A Weekend with Mr Darcy: The perfect summer read for Austen addicts!

Chapter Three

It would have been very unfortunate if Robyn Love had turned out to be anything other than a romantic. As it was, she fitted her name perfectly - choosing to read nothing but romances, wearing only feminine dresses and renouncing any film that didn’t have a happy ending.

Life for her was never as good as it was in fiction. A good story beautifully told was always preferable to reality. For Robyn, nothing came close to the highs she got when reading. Her job on reception at a small college in North Yorkshire only tickled the surface for her and she could never wait to get home and stick her head in a favourite book. And, for her, the very pinnacle of literary perfection was Jane Austen.

Some took their pleasures in the spin-offs and Regency romances told by modern authors but Robyn was a true Janeite who preferred her Austen undiluted.

‘If only she’d written more,’ Robyn would often say with a sigh. The big six just weren’t enough. There were the shorter stories too, of course, but they weren’t the same as the big novels, and the letters and endless biographies just didn’t give the same satisfaction; they were takeaways rather than a three-course meal - they might fill a gap but they would leave you feeling unsatisfied and wanting more.

There was never enough. No matter how many versions of Pride and Prejudice or Persuasion there were - whether for the cinema, TV or theatre, she would devour them. Each one was different, shedding some new light onto Austen’s world and her characters. Whether it was Pride and Prejudice or Bride and Prejudice, Emma or Clueless, Robyn would unplug the house phone, turn off her mobile and tune in for her allotted slot of pure happiness.

There were favourites, of course. Who could forget Colin Firth’s brooding Mr Darcy from the 1995 BBC version? But equally, Matthew Macfadyen striding across the meadow at dawn could be the recipe for many a happy sleepless night. There was Jennifer Ehle’s witty and intelligent Elizabeth and Keira Knightley’s youthful exuberance. How could one possibly choose? It entirely depended on what mood you were in. One thing was for sure, though: there could never be enough. Robyn had often wondered what it was about Austen that inspired such devotion. In these modern times of CDs, DVDs, computer games, iPods and the Internet, there were still people who would prefer to sit down in a quiet corner and read a Jane Austen novel.

Perhaps it was that irresistible blend of wit, warmth and romance that did it. Robyn had never stopped to analyse what it was that gave her such a buzz. She only knew that, when her mind was immersed in the Regency period, her twenty-first-century problems evaporated. Well, most of them.

It was late afternoon before the Jane Austen conference in Hampshire and Robyn was standing in her back garden behind the row of friendly Yorkshire terraces which overlooked fields and allotments. She had shed her work clothes which had consisted of a white shirt and navy skirt and was now wearing a knee-length dress in a floaty floral fabric. Her long hair was unpinned and was blowing around her face in a tangle of curls and her bare feet had been thrust into a pair of sparkly sandals.

Her garden was quite unlike all the others in the terrace. They were mostly given over to neat lawns lined with bedding plants or patios housing tubs of begonias but Robyn’s was home to her chickens. And her obsession with Jane Austen extended to her feathered friends. There was Mr Darcy - only it wasn’t a terribly fitting name as he had soon turned into something more approaching a villain and Robyn had had to rethink his name, eventually coming up with Wickham - the villain of Pride and Prejudice. The trouble was, Robyn liked sandals and bare feet and Wickham had a fascination with her toes, pecking at their painted extremes with great vigour.

So he was now Wickham the Chicken and his ladies were also named after characters from Pride and Prejudice. There was Lizzie, the bright young thing who was so aware of her surroundings and always the first to raise an alarm. There was the tiny chestnut called Lydia because she was always running away. The supercilious lavender grey was called Lady Catherine. The speckled hen was Mrs Bennet as she was always fussing around the others like your typical mother hen, and the pale gold was Miss Bingley because she had such an air about her and Robyn was convinced that she looked down her beak at everyone else.

Robyn looked at them all now, pecking around the garden in the sunshine. She loved watching them and could spend many a happy hour reading in her deckchair, listening to the funny little noises they made.

‘You ready, then?’ a friendly voice called over the low fence.

‘Hi, Judith,’ Robyn said, smiling at her elderly neighbour who kept an eye on the chickens when Robyn was at work and whenever she went away. ‘You sure this isn’t going to be too much bother?’ Robyn asked.

