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

Entering the churchyard, she looked at the modest little building before her. St Nicholas’s didn’t shout about its presence in the landscape but it was very pretty with a tiny crenellated tower in a warm beige stone and a small silver spire. There were three arched windows above a fine wooden door either side of which were two carved faces gazing out over the pathway.

A great yew tree cast a cobwebby shadow across the front of the church and Robyn thought of how Jane Austen must have walked by it so many times and that made her smile.

Opening the church door and walking inside, she marvelled at the coolness of the building after the warm sunshine and gazed at the beautiful white arches under which delicate flowers had been painted.

A bright brass plaque on the wall to the left announced that Jane Austen had worshipped here. Robyn looked around at the neat wooden pews and walked up the aisle and sat down. Where would Jane have sat? she wondered, sitting in both the front row pews and sliding along them just to cover all the options. And would she have been paying attention to her father’s sermon or dreaming of handsome men on horseback? Was it in this very church that she’d created Elizabeth and Darcy, Elinor and Marianne and Catherine and Tilney? Were their adventures of the heart conceived in this hushed and humbling place?

Robyn let a few peaceful moments pass.

‘Only two hundred or so years separate us,’ she said with a smile. It felt strange to finally be sitting in a place that her idol had once inhabited. Other than reading the novels, this was as close as she was ever going to get, wasn’t it? To walk in the same steps and to sit in the same seats.

At last, Robyn got up and looked around the rest of the church, noting the memorial to Jane’s brother, James, who’d succeeded his father as rector. There was also a moving memorial to three young girls, Mary Agnes, Cecilia and Augusta, who had all died of scarlet fever in 1848.

‘Great-nieces of Jane’s,’ Robyn whispered into the silence. ‘Whom she never lived to see.’

And that was one of the great tragedies about the writer - that she’d led so short a life, dying at the age of forty-one. How many other wonderful novels might have been written if she’d lived longer? That was the question everyone asked. It was, truly, one of the greatest losses to literature and, although Robyn wasn’t particularly religious, she couldn’t help but send a little prayer up for Jane.

As she walked back down the aisle, she noticed four beautiful kneelers in sky blue featuring silhouettes of Regency ladies. Everyone, it seemed, was proud of the Austen connection.

Opening the great wooden door and stepping back outside, Robyn spotted a baby rabbit hopping amongst the graves. She walked around the back of the church which opened onto fields and then thought she’d better make her way back to Jace.

It was as she left the churchyard and entered the lane that she heard the sound of horse’s hooves on the road and, turning round, saw a great chestnut stallion trotting down the lane, its mane and tail streaming out behind him. But that wasn’t what had captivated Robyn for sitting astride the horse was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

A handsome man on horseback, Robyn thought. Hadn’t she been thinking of just that inside the church? It was as if she’d conjured him from wishful thinking - as if the magical world of Jane Austen had come to life before her very eyes.

She gazed up at the man as he rode by. His hair was a dark coppery gold underneath his riding hat and his arms were bare and tanned. Robyn could tell he was tall and he sat proudly and confidently on the chestnut stallion. It really was a sight to behold and, as he passed her by, he turned, nodded and smiled and Robyn could feel the most wonderful blush colouring her face.

‘The man’s a lunatic!’ Jace yelled as the horse and rider picked up speed and shot across an adjacent field. ‘Did you see how close he was to my car?’

‘He wasn’t anywhere near your car.’

‘That horse could have kicked out and done all sorts of damage. He’s totally out of control.’

‘He’s totally beautiful,’ Robyn said, and then wondered if they were still talking about the horse.

Chapter Six (#ulink_1bfe902f-5df4-5e45-82c4-034a423cac0b)

Katherine had just delivered her two beloved cats to a friend in the village and now had the unenviable task of saying goodbye.

‘My darling boys,’ she said, bending down to fondle them both.

Marion, her friend, shook her head. ‘Freddie and Fitz,’ she said. ‘They’re unusual names for cats.’

‘They’re my two favourite heroes,’ Katherine said. ‘Darcy and Wentworth.’

‘Oh, I should’ve guessed. If they were named after my favourite heroes, they’d be Johnny and Brad.’

Katherine smiled. ‘Make sure you feed them that new food I’ve left. They don’t like that old one any more.’

‘You spoil them rotten,’ Marion said.

‘Of course,’ Katherine said. ‘That’s exactly what they’re for.’

‘And no doubt I’ll spoil them rotten too so don’t you go worrying about them,’ Marion said. ‘Just enjoy your weekend and let’s get together for dinner when you’re back. I want to hear all about it.’

It was always hard to leave her boys behind but Katherine had to do just that if she was to get down to Hampshire on time so, saying her goodbyes, she took one last look at her beloved cats and left.

