Sara Waters - Dancing with Mr Darcy - Stories Inspired by Jane Austen

But he couldn’t hide his feelings altogether. He sought extra ‘help’, would ‘swing by’ her classroom during breaks to ‘ask her advice’ about whatever project was in play. He even got Catherine to invite her over for dinner since they were both such ardent admirers of Jane Austen. The more he saw of her the more he loved her – but she never so much as held his gaze.

Until that evening in May, when she’d let him walk her home. You pierce my soul.

She left at the end of the school year. Not just the school, but the country. Everyone was shocked. She had only just arrived, she was such a wonderful teacher – why would she leave so soon?

Only Chris understood. If she’d stayed, something would have happened. They’d acknowledged their attraction with their eyes; that was all. But Chris felt it, heard it, like a hum in the air. Perhaps she did too. In any case, to his modern-day Jane, the territory was too dangerous.

There were other girls, of course – but none to compare. He always thought of her. Furtively he’d read the novels of Jane Austen over and over because they made him feel connected to Miss Jean Anderson. He could hear her voice when he read, could even catch her trademark lavender scent. Chris was a romantic who badly wanted to find his true love. But knew in his heart he’d already met her – his very own Anne Elliot – only he didn’t know how to find her again.

Chris and his mother were back in the front room – having revisited the garden, examined the donkey carriage, reread every letter. Always listening for the sound of new footsteps.

It was eight years since he’d last seen her, and one hour and eight minutes past the time. Miss Anderson wasn’t coming.

‘Are you ready to go, Mom?’ Chris said gently.

His mother hesitated. ‘I was so sure she would come – it’s very odd.’ She glanced once more at the clock. ‘Do you mind if I get some postcards, dear?’

She took a while choosing and the lady behind the counter glanced at her watch and kept glancing at the door as if wanting to lock up. After Chris paid for the postcards (he insisted), the woman said, ‘It’s closing soon, but you’ve just time to visit Chawton House too while you’re here.’ She paused. ‘It’s just down the road and the library is superb.’

Chris dropped his change on the floor.

‘Chawton House?’ he said. ‘I thought this was Chawton House?’

‘Oh no, dear, this is just the cottage belonging to the estate. This is Jane Austen’s house, yes, but Chawton House is the grand Elizabethan mansion where her brother—’

‘I told her the wrong place,’ he told his mother, already pulling her towards the door. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘It’s straight down that road,’ said the lady, in the doorway now. ‘On your left – you can’t miss it.’

Chris just about dragged his poor mother back to the car and they sped off towards the real Chawton House, turned into a classic long driveway with the mansion standing proud and imposing at the other end. It was 4.50 p.m. and it closed in ten minutes. Would she even be there?

A bright red mini came speeding along the driveway towards them. Chris caught a glimpse of the driver as she passed – and did a hand brake turn.

They found the mini in their old parking spot.

Thank you God, Chris thought as, once again, he led his mother – more urgently this time – back into Jane Austen’s house.

He found Miss Jean Anderson in the entry room. She turned as they came in – and her smile, after eight long years, re-booted his heart.

‘You read my posting,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘Yes – I’d give it an A for resourcefulness… but a D for research.’

He grinned. ‘I know – I got the house wrong. But look – we’re both here now, aren’t we?’

‘So you’re the young man with the message!’ exclaimed the lady. ‘I had a feeling it was you.’

‘So you suggested we go to Chawton House?’ Chris said. ‘Just in case?’

She winked. ‘Being here all the time, Jane’s genius can’t help but rub off a little, you know.’

He looked with love on these three extraordinary women – and had an overwhelming sense of there being four people in the room with him.

‘Maybe it’s being in Jane Austen’s house,’ he said, ‘but I have the oddest sensation—’

‘The end of Persuasion, right?’ Jean said. ‘You feel like we’re in it?’

‘I need to check the rooms before closing up,’ the lady said to Catherine – ‘would you care to join me?’ They both withdrew.

Chris stepped forward, took Jean’s hand. Her cool palm pressed against his… no rings. He’d found her. He was 25 now, she was 31. She was probably still an English teacher – but not his. He loved her. So far so good – on his side.

But what about hers?

He took a deep breath. ‘I am half agony, half hope.’

She smiled. ‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘But not too late.’

My inspiration: In Jane Austen’s Persuasion I love the idea of finding again a love you thought was lost and wanted to recreate Captain Wentworth’s ‘half agony, half hope’ in a modern context. Captain Wentworth and his impassioned letter to Anne inspired the idea of a male viewpoint in my story. I also thought it would be fun to base the action at Jane Austen’s house in Chawton – albeit not Chawton House itself.

‘So, how are things?’ he said.

She held the lead rope loosely in one hand and scurried the fingers of the other through the pony’s mane. As he lifted a foot to remove the old shoe, the pony leant into her and rested its muzzle against her arm.

‘Life is good,’ she said. ‘Though I’m not sleeping very well.’

At night, in the long hours, she was beset by ghosts and poisonous regrets. Why are they called the small hours, she thought, when they are so very long? To sleep, she had to turn her back to the north, to feel the weight of the mountain behind her, protecting her.

‘Have you tried counting sheep?’ he said.

She gazed across the fields to the ridge of hills on the north side of the Dyfi. In the foreground, the grass dazzled green in the sunlight, polka-dotted white with sheep.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t bear them. I’ve tried counting stars, but there are too many of them and I soon give up.’

Her mother used to talk about stars. ‘You should count your lucky stars. Wish upon a falling star and your dreams will come true. It’s all in the stars.’ The star sayings went along with others. ‘You’ve made your bed, so you must lie in it. You can’t have your cake and eat it. When your time is up…’ It all made life seem rather hopeless. As though you occasionally had the power to choose and create bad things for yourself, but never anything good.

Frost was lying in shaded pockets and on north-facing slopes. The pony’s feet steamed and its breath hovered in the air. In the village, smoke from the chimneys hung heavily, drifting in curling waves over the rooftops.

‘Perhaps I’ll try counting waves,’ she said. ‘I’ve always loved sleeping on boats, though it’s something I haven’t done for years.’

Her father had had a boat. He had always had boats but, for a while, he had one with a proper cabin and sleeping berths. They would sail out to the islands and moor up for the night off one of the beaches. She had loved to swim in the ink-black sea, to watch the phosphorescence play around her barely visible legs. Her father never swam at night. He said somebody had to stay on board just in case. She had sometimes wondered about that. Just in case of what? At the time, it had never crossed her mind that it might be dangerous. To swim at night, out there.