Becoming
Lady Darcy
A Pemberley Story
Sara Smallman
Reviews for ‘Becoming Lady Darcy’
‘The concept is unique, the characters complex, flawed and vital. Smallman has created something special here.’
‘…totally enthralled by the author’s weaving of all the various characters and timelines. It has made for a highly entertaining read.’
‘Oh my god…my heart is singing. What an absolutely gorgeous story!’
“The characters are so real, the backdrop so immersive… I didn’t want it to end.”
‘The characters…are flawed, deeply human and utterly lovable, and that is what makes the story so special.’
‘Tiny Dancer’ – ©Elton John, Bernie Taupin, 1971
Copyright © Sara Smallman 2019
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Also available in paperback.
First Printing: 2019 Cover Design: Elspeth & Ink Instagram: @sarasmallmanwrites
For Thomas.
Gentleman/Explorer.
Author’s Note
Lyme Park, the ancestral seat of the Legh family, is the very real inspiration for the fictional Pemberley depicted in this story, as well as one of the filming locations for the BBC adaptation of ‘Pride and Prejudice’ starring Colin Firth. Some of the historical stories told in ‘Becoming Lady Darcy’ are based on real events that occurred at Lyme, and a great deal is owed to my fellow National Trust volunteers who lovingly and reverently shared these tales with me so that I could tell this one.
Darcy
One Made Out Of Many
.
It is a truth universally acknowledged...
Seeds
The horse thundered on through the countryside, the quickening thud-thud thud-thud of hooves on firm ground pounding through the rider, each punctuated by his own breathing as he held tight to the beast who had been ridden hard.
As he powered on past an outcrop of trees, a herd of agile does and tottering fawns rushed into the small and protective wood which garnished the hillside; their burnished tones blazing across the muted green of the landscape where the soft whispering grasslands faded into an outcrop of thick rock at the base.
This ancient hunting ground had been gifted to him by a benevolent monarch, grateful for his valiant and brave services on the battlefield; its location scratched out on a faded piece of parchment. Piers D’Arcy had followed the gentle curve of the terrain to this spot as marked.
So, he thought, this was Pembarlegh.
1810
The carriage rumbled over the cobbled outer courtyard, clattering as it did so, the heat and smell from the torches drifted over as the clock in the tower struck eight o’clock. She was gently resting her head on his shoulder, the feather on her bonnet tickling his nose.
“Lizzy.”
She stirred, lifting her head, her face illuminated by the light from the beacons.
“Have we arrived?”
He nodded, smiling down at her, finding that his expression was mirrored. The carriage stopped, a small jolt as the four horses were brought to a halt outside the stone porch. Offering his hand, he helped her to descend from the carriage and directed her towards the house where Mr Staughton, Mrs Reynolds and the rest of the servants were waiting to greet them, all eager to catch sight of the new Mrs Darcy in her finery.
Elizabeth climbed the steps to the entrance, stopping outside the large wooden door, hesitant to gesture to the footman to request permission to enter, as if she were still a passing traveller requesting entry whilst the master was in town. It was a fact that she was still finding hard to comprehend. Pemberley now belonged to her, and she to it.
“Of all this I am mistress…”
“Yes, Mrs Darcy,” he said, leading her inside. “Welcome home.”
The newly-married master spared no expense in making Pemberley as comfortable as he could for his bride, indeed everything he did was for Elizabeth, including the renovation of the library, for he dearly knew how much she loved to read. It was a beautifully modern room hidden away at the far corner of the building. The solid oak floors gave way to soft, wool rugs, led into ornate cream panelling, beautifully patterned fabrics, gilded coving and rows upon rows of books. It had been newly painted in a warm yellow and on days when the winter sun shone brightly over the hills and the whole room became illuminated in a glorious gold, she could imagine herself back in her father’s study at Longbourn.
In the first few months of marriage, Elizabeth found that on occasion she ached to be back in Hertfordshire, because there were some days when she felt that being Mrs Darcy, mistress of Pemberley, was a role that she felt she would never be able to perform with any level of accomplishment – that she was not as refined as she was expected to be, that she would never be able to run the household and organise the servants. It was on these days that she would close her eyes and imagine herself back at home, where she was Miss Elizabeth Bennet and that person only. Mrs Elizabeth Darcy was a completely different person, and she wasn’t quite sure if she knew who she was yet.
Darcy had never dreamed that he would have found such a happy situation in life, never thought that he would find a wife who was so like him - who tested and challenged him daily, with no regard, well not in a real sense, for his rank or fortune. They had argued before he had left for London on business – strong words about her management of her lady’s maid, Ellen – how she dealt with her in a less than formal manner and how she needed to be aware of her station. Elizabeth had snapped back at him with a few choice phrases and had refused to apologise or acknowledge her fault.
