Page 41 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
“Seeing he didn’t have the courtesy to tell us he was leaving, I don’t think we need to worry about him.” So they’d agreed to meet here soon.
She carefully opened the fanciful wrought iron front gate, wincing at the protesting screech before reminding herself she had permission. From George, but seeing she seemed to be as much of a caretaker as Liam, Liv supposed that was fine. She wondered again about their relationship to the actual owner, the poor widowed man in his sixties. He obviously trusted them.
She’d tried to do a search last night, but Gran’s spotty internet service meant it wasn’t easy to find. She had found a Wikipedia mention of the Hall, but it was about the house and gardens, with no mention of any owners this century, with the Fitzbrowne baronetcy the last mention. And it would be good to know who the current owner was, as that would be helpful for marketing purposes, and maybe for including on the new brochure and website.
Another wave of responsibility pressed heavily. There was so much to do. In addition to this week’s huge clean and tidying, she needed to look at marketing, the website, fundraising, council permits, and grant applications. How would she ever do it all?
A tiny bird twittered in the tree, reminding her of the topic of today’s sermon. That’s right. If God cared for the sparrows, He cared even more for her. She straightened her shoulders. As Tobias had reminded them, God was their ever-present help in time of trouble. And while this task was more a joy than trouble, it still carried a weight she hoped she could carry.
She hurried to the corner of the forecourt, where a smaller gate led to a hedged area. Roses and foxgloves bloomed in shades of pink as she walked down two steps to a formal garden, outlaid in intricate hedging. This wasn’t the famous fountain scene, being positioned a little farther from the house, but it had still featured in the movie. She took some photos, admiring the white and silver accents provided by the lavender and delphiniums.
She walked down the central path to the opposite lawn, levelled and holding a few croquet hoops. This area obviously needed a good mow, so she jotted that down in her to-do list in her diary.
From here she could see the high hedge that bounded the fountain garden. Her heartbeat accelerated, her footsteps crunching on the gravel path as she hurried to the entrance, midway between two long hedges of hawthorn.
She paused at the top of a set of stone steps as the fountain from the film beckoned her near. She’d seen the fountain from the Hall’s windows, seen it on the movie she’d watched half a dozen times, saved it as her phone’s wallpaper. And now there it was. Mere metres away.
She walked down the steps into the sunken parterre garden towards the fountain, as if it were a candle and she were a helpless moth being drawn to the flame. The afternoon light played against the Italian marble, giving it an ethereal look. The scene when Theo Thomas, the actor playing Mr. Darcy, had brought Elizabeth to stand here beside this fountain, at this house pretending to be Pemberley, was forever ingrained in her heart.
A refrain from his letter, when he’d finally confessed his feelings. A blend of Austen’s works—it was reminiscent of Captain Wentworth’s missive to Anne inPersuasion—nevertheless, the screenwriters had done an admirable job.
“My dearest Elizabeth, you must allow me to confess my ardent admiration.”
“Why, Mr. Darcy …”
Then, as if his feelings couldn’t be repressed any longer, he’d bent and claimed her lips with his. As this scene was an epilogue and entirely the imagination of the writers, she was prepared to let it slide. But millions of viewers around the world seemed to think it was of Austen’s own doing. They’d oohed and aahed at his very thorough kissing, when he’d captured both sides of Elizabeth’s face in his hands and crushed her lips to his, as the fountain spilled water in the background, framing them, as if the water droplets were a chandelier. Then the camera had panned away, and this side of Hartbury Hall came into greater view. This very view, that she was gazing upon now. Oh, how beautiful this was. Like a dream.
She closed her eyes and imagined a man kissing her with such fervour. Desiring her as much as Mr. Darcy did in that adaptation. Going to such lengths as he had to save Elizabeth’s family from social ruin, hiding his good deed, knowing there was no guarantee she’d ever speak kindly to him again.
That was what made him so heroic. The fact that he showed his love by deeds that went against his pride and a lifetime of practice because someone had become more important. That was real love. Love that was patient, persistent, and selfless. She wondered if Jane Austen had written an idealized man or if she had actually known a gentleman of such character. It seemed impossible of most of the young men she knew.
EJ’s best friend, Jordan Knight, was certainly patient, and he matched EJ for wit and smarts. And while Katie was liable to see a future with any man under thirty who smiled at her, even her ever-romantic heart had struck out. Elinor was far too focused on her university studies to contemplate a boyfriend, and Liv wondered if she’d ever marry. Whoever he was would likely have to be patient to win her heart.
She spent another moment praying for her sisters, her legs aching a little. Why had nobody put a bench here? Oh well. She hoped that could be rectified. And soon. Like this week.
She bent to take another picture, attempting to get something of the reflection of the house in the still water, but the brown water wasn’t exactly conducive to reproducing the beautiful scenes depicted in the movie. Yuck. She did the best she could, kneeling on the gravel, so that tiny stones bit through her jeans-clad knees as she tried to get the perfect angle. To get that glint of sun on the west-facing windows, which gilded the Hall’s facade in such beauty …
“Ahem.”
She shrieked and dropped her phone.
Some people were all too easy to startle. Liam bit back a smile and scooped her phone from the ground, thankful it had not fallen into the fountain.
“You need to stop sneaking up on people,” Liv complained, accepting her returned phone with a murmured “Thanks.”
“Some people probably shouldn’t be worshipping at the altar of Pemberley.” He gestured to the fountain.
“Worshipping? Oh, you said that because I was kneeling?” She rolled her eyes. “I’m a fan but not that big a fan. I was just trying to get a good picture.”
“By taking a picture of the mud?”
“You know, if you got the fountain to work again, it wouldn’t be mud.”
“Like I said on Friday, fixing the fountain takes money.”
“Is that a job for a plumber? A fountain specialist? Or simply trying to unclog whatever the blockage is.”
“I, er, don’t know.”