Judith put her hands on her hips. ‘I’ve brought up four sons single-handedly. I think I can manage a few Bantams!’

Robyn laughed. ‘I can’t thank you enough. It’s a real weight off my mind. You’re like an aunty to these chickens.’

Aunty Judith shook her head, obviously not approving. ‘You just enjoy your weekend. You work too hard, you do. You need to get out more.’

‘That’s what Jace is always saying.’

Judith’s mouth straightened into a line. ‘You’re still with him, then?’

Robyn blushed. She knew how her neighbour felt about her errant boyfriend. He’d never managed to endear himself to the old woman - not since the time when he’d woken her up with his drunken singing at three in the morning and then vomited over her prize roses.

‘I thought you were going to break up with him.’

‘I will,’ Robyn said.

‘You’ve been saying that since that young Lydia was an egg.’

Robyn sighed. It was true. She’d been meaning to sort things out with Jace for some time now. Indeed, she’d been on the verge of saying something only last week but he’d obviously picked up on things and decided to safeguard his position by suddenly being nice to her and buying her the biggest box of chocolates she’d ever seen. So he’d eaten most of them himself but it was the thought that counted, wasn’t it?

She’d been going out with Jason Collins, or ‘Jace’ as he preferred to be known, since school and it was more of a routine now rather than a romance. For years, he’d insisted that his pals called him ‘Ace’ but it had never taken, which didn’t surprise Robyn in the least. For one thing, he still lived with his mother in a house on the edge of Skipton. It was a lovely property with three large bedrooms and a garden that Robyn’s chickens would adore but a young man of twenty-five shouldn’t still be living with his mother, having all his laundry done and meals cooked by her. It just wasn’t natural. Not that Robyn had ever felt the urge to live with him - oh, no! But if she was ever going to live with somebody then it would be someone who was a little bit more independent than Jace.

And I could never marry him, anyway, Robyn suddenly thought. For one thing, I’d be Mrs Collins! She grinned naughtily as she thought of the ridiculous character of Mr Collins in Pride and Prejudice - one of literature’s worst sycophants. Robyn Collins. It would never work; it was just another one of the tragedies about their relationship. But the biggest tragedy of all was the fact that she didn’t love him any more.

She tried desperately to think about their early, heady days together when they’d been at secondary school. The holding hands under the table during lessons, the secret kisses in the corridor on the way to class and the little love notes that were constantly being confiscated by infuriated teachers. Where had all that love gone? Had it not been strong enough to leap the gulf between adolescence and adulthood? Had it been left behind along with homework, teenage mood swings and compulsory PE?

‘I’d better get moving,’ Robyn told Judith, shaking the images of the past from her mind. ‘Jace will be here in an hour and I want to get packed before then.’

‘Well, don’t you go worrying about this lot,’ Judith said, nodding towards the chickens. ‘They’ll be fine.’

‘Thanks,’ Robyn said with a smile before heading indoors.

The terraced cottage was cool and dark after the brightness of the garden and Robyn headed upstairs to her bedroom at the front of the house. Packing was simple - as many dresses and books as she could fit in her suitcase. She never liked to go anywhere without a copy of one of Jane Austen’s big six. Persuasion was usually a favourite because it was so slim and easily slipped into a handbag but Pride and Prejudice was her preferred choice if room permitted because it never failed to raise a smile whether one happened to be waiting for a train that was over an hour late or sitting in the dentist’s knowing that the drill was awaiting you.

She sighed with pleasure as she placed a copy of each of the novels in her case. Well, you couldn’t go to a Jane Austen conference without one of each, could you? She’d chosen her oldest versions that didn’t mind being beaten up a bit in transit. There was the copy of Sense and Sensibility with the coffee stain over the scene where Willoughby scoops Marianne up in his arms, and the edition of Emma that had taken a tumble into the bath and was now the size of an accordion.

Her newer copies of the books were downstairs, their covers shiny and pristine and the spines only faintly cracked. There was nothing more perfect to Robyn than a brand-new copy of an Austen novel.

‘Rob!’ a voice called from downstairs.

‘Jace?’ Robyn said in surprise.

‘Well, of course it’s Jace!’

Robyn’s mouth screwed up in frustration. He was early.

Leaving her packing, she ventured downstairs and was surprised to see that Jace had been doing some packing of his own.

