Me and Mr Darcy (29 page)

 

W
e walk arm in arm. Mr Darcy leads me to the far side of the balcony, down a flight of steps and on to a small path that winds its way through the gardens. Everything is so still and quiet. Just the sound of footsteps tapping rhythmically against the paving stones.

After a few minutes we turn a corner. Ahead of me is a huddle of outbuildings and as we near them Mr Darcy makes a beeline for the one on the far left. My mind goes into overdrive. Is this the surprise? Is there something in there? Is he going to give me a present? The door swings open and I get a whiff of hay.

My mind comes to a screeching halt. Holy shit. It’s a hay barn. And
everyone
knows what happens in hay barns, don’t they? I feel an almighty tremor in my chest. So this is the surprise.

Suddenly every bodice-ripper I’ve read comes flashing back to me in all their breathless urgency. He’s brought me here so he can roll around in the hay with me. To have his wicked way. To make mad, passionate love with the stars twinkling through the gaps of the old timbered roof and his warm, muscular body pressed up against mine . . .

I want to feel offended that he thinks I’m going to put out on the first date, but I can’t. I’m
way
too excited.

Well, I’m hardly an innocent virgin, now, am I? Despite what my mother likes to think. In fact, I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more right now than roll around in the hay with Mr Darcy.

And it has been a while, I think, eyeing him lustfully.

He leads me inside. Only it’s not a barn. It’s a stable. I feel a twinge of uncertainty. Followed by a strong whiff of something that smells suspiciously like—

I feel a crash of disappointment. Of course. This is Mr Darcy. He’s a gentleman. He would never try and have his wicked way.

Damn. Damn.
Damn.

‘Meet Thunder,’ announces Mr Darcy, opening the stall to reveal the back end of a big black horse, who, right at that moment, decides to lift up his tale and dump a huge dollop all over the floor.

Watching it pile up, my sexual fantasies of rolling around in the hay suddenly disappear. Funny that.

‘Um . . . hello,’ I say lamely, quickly stepping backwards before my gold stilettos get sprayed in excrement and getting my spiked heel caught. ‘Whoah,’ I cry, quickly steadying myself. Maybe I overdid it a bit with the champagne-and-marijuana combo.

‘Don’t worry, there’s no need to be afraid, Emily,’ continues Mr Darcy, misinterpreting my stoned lurch with a cry of fear. ‘This isn’t your horse.’

He’s obviously unaware of my inebriation, I realise thankfully. Well, why would he be? I don’t remember any of the ladies getting stoned in
Pride and Prejudice.
And they were always going to parties.

Hang on a minute. Rewind that again.

Your
horse?

I turn to say something, but Mr Darcy is already striding over to a neighbouring stall, flicking open the dead bolt and opening the door to reveal the most beautiful thoroughbred I’ve ever seen.

Pure white, her powerful, muscular flanks seem to be almost glistening in the light. I’m used to the kind of horses you get in Central Park: old piebald faithfuls who dutifully pull the carriages of tourists and pose for photographs. But this is a different breed of animal. Her whole body is quivering with pent-up energy, like a racehorse just before the starting gun, and her ears flick back as she hears us.

Suddenly she smashes her hoof against the ground, the metal horseshoe making a loud noise against the stone flags. I jump slightly. Jesus, talk about frisky. You’d have to be a brave person to ride her, I decide, noticing she’s tacked up with shiny stirrups and a polished leather saddle.

‘You’re riding Lightning,’ says Mr Darcy, as if reading my thoughts.

Me. Riding. Lightning.

The words string out in front of me in little cartoon bubbles, but as yet I seem to be having difficulty in joining them up. He obviously can’t be suggesting what I think he’s suggesting. I’m wearing a balldress and three-inch heels. I look from Mr Darcy to the horse and back again.

Oh, I get it. He’s fooling around. Ha, ha, very funny.

‘Right, yeah, absolutely.’ I grin, playing along with the joke. But his face is serious and then it hits me.
Mr Darcy doesn’t joke, remember?

As he takes Lightning’s reins and walks her calmly out of the stall, her ribcage rising and falling, her thick white tail swishing, I can’t help but feel a snap of annoyance. I can’t believe he hasn’t even
asked
me if I want to go horseriding! I mean, don’t
I
get a say in this? I’ll freeze to death in this outfit.