Already late to depart, he had left without properly saying goodbye and even though God had joined them together he wondered, albeit briefly, if he would have had an easier life with one of the society beauties who knew three languages and their place. He had travelled to London by horse but his anger, which had been so vehement the night before when he had stopped in the inn at Grantham, had abated and he sent his wife a small missive, containing an apology.
A response arrived for him two days later when he returned to Derbyshire House after completing his business. Even though it was stated that Mrs Darcy had accepted his apology, a hint of frostiness in her phrasing still remained which put him on edge and reminded him of the cold response to his first failed proposal.
Fitzwilliam Darcy understood that he was a proud man, it was one of the fundamental keystones of his character, laid in his personality when he was very young by his parents and teachers. Although his love for Elizabeth was much stronger than his predisposition for pride, it was sometimes hard to overcome this core characteristic, being as it was, so rooted in him and the position which he held. But he knew now, time away from his wife revealing to him this truth, that it did not matter to him that she had behaved with an unbecoming familiarity towards her maid, or that she cared about the family servants. Pemberley was a large and expansive estate, but the people who lived there were very much human, especially his wife who was perhaps the best example of her sex. Despite having a day of appointments remaining, he saddled his horse and began the journey to Derbyshire, not wanting to spend another hour away from home.
Arriving at Pemberley he handed his horse over to a stable hand, running through the courtyard, up the stairway and into the entrance hall. The sound of Georgiana playing on the pianoforte echoed large and loud
in the air, the candles illuminating the concentration on her face. He stopped momentarily as if to stop and embrace her, she shot him a knowing glance, acknowledging his return as she continued to play.
He found his wife stood in the library, surrounded by papers and books on household management.
“Mrs Darcy.”
He realised this was more formal than usual, but he was unsure as to where the land lay and decided to err on the side of caution.
“Darcy!’ She smiled at him broadly, “you have returned earlier than expected?”
“My business was cut short,” he lied. “I decided to return home more promptly than first arranged. If this vexes you in some way I apologise.”
“Why would I be vexed because my husband is home early from town? Mr Darcy, you have strange views on what vexes a woman. Here, let me fetch you a glass, you look half frozen.”
She poured from the decanter, placing a tumbler of brandy in his hand before returning to the table and her work.
“And how was London…did you see Jane at all? Mama wrote and said she was due a visit to Upper Grosvenor Street. Your presence may have leant a little respite for Charles.”
Darcy shook his head as he walked to the fire to warm his hands; he realised that he had not removed his overcoat or boots. He stood in the middle of his library looking almost like a savage. The smell of the journey loitered on his skin and he drank quickly before placing the tumbler down. He needed to ask her something, something that he needed to ask to resolve it promptly, one way or another.
“Do you regret your match with me, Mrs Darcy? Am I not, despite the large fortune that your Mother found so desirous, what you require in a marital partner?”
He said it fast, almost not sure what he wanted to say before it was said and out there, loitering in the air. Darcy looked up quickly to see her eyes searching for his questioningly.
“Fitzwilliam?”
“Do you regret this…this marriage? Do you regret our hasty engagement?”
Elizabeth walked purposefully over to her husband and placed the back of her hand on his forehead; he pulled away, but she insisted. He could smell the gentle scent of violets and bergamot, the perfume she had bought as part of her trousseau. It instantly transported him back to those weeks spent in the Lake country for their wedding tour. He closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly before slumping onto the settee.
“Fitz, are you sick? Do I need to call Dr Jeffries?”
She sounded genuinely concerned and hastened to move the books and papers, taking a seat next to him, reaching for his hand.
“Do you wish you hadn’t married me, Lizzy? I am asking you a direct question and I would appreciate a direct response.”
He couldn’t look at her, but she studied his face for the briefest of moments.
“Darcy, we disagreed on an issue,” she said plaintively. “You had one idea of how something would happen, and I had another, but this does not mean that... well, I don’t know what you would think it would mean.”
“The tone of your letter, Mrs Darcy, suggested that you no longer wished to assume the title of wife.”
Elizabeth may have forgiven her husband for their argument, but she had no intention of yielding to his opinion on this.
“I was cross with you, and with quite good reason too, but when I came to apologise in the morning and find a resolve, you had already left for town. I had so many questions about the Ball to ask you about and you had skulked off before I could ask you any of them.”
Ah yes, the Lady Anne’s Ball – why had he not remembered about this. Held on the anniversary of his mother’s birthday, the Ball was one of the most important events in the Derbyshire social calendar –a massive undertaking for any woman and even his Aunt, Lady Fitzwilliam, had struggled with the arrangements in previous years.
“I am sorry my letter sounded ill. It was written in haste and I fear it may have sounded angrier than I actually felt.”
Darcy glanced over at his wife, her eyes showed the concern for the worry she had caused him.
“Oh, Elizabeth, I am a fool.”
He hid his head in his hands and gently laughed, relief coursed through him. How idiotic for him to think that his wife would declare their marriage a failure after one disagreement.
“Yes, Fitzwilliam Darcy, you are.”