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘A suitcase, dopey,’ he said, dropping it to the floor and ruffling her hair before grazing her cheek with a stubbly kiss. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘What?’ she asked, following him through to the living room as he settled himself on the sofa, kicking off his shoes and putting his feet up on the coffee table.

‘I’m coming with you,’ he said, giving a loud sniff. ‘Going to drive you down to Hereford.’

‘Hampshire,’ Robyn said.

‘Can’t have you getting the train on your own, can I?’

‘But I’ve got my ticket.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said.

‘But Jace - it’s such a long way and it sounds as if you don’t even know where Hampshire is.’

‘I’m making a weekend of it. Booked a B&B just down the road from your Parley Hall place.’

‘Purley Hall.’

‘That’s it!’

Robyn frowned. This was the last thing she’d expected and the very last thing she wanted. The Jane Austen weekend was her own special sanctuary and Jace was the last person she wanted to share it with.

‘It’s really not your sort of thing at all,’ she told him. ‘And I doubt there’s room for you at the conference. All the places are booked.’

‘I’m not coming to the conference, silly! No way!’

‘Then what are you going to do?’

He shrugged as he picked up the remote control and switched on the TV. ‘Just hang out,’ he said.

‘Hang out where?’

‘Wherever you want me to,’ he said, giving a lascivious wink. ‘Although I have heard there’s a beer festival on at a nearby pub. That sounds right up my street. Anyway, we don’t spend enough time together. I thought it would be nice to have a weekend away.’

‘But we won’t be together, Jace. I’ll be at the conference - all weekend.’

‘There’ll still be time to see each other, won’t there?’

Robyn stared at him. What was this? Jace had never been the sort to suggest a weekend away together before. Maybe he’d got wind of her wanting to break up with him. Maybe this was his way of trying to smooth things over.

‘Got a beer?’ he asked.

Robyn walked through to the kitchen and retrieved a can of beer from the fridge. What on earth was she going to do? The thought of Jace ‘hanging out’ anywhere near Jane Austen country was just frightful.

‘Any crisps?’ he asked as she entered the room with the beer.

She shook her head.

‘Nuts?’

She returned to the kitchen and came back with a bag of fruit and nuts.

Jace grimaced. ‘No salty ones?’

‘No,’ she said, wincing as he placed his beer can on her newest copy of Pride and Prejudice. He saw where she was looking.

‘Oh, sorry, babes,’ he said, picking it up. Robyn saw the dark circle embossed on Elizabeth Bennet’s face and couldn’t help noticing that Jace’s feet, which were now sockless, were dangerously close to the BBC DVD of Persuasion - a personal favourite of hers.

With such atrocities as these before her, she thought it best that she left the room.

Chapter Four

Warwick Lawton picked up the last letter he’d received from Katherine Roberts and read it again. The smile didn’t leave his face until the very end when he gave a weary sigh and scratched his chin. She didn’t know, did she? She had absolutely no idea that Lorna Warwick was a man. But why should she? The biography in the front of his novels was as fictional as the novels themselves and nobody but his agent and publisher knew the truth because, as far as his professional life went, he was a recluse, shunning the media and turning his back on book signings. Even his close friends didn’t know the truth. They were only aware that Warwick wrote ‘some drivel or other’ and never pushed him for any more information and that was just the way that Warwick liked it. Not that he was ashamed of what he wrote -certainly not. He loved his books. After all, if he wasn’t passionate about his characters and their fates, how could he expect his readers to love them?

It was his late mother, Lara Lawton, who’d taught him the pleasure of reading and writing. She’d been an actress although she’d never risen to the great heights that her name and beauty had always suggested to the young Warwick. Lara Lawton. It should have been a name that had been emblazoned across a thousand theatres, a name that dominated the cinema screen and was splashed across magazine covers. Instead, she’d swum in the shallows of the world of film and television - taking bit roles here and background roles there.

And always a book in her hands, Warwick remembered. There was so much time hanging around sets and his mother had been a passionate reader, telling him the plots of all the novels she read and encouraging him when he sat down one day, determined to rewrite the story of Wuthering Heights and give it a happy ending that had more to do with Hollywood than Bronte. His mother had been delighted with the result and persuaded him to write some of his own stories. At first, he’d done it to please her but he’d soon found that it also pleased him and that had been the beginning of his writing career.

