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

It was always the same when a book was going well. Boring old jobs like housework and food preparation got neglected. The only thing that mattered was the flow of the story and - at the moment - the story was flowing well. Nadia was going to love this latest one and no doubt Lorna’s editor would too. Tansy Newman of Parnaby and Fox was Lorna’s biggest fan and couldn’t wait to get her hands on the latest manuscripts. Edits were usually minimal and Lorna was in the lucky position to be consulted about everything from jacket design to publication date - hardbacks were released just before Christmas and paperbacks in time for the summer holidays. Lorna was lucky; her advances were legendary and her royalties substantial. Not all writers were in such a position.

For a moment, Lorna looked at the bookshelves that lined the study walls. They were filled to capacity with hardback editions, paperbacks, large print, audio books, and foreign editions ranging from German to Spanish and Japanese to Russian. It was an impressive collection considering that the first novel hadn’t been received at all well in the press.

‘Lorna Warwick is attempting to cash in on the fact that Jane Austen’s Regency is a perennial favourite,’ one critic wrote. ‘But what we have here is a cheap imitation. It’s soft porn dressed in a little fine muslin.’

The words had stung bitterly until the book had become a bestseller in the US and was now seen as the forerunner in a very popular genre of Austenesque literature which included sequels, updates on the six classic novels, and the sort of sexy books that Lorna wrote. It was a huge and much-loved industry.

Lorna’s fingers brushed the spines of the UK editions. Each featured a sumptuously-clad heroine. ‘All breasts and bonnets,’ another critic had declared, after which sales had rocketed. The public couldn’t get enough of the feisty young heroines and devilishly handsome heroes and, of course, the happy endings.

Lorna loved writing. Nothing could beat the day-to-day weaving of a new story or getting to know characters that you hoped would captivate the readers’ imagination as strongly as they did their creator. But there was more to being a writer than writing and Lorna was under increased pressure to do publicity. Hence the phone call from the agent about the conference. Year to year, Lorna’s publisher had tried to persuade their favourite writer that it would be a great idea to attend.

‘Incognito if you must,’ they’d said, but Lorna hadn’t been at all sure about it. The public face of publication had never appealed. Writing was a private thing, wasn’t it? One didn’t need to be endlessly signing copies and giving talks. What was there to say, anyway? Surely the books spoke for themselves? But Lorna’s publisher had often spoken of how writers were now seen as celebrities.

‘The public has to be able to see you.’

‘Oh, no,’ Lorna had said. ‘I don’t want anybody to see me.’

So what was to be done about Purley Hall? There was a part of Lorna that was desperate to go. Being a writer was a lonely job and it would be good to get out and actually talk to real live people for once. That would be fun, wouldn’t it - to get away from the study and meet people?

‘Katherine,’ Lorna suddenly said. Katherine was going to be there. Her letter had made it very clear that she’d love to meet her favourite author and there was a part of Lorna that wanted that very much too. Over the months, they’d become very close, sharing secrets and talking about their hopes for the future. Maybe it was the fact that they were writing letters - beautifully old-fashioned, handwritten letters that one savoured and kept. It wasn’t like receiving an e-mail which one reads and deletes. These were proper letters on quality paper which the writers took time to fill. They had crossings out and notes in the margins and funny P.S.s too. They were to be reread and treasured just like in the time of Jane Austen when letters were a vital means of staying in touch with loved ones.

If there was one good reason for Lorna to attend the conference, it was Katherine.

Suddenly, Lorna ran upstairs to the bedroom where a wardrobe door was quickly opened and clothes were pulled out and flung onto the bed. What to take? What should Lorna Warwick take to the Jane Austen conference? That was a question that was easy to answer because, although Lorna gave very few interviews and never gave out author photographs, it was obvious how the public perceived their beloved author. Nothing but velvets and satins would do in rich jewel colours with sequins and embroidery. Old-fashioned but with a quirky twist. A fascinator wouldn’t be completely out of place or a sparkling brooch in the shape of a peacock. Shawls, scarves, a pair of evening gloves, perhaps even a shapely hat. Shoes which were elegant but discreet. That was the kind of thing people would expect.

But Lorna wasn’t going to wear any of these things. Velvets and satins were instantly rejected and shawls were totally inappropriate and the reason was simple. Lorna Warwick was a man.

Chapter Three (#ulink_da81f18a-64e2-5523-8f24-6a91407f66a1)

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!’