Читать книгу A Weekend with Mr Darcy: The perfect summer read for Austen addicts! - Виктория Коннелли, Victoria Connelly - Страница 18

Katherine drew back the heavy bedroom curtains and looked out over the view that she’d quickly come to think of as her own. The sun was shining and the lake was looking particularly blue today with diamond droplets of light dancing on its surface.

There was a moorhen tearing across the lawn at a tremendous speed, its neck lengthened to cartoonish proportions as it made for the thick clumps of reed by the lake. If she hadn’t been asked there as a paid guest, she knew the price of the long weekend was worth it for this view alone.

Turning back to the room with the realization that she couldn’t spend the entire break gazing out of the window, she knew how lucky she was and how very precious moments like these were. To be absolutely still and just take time to look at the world was something Katherine didn’t do very often. She needed this at the moment.

Last night, she’d given in to the emotions she’d been bottling up for so many weeks and had a jolly good cry. David’s announcement that he was married had come at a particularly busy time of term and Katherine had chosen to bury herself in her work and ignore the fact that her heart was broken. The only acknowledgement she’d made had been a slight overdose on her DVD collection of costume dramas - in particular her Austen titles.

The restorative powers of Jane Austen never failed. It was the one thing in life that a girl could rely on like a good bottle of wine or an expensive box of chocolates. David had dropped his bombshell on a Friday and Katherine had spent the entire weekend on the sofa watching the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice - all six hour-long episodes back to back, laughing and crying her way through the trials of the Bennet sisters. However, judging by last night, she obviously hadn’t cried herself out over her broken relationship that weekend.

‘But I have now,’ she said, examining her pale face in the bathroom mirror. It was always the same when she was upset - all the colour drained out of her leaving her looking like a ghost. She’d have to do a good repair job with the make-up this morning unless she wanted to terrify everyone at breakfast. She couldn’t help wondering what the dark-haired gentleman would think if he saw her now. Would he be as keen to talk to her if he saw Katherine Roberts, the damaged version?

For a moment, she thought about the man who seemed so intent on getting to know her.

‘Warwick,’ she said to her reflection. It was an unusual name. She’d never heard of it as a first name before - only as a surname.

‘Like Lorna Warwick!’ she suddenly said and then laughed. Not that he would have heard of Lorna Warwick. He was probably one of those Jane Austen snobs who ridiculed any other novel that wasn’t written by the grande dame herself. So that was the end of their friendship, then. They would have absolutely nothing to talk about if he was a literary snob and couldn’t bear to indulge in a bit of Regency fun every now and then. Not that she had been planning on talking to him because she hadn’t. The last thing she was looking for was another relationship. Her past relationships with David the Liar and Callum the Cheat were enough to put any woman off for life. She needed a break from men. Well, real ones anyway. Fictional men were fine: they knew their place. You could just pick up a book, flick through to the right page, take your fill of your favourite hero and then return them to the shelf. Job done.

But real men were something to be avoided for the foreseeable future. Look but don’t touch, she thought. No, even looking could be fraught with danger. All romantic interludes began with a pair of gullible eyes and there was no telling where things might lead. Just look at Marianne Dashwood and Willoughby, and Elizabeth Bennet and Wickham. Hadn’t Willoughby and Wickham been the most dashing, romantic of heroes? Hadn’t they been charming and totally above suspicion? And yet they had proved to be the most dangerous of men.

Like David, Katherine thought. Only he hadn’t been quite as dashing. He was a middle-aged university lecturer whose hair was receding a little and who could have benefited from a couple of sessions a week at the gym. Katherine hadn’t minded any of that, though. It was his wit and charm that had bowled her over - his unashamed flattery and the old-fashioned way he had courted her. He would post love letters under her office door, hand her books of poetry with his favourites marked by a rose. He would take her out to the very best restaurants and buy her little gifts beautifully wrapped.

‘But he didn’t tell you about his wife,’ she said aloud. That was it with men, wasn’t it? There was always some hidden horror; some terrible secret that just happened to slip their minds as they kissed you to within an inch of your senses.

‘Well, never again,’ Katherine said. She would never make the mistake of being taken in by a man again.

She smiled with satisfaction at this promise. She’d certainly have lots to tell her dear friend Lorna about once she was home. Her fingers were almost itching to start the letter right now. Lorna would laugh heartily when Katherine told her about Warwick and how cool she’d been in her response.

‘And quite right you were too!’ Lorna would surely tell her. ‘These men must be put in their place.’

Katherine sighed. If only Lorna was here, she thought to herself. What fun they would have together.

Just across the hall from Katherine’s room, Robyn was waking up, stretching full length under the warm duvet and staring up at the beautiful plasterwork above the light on the ceiling. It was a far cry from her own bedroom so many miles away in Yorkshire with the strange damp patch that glowered down at her each morning. How lovely it must be to live in such elegance, she thought. Getting out of bed the wrong side would be impossible when one had sash windows on one side and exquisite pieces of furniture on the other. Come to think of it, it would be hard to get out of bed at all when you owned one as beautiful as the one Robyn was occupying. Did she really want to leave its warm comfort when she could spend the day in bed with Mr Darcy? Or even a whole weekend with Mr Darcy? Now, there was a thought and, if a girl couldn’t get away with that at a Jane Austen weekend then where could she?

Robyn sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. It was always a bit tangly and springy first thing in the morning and she’d need to tame it before breakfast.

Getting out of bed and taking a shower, she tried not to think about the night before. After Jace’s appearance, she’d hidden herself away in her room for over an hour and then got angry that she was letting him ruin her weekend. So she’d ventured downstairs and quietly joined the film group, just in time to see Colonel Brandon carrying a broken Marianne in his arms. It was one of her favourite scenes and she always adored the moment when, after her fever has passed, Marianne notices Colonel Brandon in the doorway of her bedroom - seeing him as if for the first time, and thanks him.

As ever, in times of trouble Jane Austen was - in the words her sister Cassandra used to describe her - ‘the soother of every sorrow’ and Robyn was able to put all non-heroes out of her mind.

Having washed and dressed, Robyn swapped the beauty of her bedroom for the splendour of the dining room, shyly entering and noticing that she was one of the last down.

‘Oh, my dear!’ a voice suddenly accosted her. ‘We were all so worried about you.’