She gently kissed his temples and placed her hand on his cheek, stroking the roughness of his sideburn until it was smooth.
“I am sorry, my love.”
“As am I, but I understand now. My family are not as refined as yours – our arguments are all out in the open. My parents argue in front of their children and their servants; it was a natural thing for the residents of our home to see them bicker and then resolve their differences.”
“Darcys have never really done that.”
“But I am a Darcy now too, and whilst I understand that there are all these unspoken rules that I must follow, I need a little time to acquaint myself with it all. You have had your whole life and I have had but a few months.”
He knew that she was a long way away from her family, in both miles and manner, and he understood now too. He nodded, pleased that harmony was now restored to his household.
“Now as your wife I must ask you to please go and bathe…before you stink out the whole house with your stench!”
He grinned – partly to cover his mortification, but partly because it brought much happiness to him to have someone who knew him well enough to tell him he stank with such candour. He got up, kissing her on the forehead as he did.
“No, you are seriously vile! Go and wash, I implore you!”
Darcy practically ran to his dressing room, where his valet Brown had already lit the fire and heated the water.
When he returned to the library, now smelling of soap and cologne, Elizabeth was drawing out a plan on a piece of parchment – which was more difficult that she had obviously anticipated. The paper curled up at the corners, causing ink to splash on her favourite yellow gown, he knew this would annoy her and made a mental note to have a replacement made.
“The problem, you see, is that we have closed off the entire South wing and so we have five bedrooms that are unable to be used, and the new saloon will not be ready by then – so where do we put everyone? We have over one hundred people who have already confirmed attendance and I have Mrs Reynolds demanding answers!”
His wife looked up at him exasperatedly, her hair falling out of its pins and falling down her back. He remembered the first time he had unravelled her hair, the first time they had been gloriously alone, undressing each other slowly in the quiet privacy of their chambers. He had brushed her hair that night as she took a seat in front of the mirror, naked excepting for a thin, soft chemise, the outline of her figure temptingly close as she pulled him into her and kissed him fervently. A feeling of love and contentment washed over him as he remembered. He was so very lucky.
“What do you find so amusing, husband?” She questioned. “Is it my horrendous seating plan or the ink on my gown that entertains you so greatly?”
“I think you look rather fetching when you are planning things, dearest wife.” He placed the errant curls behind her ears and kissed her gently, impatiently, on the neck, breathing in the scent of her. “I should let you plan things more often..."
“Mr Darcy, we don’t have time for any of that nonsense right now. As you know I am a very important lady and have-”
His firm kiss on her lips silenced her for a moment, the quill now still in her hand.
“I apologise, you were saying…”
She looked up at him smiling, he really was insatiable, she thought, and incorrigible, and incredible. He leaned in, the warmth of him pressing softly into her neckline, gently moving down…
“Mr Darcy, I have a desire to know your opinion on white soup to start.”
“Mrs Darcy, as you well know I love white soup, but could this wait until the morning? It is late, and I have been away from you
for far too long…”
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed mischievously and teasingly she pushed him back at arm’s length, loosening his cravat she leaned up to softly kiss behind his ear and nuzzled his nose.
“Maybe, but what would be another hour? Patience, my darling; you know good things always come to those who wait.”
“Alright, we need some supper and then, madame, I am taking you to bed.”
“Promises, promises...” Elizabeth laughed as she turned her attention back to her plans, knowing full well that her husband didn’t remove his gaze from her once.
One
She slouched down in the water, the hot water resting on her top lip. It was dangerously close to her nostrils and she knew that one mistimed breath in would result in water up her nose, and a very ungraceful coughing and spluttering fit blowing her cover. Concentrating hard, she listened intently to the voices outside in the corridor. This was not happening today. It had taken nearly forty minutes to run this bath, relying as she did, on hundred and fifty-year-old plumbing and a heater that had been installed at least a decade before Hitler invaded the Rhineland. The water was gloriously hot and bubbly, poking her toes out of a mound of foam, she was surprised when they bobbed out glittery, forgetting the sparkly pedicure that had come courtesy of her daughter the night before.
Half-submerged, she could hear the bass tones of what she guessed was an older man, and then the higher pitched tone of a woman. Movement outside the door now, the scrape and shuffle of people and bags against plaster and paint, and she gripped her hands on the side of the bath, ready to submerge like a fleshy submarine.
The voices were loud.
Getting louder.
American, maybe…
Yes, American.
Reluctantly she eased herself out of the claw-footed enamelled bath and grabbed herself a towel from the back of the door, tying up the wanton mass of brown curls high on top of her head. Cautiously, she opened the door, and peered out into the hallway. A large, stocky man with a rucksack on his back and a small, rotund woman wearing a sun visor wrapped around a massive bouffant, were currently gazing at the pictures on the wall, flicking through the guidebook to see exactly what they were looking at, confused at not seeing the collection of eclectic postcard prints documented in the glossy pages.
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