Dancing With Mr. Darcy: Stories Inspired by Jane Austen and Chawton House Library by Sarah Waters Page A

Austen – hadn’t she written the whole of Persuasion while she lived here – in a hurry, it was thought, already feeling ill?
    Catherine squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you for bringing me here, Chris,’ she said. ‘It’s the best birthday present you could have ever given me.’
    ‘You’re only fifty once, Mom.’
    ‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘I don’t think much of it so far – apart from this trip, of course. I have much higher hopes for sixty and seventy.’
    He smiled but his eyes stung. They both knew she’d be lucky to reach fifty-one.
    Time to confess. He turned to face her, placed his hands on her shoulders, felt her bones through her shirt.
    ‘Mom,’ he said. ‘There’s something I need to tell you before we go in. I should have told you before but didn’t know how. Can we stroll round the garden a bit first?’
    She tilted her head back to study his face. ‘I thought there was something,’ she said. ‘Lead on.’
    Five minutes later, they stood together at the white front door, a little giddy from the scent of mint and roses – and their conversation.
    ‘We’re still early,’ Catherine said. ‘She won’t be here for a while.’ She sounded preoccupied – no wonder – it had been a lot for her to take in. And for Chris to explain – to compress eight years of intense and private longing into the five minutes it took to tell all. He’d tried to make his mother understand that the Jane Austen pilgrimage to England (they’d been to Bath first), and the visit to Oxford, Catherine’s hometown, was all about her, about him and her sharing the adventure. The other idea had come later.
    Chris bent to get through the doorway and led Catherine into a small entrance room, where they were greeted by a smiling lady about his mother’s age. A collection of Jane Austen postcards, pens and notebooks lay on a few wooden tables and shelves but the commercialisation of Jane was nothing by American standards – much to Chris’s relief.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Chris, admiring the gleaming wooden floor, the light through the window, the painted white shutters. ‘We’re delighted to be here.’
    ‘Oh’ said the lady, eyes bright with interest. ‘Where are you from?’
    ‘Well,’ Chris began. ‘I’m from Vancouver, Canada – but my mom here, Catherine, came from England originally.’
    ‘Many years ago,’ Catherine added. ‘I went to Canada to visit a friend and never came back.’
    Her lovely voice, still distinctively English after 30 years in Canada, had developed a raspy edge of late and Chris noticed she spoke less and less.
    ‘I tried to beat the Canadian accent out of my son but to no avail,’ she said. ‘Peer pressure and all that – young people nowadays – what more can I say?’
    Chris grinned. This was more like the old Catherine. ‘Sorry to be such a disappointment to you, Mom.’
    ‘If you’ve come all this way just to bring your mum to Chawton,’ the lady said, ‘you can’t be all bad.’
    Catherine winked at her. ‘Oh – I’m not the only reason we’re here.’
    Chris winced. This was getting a little too much like the old Catherine. ‘Shall we go look around?’ he said. ‘While we have time?’
    The house felt smaller inside than out, but there was much to marvel at. A little wooden table, placed by a window in the parlour, was the highlight. A sign on it read Do Not Touch. But Catherine would never get another chance and so Chris held her hand and, while nobody was looking, brushed both their fingertips across an inch of the actual surface Jane Austen must have touched herself. His hand tingled violently but perhaps it was nerves.
    Next they inspected a display of family letters painstakingly written with quill and ink. When was the last time he’d actually written anything? Email had all but wiped out the personal letter. Even his undeniably romantic plea had been typed. Typed!
    Catherine lingered over the letters, and Chris left her to it. Such a gift to see