back at a respectable distance and watched the goings on. As a writer, he was used to observing and his height gave him the advantage of being able to see everything. There was an elderly lady by the table and the young girl on reception was quizzing her about her name badge.
‘Norris?’ the girl said.
‘Yes,’ the lady with cloudy white hair said. ‘Like in Mansfield Park.’
‘Doris Norris?’
‘Yes,’ the lady said with a cheery smile. ‘I know what you’re thinking. It’s not very likely, is it? But I wasn’t always a Norris, you see. I was Doris Webster. Perfectly normal. But then I met Henry Norris and had the misfortune to fall in love with him. So here I am - Doris Norris.’
The young girl grinned and Warwick could see that she was doing her very best not to laugh. He watched for a moment as Doris Norris pinned her name badge onto her pink cardigan but then a young woman by the door caught his attention. She had long blonde hair which corkscrewed down to her waist. Her face was pale with perfect features set into a slightly anxious expression as if she was asking herself, what do I do now? She was wearing a pretty white dress dotted with daisies and her feet were encased in a pair of silver sandals. Warwick watched her as she looked around the hall, tiny white teeth biting her lower lip, and there was a part of him that wanted to go and help her -to take her bag and say, come this way, but the writer in him stayed perfectly still and watched.
That was one of the things about being a writer - one always stood slightly apart, listening and watching. It was hard to tell, sometimes, if one were really alive, for life seemed to be happening to everybody else and yet the writer’s lot seemed to be one of permanent stillness. Had Jane Austen felt like that? he wondered. With neither husband nor children of her own, had she felt that her role had been to watch others? And had that made her happy? Her books made other people happy, that was unquestionable, but had they made her happy?
Warwick shook his head. He might well be at a Jane Austen conference but he wasn’t ready to get all philosophical just yet. He wanted to have some fun. He wanted to see Katherine. He could feel his pulse accelerate at the thought of seeing her for the first time. She wouldn’t know who he was so he couldn’t call out to her across the room. He would have the chance to watch her. Wasn’t that his favourite role? He could get to know a little bit about her before he said hello.
He smiled. He certainly had the advantage in this relationship, he thought.
‘My wheels seem to be jammed,’ a voice suddenly boomed across the hallway.
Warwick’s eyes fixed on the sort of woman who could only be described as a battleaxe. She had an enormous bosom which was thrust out before her indignantly and a face which seemed to be carved out of angry granite. Warwick watched as she struggled with her suitcase and decided that he’d better do the gentlemanly thing and offer some assistance. He was in training for a hero, after all, wasn’t he?
Once Katherine climbed the steps and entered Purley, the naughty novels of Lorna Warwick would have to be forgotten as the weekend promised wall to wall Jane Austen. There was no room here for the imitators, the pastiches or the sequels - however good they might be. This was Purley Hall and nothing but the original Jane Austen was accepted.
Katherine wondered if Lorna was going to be there and dearly hoped she would be. She felt quite sure she’d enjoy the experience. They’d talked so much about Austen’s novels in their letters to each other and Katherine knew that Lorna’s presence would have made the weekend an absolute treat. How much they would have to talk about. They would probably be like a couple of naughty students, chatting and giggling at the back of the lecture rooms, swapping comments and anecdotes.
I wonder what she looks like? Katherine thought as she entered the grand hall of Purley, marvelling at the double staircase and smelling the intoxicating lilies that sat in their vases like marble sculptures above the fireplace. It didn’t really matter what she looked like - Katherine knew that and yet she’d still Googled the name, only to come up with innumerable images of Lorna Warwick novels from around the world. There were no photographs of the writer - not even on her website.
Anyway, she wasn’t going to be here so what did it matter? Looking around the room, one thing was certain - Katherine might not have any idea of what Lorna looked like but she knew that, were she attending the conference, she was sure to recognize her immediately. It would be like old friends meeting up after years of separation.
She made her way towards the crowded reception desk and waited her turn and, once she’d been given her key, she dared to ask if Lorna Warwick had arrived.
‘Let me see,’ the girl on reception said. ‘No, there’s no Lorna Warwick here this weekend.’
Katherine sighed and left the desk.
It was then that she heard a voice that chilled her spine. Oh, no, she thought as she turned round and saw the woman she’d dreaded seeing: Mrs Soames. They’d crossed paths before and Katherine remembered all too well the woman who could cloud over the loveliest day just by entering a room. She was the kind of woman who found something to complain about in even the simplest of tasks. Nothing was beyond reproach whether it was a day’s excursion or a cup of tea. Mrs Soames was bound to find something in it that was worth complaining about.
Katherine did her best to sneak by her as she was shouting some orders at a man who seemed to be crawling underneath her suitcase. She could just make out a pair of long legs ending in smart brown leather shoes poking out from one side of the enormous suitcase and the top of a tousled head of hair at the other end.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Mrs Soames said. ‘That’s not going to do any good!’
‘I think I can loosen it here,’ the man’s voice said. ‘Yes, that ought to do the trick.’
Katherine watched as the dark-haired man stood back up to full height, pushing the suitcase in her direction as he did so.
‘Ouch!’ Katherine screamed. ‘My foot!’
‘Oh my God! I’m so sorry,’ the man said, turning round to look at her. ‘Are you okay?’
‘No, I’m not okay. You’ve run over my foot with a two-tonne suitcase!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Mrs Soames said. ‘Oh, it’s you, Dr Roberts.’ There was no trace of concern in her voice for Katherine’s poor foot.
Katherine bent down to rub her bruised toes.
‘Can I help you?’ the man asked, his bright eyes filled with concern.
‘You’re meant to be helping me!’ Mrs Soames said, her mouth set in a firm line.
‘Of course,’ the man said. ‘Look, I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do—’
‘Just leave me alone,’ Katherine said, wincing as she hobbled away with her own suitcase.
Robyn took a deep breath and approached the young girl at the desk.
‘Hello. I’m here for the conference.’
‘What’s