‘Never having been to America, I do not know your customs and traditions on such occasions as these,’ he’s saying gravely. ‘However, I have taken the liberty of arranging a moonlight ride for us both.’

Saying that, as Mr Darcy comes to a halt in front of me, in his white shirt and tight breeches and holding the reins of a beautiful thoroughbred horse, I’m suddenly overcome by the vision before me. It’s so absurdly romantic I feel dizzy.

Usually it’s tickets to the movies and a carton of popcorn if I’m lucky, but
this.
It’s the stuff of fantasies. Of the novels that line the shelves of McKenzie’s bookstore. This kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me: Emily Albright from upstate New York. The only thing I ever get to ride these days is the subway into work.

‘I trust it meets with your approval.’

‘Um . . . yes . . . of course,’ I stammer, brushing any annoyance I may have felt quickly aside. Well, come on, Emily – you can hardly stay mad at him, can you?

‘Good,’ replies Mr Darcy with satisfaction, and it strikes me that he never really doubted that his suggestion would be met with approval. In fact, I’ve never seen Mr Darcy be anything but confident, I realise, watching him take Thunder by the reins and assuredly lead both horses out of the stable.

But that’s what makes him so darn attractive, I tell myself firmly. A sensitive, modern-day man who’s into making joint decisions over the new kitchen blinds and asking your opinion over whose turn it is to load the dishwasher might make the better boyfriend. But it’s hardly the stuff of sexual fantasies, now, is it?

Anticipation buzzes and I follow him out of the stables. ‘How did you manage to arrange all this?’ I ask, wrapping myself tightly up in his coat.

‘A gentleman never gives away his secrets.’ He smiles enigmatically.

And to think I’ve been making do with going Dutch at pizza restaurants, watching bad foreign art movies and fighting off drunken advances on first dates my whole life.

‘I thought we could ride up to Sham Castle.’

My stomach flips. Oh, wow, I read about Sham Castle this morning in one of the guidebooks.

‘Awesome,’ I enthuse, trying to keep my excitement under wraps and completely failing. Well, do you blame me? A horseback ride. With Mr Darcy. To a castle.
Please.

Buzzing, I watch Mr Darcy loosely tying Thunder to a gatepost. Then, still holding Lightning’s reins, he turns to me. ‘I presume you’ve ridden before.’

‘Oh, yeah, loads,’ I enthuse.

‘Splendid. In that case, what are we waiting for?’

 

O
K, perhaps
loads
is a slight fib.

I used to have lessons when I was younger, but I gave them up when my affections suddenly switched from Prancer the pony to Bruce in seventh grade. Which means I was . . . Wow, was I only fourteen?

Doubt prickles, but I quickly dismiss it. That isn’t
that
long ago. OK, so it’s fifteen years, and I know that’s technically more than half my life, but time speeds up when you get older so you can’t count it like that. And anyway, I’m sure it’s just like riding a bicycle. It will all come flooding back to me just as soon as I get back in the saddle.

‘Would you like me to help you mount?’ Mr Darcy politely holds out his hand.

‘Thanks, but I’m fine. I can manage,’ I reply, smiling confidently.

Obviously he’s not used to modern-day women doing things for themselves, I think, feeling all capable and independent as I turn to Lightning. Only up close, she seems much bigger than before. And for some strange reason those stirrups seem much shorter than I remember. My eyes travel upwards. Wow, you really need to be flexible to get your leg up there, don’t you? I feel a wobble of doubt, but I quickly brush it away.

I do yoga. No problem.

Throwing back my shoulders, I take a deep breath, hitch up my dress and with one seamless move hoist my stiletto into the stirrup.

‘Urrrgggghhhh.’

Grunting loudly, I pull myself up on to the saddle and swing my other leg across. Except I hadn’t realised just how that joint has affected my balance. With one leg in the air, the other foot suddenly twirls round in the stirrup, twisting my ankle. A sharp pain shoots up my leg and for a moment it’s touch and go as I clutch on to Lightning’s mane, legs akimbo, butt in the air. Fortunately, however, I think I do a really good job of regaining it and before you know it I’ve slid my other foot over and am sitting upright.

There. Easy peasy.

Smiling triumphantly, I glance over at Mr Darcy. He looks stunned. I feel a beat of pride. It’s as I thought. He’s obviously really impressed. In fact, he’s almost speechless.

