Romantic Association - Loves Me, Loves Me Not

Suddenly, Billy is upon us, grabbing his father’s hands and doing his best to drag him up. ‘Come on, Dad!’ he says. ‘Let’s see the rest.’

Oliver looks at me and shrugs. ‘I think it’s time to go,’ he says, as if apologising.

‘Here,’ I say, tearing the page out of my sketchbook spontaneously. ‘I’d like you to have it.’

He looks surprised for a moment but then asks, ‘Will you sign it for me?’

I smile and nod, signing my name at the bottom right-hand corner of the page before scribbling something else there, too. I hand it to him. He takes it from me and, seeing what I’ve written, smiles, and it’s one of those smiles you can feel in your very bones.

I watch as Billy drags him into the next room and they slowly merge and disappear into the crowds.

I sit perfectly still, just thinking. I’ve never, ever thought that I’d meet anyone in The British Museum, which strikes me as odd considering how much time I spend here. But it all seems perfectly logical now—like people who sign up for evening classes hoping to meet their soulmates over a pottery wheel or computer keyboard.

I watch the tourists come and go and realise that I probably won’t get any more sketching done today. As I walk through the familiar rooms, I wonder if Oliver will call the number I scribbled down for him.

But then I remember the way his face lit up as he saw it and, as I descend the west stairs, I have a feeling that I might be seeing that smile again soon.

Amanda Grange was born in Yorkshire and spent her teenage years reading Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer whilst also finding time to study music at Nottingham University. She has had sixteen novels published, including five Jane Austen retellings, which look at events from the heroes’ points of view. Woman said of Mr Darcy’s Diary: ‘Lots of fun, this is the tale behind the alpha male,’ whilst the Washington Post called Mr Knightley’s Diary ‘affectionate’. The Historical Novels Review made Captain Wentworth’s Diary an Editors’ Choice, remarking, ‘Amanda Grange has hit upon a winning formula.’ Austenblog declared that Colonel Brandon’s Diary was ‘the best book yet in her series of heroes’ diaries.’ Amanda Grange now lives in Cheshire. Visit her website at www.amandagrange.com

The night was wild. The wind howled and the hail battered the windows of the inn. The parlour was empty, save for a gentleman who sat quietly in the corner of the room with a glass of port, the single candle on the table in front of him casting a flickering light but leaving his face in shadow.

The door opened and a second gentleman entered. Young and handsome, he was dressed in a red coat, but when he approached the fire it could be seen that his cuffs were frayed.

The landlord followed him in and took his order for wine, as the sound of a shrill voice floated through the door.

‘I will not have you looking at other women, John. You must learn to behave yourself in public, even if you cannot behave in private. I will be stopping your allowance until you have learnt your lesson.’

‘Damn you, Sophia! You knew what kind of marriage we had when we made it; it is too late to regret your bargain now.’

‘Nevertheless, I will not have you embarrassing me in public.’

‘I will not dance to your tune! I am a man, not a puppet. Keep your damned allowance. You seem to have forgotten that I have money of my own.’

‘I am forgetting nothing. Your fortune will not keep you in coats and hunters. It will certainly not allow you to gamble and keep the more expensive kind of mistress. You look surprised. Did you think I did not know? But no matter. As long as you are discreet, you may keep as many mistresses as you choose, but when we are in public you will pay attention to me and make every woman in the room jealous.’

‘I wonder at you wanting that kind of attention,’ came the sneering reply.

‘I cannot live without any compensation for my disappointments and if my tastes run to jealousy instead of affairs, then what is it to you? I am going to bed. I suggest you do the same, with a clear head, so that in the morning you will have come to your senses.’

The stairs creaked and a light woman’s footstep could be heard going upstairs. Immediately afterwards, the landlord left the parlour and an ill-humoured gentleman in a many-caped greatcoat entered. He removed his coat and threw it over a chair, droplets of water flying everywhere. He threw himself down beside the fire. ‘Women are the very devil.’

‘There is nothing wrong with women,’ said the man in the red coat sourly. ‘It is wives that are the curse.’

‘Ah, there speaks a married man,’ said the newcomer with a wry smile.

‘George Wickham,’ said the man in the red coat.

‘John Willoughby,’ returned the other.

‘At least your wife is rich,’ said Wickham.

‘An heiress,’ said Willoughby, putting one leg over the arm of the chair. ‘Miss Grey, as she was. A great catch. Everyone told me at the time that I was the luckiest of men.’

‘And so you were!’ said Wickham, impressed. ‘I saw her myself, and I would have been glad to marry her. She had fifty thousand pounds, had she not?’

‘Aye, and she has it still, for she will not part with a penny.’

‘No?’ asked Wickham, looking at Willoughby’s expertly tailored new coat and his shining boots.

‘Maybe a little, then,’ admitted Willoughby grudgingly. ‘But only so that I will look well in public and make her friends jealous. When I think of the woman I could have married…’ He sighed. ‘Her name was Marianne. She was a beautiful young girl, good-humoured, passionate, romantic…you should have seen her, Wickham, as I saw her, on that first day, running down the hill with the wind in her hair, as free as a bird, until, by some lucky chance she fell and sprained her ankle and I had the good fortune to be able to carry her home. The feel of her in my arms! And the sight of her, blushing profusely, whilst her heart beat a tattoo against my chest. I tell you, Wickham, if I had married her instead of this shrew I would be a happy man.’

‘Then why did you not do so? Let me guess. She had no money.’

‘No. She was poor. But it did not signify, for I was due to inherit a fortune.’

‘Ah. Then your tale is like mine, for I should have inherited a fortune, too, or at least a living, and a rich one; and if I had, then I would have been able to marry a woman of my choice.’

Willoughby looked at him and laughed. ‘You do not have the look of a clergyman. Do not tell me you meant to take holy orders, for I will not believe you!’

The landlord entered with a bottle of wine and a glass.

‘Another bottle, and another glass, landlord,’ said Willoughby. ‘The best you have in your cellar.’

The landlord bowed and left the room, whilst Wickham poured his wine and drank, then pulled a face.

‘Sour?’ asked Willoughby.

‘Abominable,’ Wickham admitted.

‘Never mind, you will join me tonight. We will drown our sorrows together—unless you still have plans to join the clergy?’ he asked.

Wickham laughed. ‘Not I. But I would have taken the living anyway. And then I would have sold it, and a good price I would have got for it as well, for it was one of the best in England.’

‘What happened?’ asked Willoughby.

‘The old man who left it to me had a son. The son decided I was not fit to hold the living and bribed me not to take it, giving me a paltry sum in exchange. I should have held out for more, but my debts were heavy,’ he said with a sigh.