The fact that he’d chosen to write historical romances still amazed him and he often wondered if he should turn his attention to thrillers or crime or something a bit more masculine, but his mother’s early influence had been too powerful and all those evenings together spent watching Jane Austen and Daphne Du Maurier adaptations and films like Dragonwyck and Gone With the Wind had left their mark.

Now he was sailing high in the bestseller lists and leading a double life as a woman. For a moment, he wondered what his mother would make of it all. What would she say if she knew her little boy was now known by the majority of the population as Lorna? She’d probably laugh - that lovely silvery laugh of hers that had always made him laugh too.

His friends would laugh as well. He dreaded to think how much they’d laugh if they ever found out. Warwick Lawton writing as a woman! The same six foot two Warwick Lawton who went rock climbing and abseiling with his mates at weekends swapping his keyboard for the feel of a bit of Peak District gritstone under his fingers? Surely not! But, if he was honest, he rather liked the duality of his nature. It was like playing a game. One minute, he was Warwick, speeding up the motorway in his latest fast car with a tangle of ropes and harnesses in his boot; the next he was Lorna researching ladies’ undergarments in the early nineteenth century.

Of course, the charade would be even funnier if he could share it with somebody and he often wondered if the day would come when he could tell Katherine about it.

‘And therein lies the problem,’ he said to himself. What was he going to do about his little secret?

His bags were packed for Purley Hall and his agent had sorted out a last-minute room for him and he was leaving in less than an hour, but he still hadn’t made up his mind what to do about Katherine.

For a moment, he sat absolutely still, listening to the gentle tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. It was the heartbeat of the house and always made him feel calm and in control of things which wasn’t how he was feeling right now.

‘Oh, God!’ he suddenly exclaimed. Could it be that he was a little bit in love?

He let the thought somersault around his brain before dismissing it. How could he possibly be in love? He’d never even met the woman although he had to confess to having Googled her, discovering a photograph of her outside St Bridget’s College, Oxford with a bunch of very stuffy-looking men in tweeds. And she was beautiful. He closed his eyes for a moment as he remembered the long chocolate-coloured wavy hair, the dark eyes in a pale face, and a rosebud mouth that was smiling at the camera. Very heroine-like, he thought, instantly casting her as his next vibrant leading lady and saving the photograph to his hard drive.

He’d sat down to read through all her letters again last night and one thing had struck him: she was a remarkable woman and he wanted to get to know her better. The way she wrote about books, the way she spoke about - well, everything - stirred him. She was so passionate about things and wasn’t afraid to express those feelings, unlike so many of the women in his past who’d never really had much to say at all. Take Fiona, the shopaholic: all she ever talked about was her nails and her shoes. Or Lindsay the interior designer. Warwick had learned more about cushions and pelmets in the four months they’d been together than he’d had any desire to know.

No, Katherine wasn’t like any other woman he’d met. She was sweet and smart and had a rapier wit that tickled him pink, and they’d shared such secrets. She trusted him.

She trusted Lorna! Warwick thought. You aren’t the person she thinks you are. Would she tell you all these secrets if she knew you were a man? Would she divulge such feelings if she realized that you were a male with a string of hopeless relationships behind him?

And that was the problem he had with the weekend that lay ahead. What was he going to do about Katherine?

He sat down in his office chair and surveyed the letters before him.

‘I love getting your letters. It’s so wonderful to know that there’s somebody out there who understands,’ he read from one of them.

‘I really feel that I can trust you,’ he read from another. ‘You’re a really good friend, Lorna, and that’s just what I need at the moment.’

‘I can tell you everything and that’s a real comfort. That means so much to me’ she’d written in another.

Things had soon become intimate between the two of them and Warwick had spent mornings pacing up and down for the post to arrive when he should have been working.

‘My first big love was my next door neighbour - how clichéd is that?’ Katherine had written just over a month ago. ‘I let him kiss me on our first date and it was horrible. It nearly put me off for life! But I didn’t give in until I was at university. I fell madly in love with a third year student who seduced me in the library when he was meant to be locking up! I’ll never forget looking up at all those books and hoping that the spirits of Thomas Hardy and Emily Bronte weren’t glowering down at me. Gosh! I’ve never told anyone about that before!’