Page 70 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘But surely she would have wanted you to share those with her. She wouldn’t have thought they were stupid. If they were important to you, they would have been important to her.’

I smile. ‘You don’t know my mom.’

‘Are you sure you do, Emily?’

I falter.

‘Have you ever asked? Have you ever tried to talk to her? Share those kinds of things with her? Confide in her?’ Maeve continues. ‘You may be surprised, Emily. Perhaps she’s hurting as much as you are.’

‘I’m not hurting,’ I protest quickly.

‘Aren’t you?’ asks Maeve quietly. ‘I’ve learned people don’t always say what they feel and because of that, others make a lot of assumptions, without knowing the real truth. Sometimes people even do such a good job of covering up their feelings and acting as if they are just fine that they almost convince themselves . . .’

Listening to Maeve, I don’t know whether she’s talking about me, my mom or herself. Maybe, in fact, she’s talking about all three of us, I realise. And she would be right. Until now I’ve always maintained that I’m fine with the relationship I have with my parents, my mom especially, but that’s because I wanted to be fine with it. If I’m honest with myself, I want to be able to talk to her like I can talk to Maeve. To have this kind of close relationship. In fact, if anything, this conversation has made me realise how I barely really know my mom. How she barely knows me. Our phone calls and emails involve book recommendations and reminders for dad’s birthday. We never talk about the stuff that matters, we never talk about us.

‘You know, your mother is very lucky to have you as a daughter, Emily,’ reassures Maeve, and I zone back to see her looking at me, her face filled with genuine concern.

‘And your daughter would be very proud if she knew you,’ I say quietly.

‘You really think so?’ she asks as if too afraid to hope.

‘Absolutely,’ I say without a moment’s hesitation.

She squeezes my hand tightly and I smile.

‘It’s getting late. We should head back.’

‘Aye.’ She nods, pulling her coat tightly round her. She pauses to take one last look at the children playing with the snowman, and for the first time I see a real smile break across her face. Then linking her arm through mine, we set off across the cobbles.

Chapter Nineteen

Letting myself into my room, I flop down on to my bed and dig out my crumpled itinerary. I’m still reeling from my conversation with Maeve and the news of her secret adoption, but with only a few hours to go until the ball, I force my mind to turn to the evening ahead.

Included in the tour are tickets for a charity ball. Entitled ‘A New Year’s Eve Extravaganza’, it’s being held tonight at the town’s ballroom, famous for housing the actual balls that Jane Austen attended as a young woman, and which were subsequently the inspiration for those described in her novels.

. . . so put on your finest and enjoy a Regency ball, just as if you’re a character in one of Jane Austen’s novels.

I feel a flutter of anticipation as I think about Mr Darcy. I wonder if he’s going to show up again tonight at the ball? The way he appeared outside my window. It was like something from Romeo and Juliet. Feeling all warm and gooey inside, I wonder where he is, what he’s doing, when I’m going to see him again. If only he’d call me.

But of course he won’t. And I can’t call him either. Neither can I text him, email him or instant-message him, I realise, thinking about all the staples of modern-day dating I’ve taken for granted. The flirty text messages, funny emails, hours spent lying in bed at night giggling on the phone . . .

Gosh, I’d forgotten how much fun that can be, I think, feeling a teensy bit disappointed that there won’t be any of that.

But never mind, there’s always letters and they’re a lot more personal and romantic, aren’t they? I tell myself encouragingly. Although saying that, I can’t remember the last time I wrote a letter, apart from to my bank manager, and trust me, there was nothing romantic about that. But still, I adore the idea of writing a proper letter. There’s all that gorgeous textured writing paper you can buy, and I can use real ink and a fountain pen, and maybe even a little wax seal with a stamp with my initial on it. And I could tie up the replies in a bundle with a faded pink ribbon and keep them in the attic, where I’ll find them when I’m an old lady in years to come and reread them and—

Er, hello? Before you get completely carried away, Emily, where exactly are you going to send these love letters? Seriously. What are you going to do? Address them to Mr Darcy, c/o Pride and Prejudice, England?

Suddenly the whole thing strikes me as even more ridiculous and impossible than it was before – if that’s possible – and even more complicated. It’s like trying to figure out a really difficult math problem: the more you think about it, the more confusing it becomes.

So I’m not going to, I tell myself firmly.

But there is one thing for sure: this time I’m going to make certain I make more of an effort than I did last night. Just in case . . .

Glancing up from the itinerary, I hoist myself off the quilted eiderdown and tug open the pine closet that’s stuffed under the eaves. Alrighty, so where’s my dress? I peer inside the closet for my black nylon garment-holder. It must just be at the back somewhere. I rattle through the coat-hangers. Huh, that’s weird, it’s not there. I could have sworn I hung it up in the closet, but now I come to think of it . . .

Screwing up my forehead, I glance around the room. Maybe it’s behind the door under the coat. Or chucked on the floor along with my suitcase. Or for some strange reason in the bathroom.

But it’s not in any of those places, and padding around my hotel room, picking up T-shirts as if a large, black nylon carryon might suddenly appear from underneath, I’m beginning to feel a tinge of alarm. Where the hell is it?