‘Do . . . um . . . women not ride side-saddle in America?’ he enquires, stumbling over his words.

‘Oh, no, we ride Western-style like the men,’ I say. Smiling modestly, I try getting comfy in my saddle which I suddenly realise isn’t like the ones back home. That’s funny, I can feel a draught.

I glance down and notice my dress has ridden up and is now sort of concertinaed round the tops of my legs in bunches of chocolate satin. At the same time I realise Mr Darcy is staring agog at my naked thighs.

Oops. Tipsily I tug down the hem. ‘Ready,’ I trill happily, looping my fingers round the reins, just like I remembered. See, I knew it. It’s all coming back to me.

‘Um . . . splendid,’ he stammers. Gosh, what’s wrong with him? He seems a bit dazed. I wonder if he had a few drinks too beforehand?

But if he did, it hasn’t affected his balance, I notice, as he unties Thunder and mounts him with the slick ease of a professional rider.

‘This way,’ he’s saying now and, clicking his tongue, he jabs his boots into his horse’s flanks and trots ahead.

I do exactly the same and feel a tingle of excitement as Lightning dutifully follows. It’s been a while since I’ve ridden, but like I said, it’s just like riding a bike. Only much more romantic.

After a few minutes we go through a gate (note to Mr Hair Plugs: Mr Darcy dismounts to open it for me) and out into open countryside. Wow, isn’t this great? Smiling happily to myself, I sneak a sideways peek at Mr Darcy, who’s riding alongside me. Erect in his saddle, his strong shoulders thrown back, his jaw clenched, his eyes looking directly ahead, he might as well have ‘I am the sexiest man you have ever seen’ written on his forehead. I feel an ache in my groin.

And no, it’s got
nothing
to do with the hard leather saddle.

‘The castle is over on that hill,’ he announces, gesturing ahead of us. ‘You won’t be able to see it yet, as it’s hidden by the woods.’

Woods? A castle? God, it’s like something out of a fairytale.

‘Oh, great,’ I reply, trying to keep my voice level, as if this kind of thing happens to me every day in New York.

We pause for a moment and then Mr Darcy breaks into a brisk trot. Lightning follows suit without me having to do a thing. I feel a glow of satisfaction. Jigging up and down, I grip harder on to the reins. This really is amazing. I’d forgotten just what a buzz you get from riding.

Mr Darcy picks up the pace. His white shirt billows out behind him, and I wipe my eyes to see better. They’re beginning to water a bit now because of the wind, but luckily I’ve used waterproof mascara. I take a deep lungful of cold night air, enjoying the sensation of it rushing through my nasal passages. Wow, this really clears your head, doesn’t it? Before, I was feeling a bit woolly, but now I feel so clear and focused and—

A dew drop from my nose falls on my sleeve.

Oh. Euggh.

I sniff hard and refocus. It’s so great being in the great outdoors. Maybe I should think about quitting the city and moving to the country. It can’t be good for your health, all that pollution and stress and—

Gosh, I’m really quite sniffly. I sniff harder, but it’s no good. I need a tissue to blow it. I wonder if Mr Darcy has one . . . I feel in his pockets. But nothing. Hmmm. The wind is blowing harder now and my nose is . . . well, running would be one way of describing it,
streaming
would be another. Shit. And I’ve got nothing to wipe it on. Unless . . . a thought stirs. I’ve got Mr Darcy’s silk scarf in my little sequinned purse.

Immediately I catch myself.

Honestly, what am I thinking? I can’t go and blow my snotty nose on that, can I? It’s got that lovely sexy cologne smell of his. It’s a keepsake.

And yet my nose seems to have suddenly turned into what my grandmother used to call the ‘candle factory’. And I’m on this big full-on romantic date. I can’t very well get to the castle with two big snotty candles hanging from my nostrils, now, can I?

I tug out the slip of white silk and blow hard. My nose makes a noise like a trumpet, but fortunately the wind’s blowing the other way so Mr Darcy doesn’t hear.

‘Isn’t this incredible?’ hollers Mr Darcy from ahead.

‘Amazing,’ I yell back, quickly scrunching up the snotty scarf and shoving it back in my purse. Never mind. I’ll just have to wash it later.