Katherine was getting the train down to Hampshire and being picked up from the station by someone from Purley Hall. She’d already packed and was looking forward to relaxing on the train. She had always loved travelling by train. It was rather like being suspended in time - you were neither in one place nor another and it was the perfect time to dip your nose into a good book. So which book was she going to choose this particular journey? Northanger Abbey and Persuasion were the obvious handbag choices because of the slimness but Emma was her favourite and it was always fun to dip in and out of it, rereading much-loved scenes. But there was a naughty twinkle in Katherine’s eyes as she organized her train reading. She knew she should be getting herself in the right frame of mind for her lecture at the conference by swotting up on some last-minute Austen but the temptation to take a Lorna Warwick novel instead was just too much and so, packing the Jane Austen six into her suitcase, she placed a much-beloved Lorna Warwick in her handbag: The Notorious Lady Fenton.

It was always hard to choose her favourite book but there was something rather special about The Notorious Lady Fenton. It was kind of like a reversed Pride and Prejudice where Lady Fenton clashes with a spirited but poor gentleman before realizing that she’s madly in love with him, defying family and friends to marry him. Isabella Fenton had to be one of Lorna Warwick’s best creations. She was selfish yet sparkling, proud yet passionate and she got the happy ending that all great heroines deserve.

Once Katherine had found her seat on the train, she took the beloved book out of her bag and turned to chapter one, hoping that she wouldn’t be spotted by any of her colleagues or students as she indulged herself in the most decadent of fiction.

Living in West Sussex and having neither chickens nor cats to worry about, Warwick didn’t have to leave his home until the afternoon, driving his black Jaguar through the country lanes at a sedate speed. The car had been his little treat to himself once the US sales for his novels had really begun to take off.

He loved living in Sussex. After several years in a noisy street in North London, escaping to the countryside had been a dream come true. He was close enough to the coast to enjoy a bracing swim when the weather was good - or even when it was bad as Warwick didn’t seem to feel the cold - and yet he was just a short train ride from the capital for those literary lunches with his agent. And his house was his pride and joy. It had been bought at auction and had been described as being ‘a project’ but it had been a project Warwick had thrown himself into with gusto. He’d involved himself in everything from repairing the roof to laying new floorboards. He loved DIY and using his hands. For one thing, it was a good excuse to get away from the keyboard and there was something immensely pleasurable about doing a job yourself. And now he had his dream home to show for all his hard work.

As he hit the A3, he wondered what time Katherine would arrive and how quickly he would recognize her. How was he going to introduce himself? Would she even like him as a man? And was he going to use his real name, Warwick Lawton? Was the Warwick not a bit of a giveaway? And what profession should he now have?

All sorts of questions flew around his mind. He hadn’t felt this nervous since dating at university. He felt out of practice at this sort of thing and wasn’t sure if he could pull it off. His string of broken relationships over the past few years was surely the evidence that he was meant to be alone. Maybe that was one of the reasons he was a writer: he was far more successful in his own company. But there was something about Katherine that made him want to forget his past failures and try again. She could be worth gambling embarrassment, humiliation and rejection for.

If only he had the confidence that he gave to his heroes in his novels, he thought. Then, he would stride into a room, quickly surveying all before him, drawing all eyes towards him, before singling out the woman of his choice who would, of course, be palpitating with desire by then. He would make his approach, bow, silently admire her décolletage as she curtsied before him, say something immeasurably witty and then take her hand and lead the first dance.

How easy it was back then, he thought. Men and women had clear-cut roles and were happy to play them. Today, everything was so muddled. Women didn’t want to be bowed to or to be told that they were charming creatures and have their eyes admired.

Or did they?

For a moment, Warwick wondered.

The women who were attending the Jane Austen conference might be different. They might actually want a gentleman who admired the clothes they wore, asked about the books they read, and pestered them to play the piano forte. They’d want a Jane Austen or Lorna Warwick hero, wouldn’t they? Wasn’t that why they read the books? Wasn’t that precisely why there were so many adaptations of Austen’s novels - because the female population couldn’t get enough?

Warwick grinned at this most amazing discovery. Now he knew exactly how he was going to play things with Katherine.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_84f55c76-d04f-566b-bf06-5bfcd0b9ab8d)

Robyn would never forget her first glimpse of Purley Hall. They’d rounded corner after corner of twisting country lane, when suddenly, there it was; red-gold and glorious across the rolling fields. It sat in symmetrical perfection, its aspect cushioned by the countryside around it, with honey-coloured fields stretching out in front of it and deep green woods behind it.

‘Look!’ she exclaimed, pointing out of the window like an excited toddler.

Jace looked. ‘What?’

‘Purley!’

‘Where?’

‘Where?’ Robyn echoed. ‘There!’

‘That? I thought it would be bigger.’