s gone again and she’s ushering me inside.

‘Did I? Oh, silly me, a slip of the tongue,’ she says breezily. ‘I meant you.’ And without further ado, she thrusts a pamphlet into my hand and launches into her guidebook speech. ‘Now, if you look straight head you’ll see the impressive Gothic nave built in 1858 . . .’

Chapter Thirteen

I am going crazy.

Actually, scrub that.

I am crazy. Totally, utterly, back-in-college-doing-tequila-shots-on-acid crazy.

Back in my hotel room later that night, I’m lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, thinking about the afternoon’s events. It’s nearly 11 p.m. and I’ve been trying to fall asleep for the last hour, but it’s not happening. My mind is whirling round and round, sloshing all these insane thoughts together in a jumble, like dirty laundry in the washing machine. What was that back there? An out-of-body experience? My overactive imagination? A fictional character come to life?

Gasping loudly, I grab my pillow and turn it over, trying to find a cool spot. Honestly, Emily, this is ridiculous. Agitated, I begin tossing and turning, causing the wooden bed frame to start squeaking violently. In the next room Rose bangs on the wall.

‘Do you mind!’ she complains loudly. ‘Some of us are trying to sleep.’

Great. Now I’m being accused of having sex. I wouldn’t mind if I was having sex, but I’m so not. I’m lying here, wearing fleecy pyjamas with cherries all over them and a plastic mouthguard to stop me from grinding my teeth, and thinking about meeting Mr Darcy this afternoon . . .

Did I just say meeting Mr Darcy?

Right, that’s enough. I’ve got to get up.

Grabbing my copy of Pride and Prejudice, I tug on my jeans and an old sweatshirt, and go downstairs. The hotel is quiet. Everyone else seems to be already in bed and fast asleep, I muse, padding into the deserted drawing room.

Lit by various lamps with the kind of tasselled lampshades your granny would have, and decorated with dozens more hunting scenes, the room has a surprisingly cosy feel to it. It’s the antithesis to all those hip hotels you get in New York, with their minimalist modern furniture, bare steel and concrete designs. Here, it’s chintz, chintz and more chintz, I muse, looking at the couple of lumpy-looking sofas over by the mullioned windows and an old button-back leather chair.

I, however, rather like it.

I walk over to the stone fireplace, where there’s a real fire. It’s died down, but there’s still a few logs glowing in the grate. Next to it I spy a stash of newspapers. Guilt stabs. God, I feel like such a philistine. This is my second day and I haven’t looked at an English newspaper yet.

Apart from the one today, but that was nearly two hundred years old, interrupts a voice in my head.

It gives me a little jolt, but I ignore it and, grabbing the Daily Times, cosy up on the leather armchair. Whoo-hoo, look at me, I feel like the lady of the manor, I think with amusement. Smiling to myself, I flick open the newspaper and begin scanning the pages for something interesting to read.

‘Lover of disgraced MP recalls affair’, ‘Nurses threaten strikes’, ‘£3-million fraud case revealed’ . . .

Hmmm, it seems the news isn’t any different whichever side of the Atlantic you live on, just a mixture of gloom and gossip. Idly I begin scanning the various articles. Nothing sparks my interest. I flick over the lifestyle pages. I think I’ll carry on with my book as I’m just at the part where—

Spike Hargreaves.

The name jumps out at me from the newspaper. I blink again and look at it. There, in small print, underneath an article about an Irish actor I’ve never heard of, are the words ‘Interview by staff writer, Spike Hargreaves’. Wow, so he really is a proper journalist. The Daily Times, huh? So it’s true. A begrudging sense of respect creeps over me. I hate to admit it, but I’m rather impressed. This isn’t some local rag, it’s a national newspaper.

Saying that, let’s not get too excited. After all, it’s not the New York Times, is it? It’s not that amazing. I chew my lip and eye the article. Part of me desperately wants to ignore it, to refuse to read it on principle. And yet . . .

C’mon, how can I resist?

Curiously, I begin reading, even though I have no clue who this actor is. Not that it matters. I just want to confirm that it’s badly written. As soon as I’ve established that I’ll stop. Which I’m sure will be only a matter of lines . . .