Page 4 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
Mr. Right? Please. If only. Small-town pickings for single Christian women were close to nonexistent. And if memory served correctly, Hartbury boasted a population one-tenth of Wattle Vale.
“That’s right!” Her mother’s eyes shone. “Maybe you’ll find your Mr. Darcy at last, just like when your father swept me off my feet and brought me here to Wattle Vale.”
Liv restrained an eye roll, knowing her mother thought she was being helpful. But her mother’s Austen obsession—amplified when her marriage meant she became Elizabeth Bennett in her own right—hadn’t stopped at simply naming her daughters after her favourite Austen heroines. Except for Olivia, of course. Mum had a near equal obsession with Olivia Newton-John, whose battle with breast cancer at the same time as Mum’s first diagnosis had seen her firstborn named after the famed singer.
“I don’t care about meeting Mr. Right. I just need a minute to get my head around all this.” Liv took a sip of tea. “It’s been a big day, just in case any of you have forgotten what happened to me today.”
“Of course we remember, darling,” her mother said, squeezing her hand. “I’m sure it was terrible.”
“Thank you.” A smidgen of satisfaction that the injustice was finally being recognized stole through her chest. “Felicia might say she’s all about supporting staff, but it’s obvious she plays favourites.”
“I’m really sorry, honey,” Dad said, his tone sincere. She could always count on him.
“But hey, all things work out for good, right?” Elinor, the second-youngest sister, said. “Maybe you’ll get the chance to visit Hartbury Hall. That’s nearby, isn’t it?”
“I seem to recall Mother saying the house is mostly closed these days,” Mum said. “But at this time of year you should still be able to visit the gardens.”
The gardens made famous in the underrated 2015 film adaptation ofPride and Prejudice, thanks to a certain kissing scene—totally Regency inappropriate and definitelynotin the book but thoroughly romantic nonetheless—near an Italianate fountain in the pouring rain. The movie had fuelled a hankering to see the fountain, and the gardens had been closed the last time they were in that part of Worcestershire.
Maybe having the chance to get away, to be in a part of the world Liv had adored, would help clear her head, see her heart healed, and help her gain perspective again. And all with the added bonus of getting to know her grandmother more and helping her recover.
“Fine. I’ll go and be Gran’s nursemaid.”
“Oh, you’re an answer to prayer,” Mum said with a gust of relief. “I didn’t know what we’d do otherwise.”
“Find a carer? Surely that’s got to be cheaper than me flying to the other side of the world.”
“Yes, but a paid carer won’t care for Mother like you will.”
True. Compassion for her grandmother wound around her, drawing her heartstrings tight. Gran had some bark about her, but she’d always been kind to Olivia, and it must be lonely living in a tiny village with nearly all her family halfway around the world. Mum had invited her to come live with them many times, but Gran had always refused, saying she preferred her garden and friends to the unknown of life Down Under. Maybe this would be the chance to help Gran see sense and finally give up the creaky old cottage in Hartbury and come live with them.
And as Liv finally tucked into the delicious yellow disc of comforting custard, a flicker of the old hope-tinged excitement that usually lit her days returned. To see Pemberley at last? Okay, this could be an adventure.
Chapter 2
Who would’ve thought, just a week after that day of shock and surprise, she’d be driving her grandmother’s ancient Morris Minor around the English countryside? It was funny how fast some things could change. One day: a decision. The next: phone calls to Gran, airline tickets, more phone calls, and the commencement of packing. One of the benefits of having English relatives was Liv didn’t need the rigmarole of visas. Her British passport (courtesy of her mother’s ancestry) was a golden ticket to England, the Old Dart, home of her forebears, that had seen her land at Heathrow two days ago.
The warm breeze from the wound-down window whipped through her hair as she drove down the narrow lane, both sides high with blossom-laden hedges, like she was living in a Beatrix Potter fantasy. She’d already had one near miss with a tractor and was thankful for a slightly wider grassy verge that had allowed her to swerve. She didn’t know how people who usually drove on the right—the wrong—side of the road managed; it was hard enough getting used to the width of roads that seemed half of those in Australia. But it was easy to get distracted with these views of patchwork hills, the villages of creamy stone, and the heady scent of summer infusing the air.
She pulled up outside the village shop-and-post-office, the stone building’s wooden-framed windows adorned with neatly ordered rows of enticing jars and bottles, and none of the garish advertising that she acquainted with supermarkets back home. Elinor would call this aesthetically pleasing, evoking a “cottagecore” vibe. Liv just thought it charming. After visiting Gran in the hospital this morning she’d planned a big shop to replenish household supplies.
And when she pushed on the wooden door into the village shop, she tumbled into another world. This was nothing like a supermarket back home. Instead, the wooden shelves groaned with a fascinating array of everything from pickles to fresh produce, flowers to chocolate, locally made honey to cleaning products and hardware supplies. She pivoted on her heel, drinking it all in. Hessian sacks of potatoes lay next to wooden buckets of onions—like they had been artfully posed there, ready for Instagram. In the corner, near a display of newspapers and magazines, was a sign that said POSTOFFICE, behind which was a shelf consisting of tiny pigeonholes with letters stuffed inside. She moved to the fridge and saw a glory of English cheese. Her taste buds kicked into gear. Oh, to try them all! Wait—did they do custard?
“You there.”
Liv jumped, turning as a wizened old man she hadn’t noticed before came out from behind a wooden service counter. “Oh, hello!”
“Ah. You be Veronica’s granddaughter, roight?” He nodded. “I can tell by the accent.”
“Yes, I’m Olivia Bennett.” She smiled.
He tapped his chest. “Joseph Banks. Old Joe they like to call me round these parts. Young Tobias at the church said he saw you driving her car. Staying at her place too?”
“Yes.” The thatched black-and-white timber cottage was as beautiful as any idyllic scene painted on the old Cadbury chocolate boxes that decorated her family’s café. “I’ll be looking after her when she comes home from the hospital.”
His face softened. “She’s a fixture in our village. It’s not the same without her here.”
Liv could imagine so. Her visit to the hospital this morning showed Gran was a force to be reckoned with, even on pain meds. “I don’t suffer fools gladly,” she’d muttered, when a physiotherapist had begged her to try certain exercises, and Gran had refused.
