Sally O'Rourke - The Man Who Loved Jane Austen

“No, I think that’s unwise,” he replied. “I’ll thank Edward at supper for his hospitality and tell him I’m off to London. Then I’ll find a place to wait for the sunrise.”

Jane suddenly turned and scrutinized the cottage to be certain that Cassandra hadn’t come out, then she stepped closer and entreated him in a breathless whisper. “Let me wait with you.”

“Jane, are you sure you—”

“Know what I am doing?” she impatiently interrupted. “Yes, I know precisely what I am doing.” She smiled and he saw the familiar mischievous sparkle come into her eyes. “I am greedy for dreams, sir…If you will share a few more with me.”

Resisting the temptation to take her in his arms in full view of the entire sleepy village and her taciturn sister, whom he suspected was peeking out from behind the lace curtains that graced the cottage’s upper windows, Darcy bowed formally. “The same place as last night, then?” he intoned, his voice barely audible above the clucking of an unseen hen.

Returning his formal bow with a slight inclination of her head, “The same place,” she whispered. “Come again at twelve, so I do not have to explain to Cass.” A secret smile touched the corners of her mouth. “A little way into the wood there is a small summer house where we can go to be out of the damp. Perhaps there, in comfort, we shall play again at being lovers, and you may show me more of what I wish to know.”

“Jane,” he whispered, remembering what Frank had said to him the night before, about her fragile heart, “you do realize that we will likely never see one another again after tonight?”

“Tonight is all I ask,” she replied, her gaze unwavering.

“Until midnight, then.”

The sun was fast sinking toward the horizon as Darcy rode Lord Nelson back through the gates of Chawton Great House and down to the stables. He had scarcely dismounted and led the horse inside when a rough hand darted out of the shadows and unceremoniously jerked him into a stall. For a heart-stopping moment Darcy feared that Captain Francis Austen had heard of his visit to Jane and had returned to keep his murderous promise.

Then, as his eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light, Darcy saw the frightened face of Simmons anxiously regarding him. “Simmons! What the hell—” he exclaimed angrily.

The young groom’s nervous eyes darted to the open stable door at their backs. “Thank God I caught you, sir,” he said in a tremulous voice. “You mustn’t go up to the house again.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“An express come for Master Edward this afternoon,” Simmons breathlessly reported, “from Mr. Henry, his brother, the banker in London,” he said by way of explanation. “He’d been making some inquiries about you and wrote back to say it’s a well known fact that the American horse breeder Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley Farms has never set foot in England.”

Simmons paused for breath and Darcy could see that the poor fellow was genuinely terrified by this unexpected turn of events. “They know you ain’t the gentleman from Virginia, sir,” he concluded.

“Damn!”

“That ain’t the worst of it,” Simmons continued. “Mr. Edward has sent word to the captain in Portsmouth, asking him to return here straightaway with a squad of his marines. I think they mean to arrest you for a spy, sir.”

Simmons’s eyes again darted anxiously to the open stable doors behind them. “You must leave here now,” he warned. “They could come for you at any moment.”

“Yes,” Darcy quickly agreed. “But there’s something I need first, Simmons. Do you have a pen and paper?”

Simmons stared at him and slowly shook his head, as if the American was mad to be requesting writing materials at a time like this. “Them things is kept mostly up at the big house, sir,” he answered. “You’d better go on now. Or it’ll be the worst for both of us if they catch you here.”

Darcy struggled with his conscience for a moment. Of course, he did not want to implicate the affable young groom in his now-dangerous troubles with the vengeful Captain Austen. But neither could he simply flee without sending some word to Jane, letting her know what had happened. Removing the gold medallion from his waistcoat pocket, Darcy pressed it into Simmons’s hand.

“You have my solemn word of honor that my name is Fitzwilliam Darcy and that I’m no spy,” he assured the frightened young man, “but I need your help.”

“This must be worth fifty pounds!” Simmons gasped, feeling the weight of the gold in his hand.

“It’s yours if you’ll help me,” Darcy said. “I only need to write a note. Then I want you to deliver it for me and hide me until nightfall.”

Simmons slowly nodded and pocketed the medallion. “This is a matter of the heart, then, is it, sir?” he asked in a tone that made it clear he believed that he understood completely what was going on. “I warned you that the captain had a fearful temper. He’s a dangerous man, sir. If he thinks you’ve been making free with his sister, there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

Darcy nodded, more than willing to let Simmons assume naively that the entire matter was simply a case of brotherly revenge and had nothing whatever to do with spying.

At Chawton Cottage Jane was sitting before the dressing table in her bedroom, gazing thoughtfully into the depths of the silvery mirror.

The moment after Darcy had left her at the gate, Cassandra, who had indeed been watching them from an upstairs window, had rushed out of the cottage, demanding to know what they had discussed and what had happened during their long trek through the fields. Jane had evaded her sister’s pointed questions and injured looks by pleading a headache and retiring immediately to her room. Though as she had watched the tall American riding out of sight it was her heart and not her head that ached, and she had sought solitude to analyze the unfamiliar sensation in private.

Her only consolation since parting from Darcy was his promise to share with her the night ahead. But when that was over, Jane wondered, what would then become of her and her poor aching heart?

At first she had allowed herself to indulge the wild fantasy of traveling forward into his time with him. It was in fact something they had jokingly discussed this very afternoon, after he had tried and failed to return by crossing the stone wall.

“Perhaps you should hold my hand and we’ll jump together,” he had said. “Then you can see for yourself what a terrible place the future will be.”

She had laughed along with him, not daring to voice the thought that had been in her heart at that moment, that no future could be so terrible with him in it.

But she was never quick enough to say the things that were in her heart at the most important moments. Instead she waited until minutes or even days later, when the moment was past and there was no longer anyone there to hear them.

“Then, when it is far too late,” she confided to her reflection in the mirror, “but loathe to waste my sage replies and witty repartee, I transfer them to the mouths of my always-brilliant Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her sisters.”

Even though Jane imagined herself making a speech from which Darcy would easily have divined that she would gladly travel with him into the future, she was not really certain that she could actually survive in the fast, exotic new world he had described.

For, although the concept of rocketing about the earth at indescribable speeds while being served microwaved dinners and cocktails—whatever those things might be—was endlessly thrilling to her, the idea that most romantic relationships were fleeting, that ordinary women often appeared naked, or nearly so, in public places, that they openly approached desirable men with invitations to intimate dinners, swore like sea cooks if they felt like it, demanded sexual satisfaction and prevented unwanted pregnancies by the simple expedient of swallowing tiny tablets were all anathema to Jane’s quiet, romantic spirit.