Becoming Lady Darcy

by Sara Smallman

  “I think you might be lost.”

  She announced her presence cheerfully, walking out with all the confidence of a gameshow host, the fluffy towel wrapped tightly around her. The large gentleman turned quickly, almost hitting his companion across the face with his bag.

  “Oh, hello there,” he exclaimed, moving toward her with his hand outstretched, and which she shook firmly. “I think you might be right. Can you point us in the right direction?”

  “You need to turn straight about and out the door, then turn right and back down the stairs”, she pointed out the directions, checking his understanding. “Don’t worry, it happens quite a lot…”

  He nodded quickly, shooting her a relieved look, she could almost see him working through the route in his head trying to figure out where on the tour they had gone so wrong. He had never been to England before, had never really been outside of Texas, and now he had gotten lost inside of a house.

  “That’s mighty fine of you,” his accent was thick like molasses, “thank you for your assistance, Miss-?”

  She hesitated for a moment, feeling it catch it her breath, the words hanging there before stating firmly and with a rehearsed smile.

  “It’s Elizabeth.”

  The woman perked up immediately, as if she has been pricked with a needle. Her eyebrows raised, looking at her husband with a surreptitious glance, a suppressed beam etching itself across her face.

  “Excuse me,” she said almost furtively, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you one of the Darcys that live here?”

  She studied her carefully, and then immediately became flustered, her face now matching the same colour as the flamingo on her t-shirt, her hands rolling the stiff pages of the guidebook into a baton.

  “Oh, sweet mother of Jesus, you’re Lady Elizabeth Darcy, ain’t ya?”

  “Yes…Yes, I am,” Lizzy said in a hesitant voice, offering a friendly handshake to the woman, who was now desperately trying to curtsey.

  “I’ve just been reading about you!” She began flicking frantically through the guidebook she had purchased at the gate. “But I never for one moment thought that… this is truly spectacular… Oh my gosh… wait until I tell the girls back home that I have met a real-life English Lady, my friend Evangeline McMeans will eat her hat!”

  She grabbed her phone out of her pocket, and then hesitated a moment.

  “Would it be terribly rude to ask you, Lady Elizabeth, to scoot on in here for a photo? She won’t believe me otherwise.”

  “Of course not!” Lizzy laughed. “I like a selfie as much as the next person! You must think me ever so rude, but –”

  “Oh, you must think I have forgotten all of my manners! My name is Crystal. This here is my husband, Hank,” she poked him with an acrylic-tipped finger. “We’re the Treachers from the good old U S of A.”

  She leaned forward and gave Lizzy a big, US style embrace as she snapped pictures for posterity.

  “Well, I’m so glad you decided to visit us here at Pemberley today.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world, I just need Mr Darcy to pop out of the lake and my day will be complete. You know, if you are ever in Texas, you should most definitely call and visit us.”

  “I would most definitely come and visit you,” she grinned. “I hope you do a good line in barbecue!”

  “Oh my, you mean you would?! We do the best barbecue in Katy… don’t we Hank!”

  “We sure do!”

  Hank immediately became animated at the suggestion of food, and he started to describe the slow cooked brisket in intricate detail.

  “Hank,” Lizzy pleaded with a flirtatious feather to her voice. “You’re making me so hungry, stop it!”

  Crystal grinned again, with a smile that made her look as if she had slept with a coathanger in her mouth, her bright orange bouffant bouncing up and down as she jiggled with laughter, her eyelashes fluttering.

  “Well, Lady Elizabeth, we will be on our way,” she announced, “but meeting you here has made our day.”

  “It has been so lovely to meet you,” Lizzy beamed.

  Crystal squealed and gave her another hug, as Lizzy hoped that her towel would stay in place. After thanking her again profusely, the Treachers turned around, making their way down the corridor and to the right as instructed, talk of the imminent green-faced envy of Evangeline McMeans escaping from their lips. Lizzy watched as they walked to the large oak door that led back to the grand staircase and the rest of the house.

  Lizzy shouted upstairs towards her daughter’s bedroom, her voice carrying up the twisting wooden staircase and to the third floor where the sixteen-year-old would be hiding under the duvet, pretending that she didn’t have to get up and go to work.

  “HARRY!!”

  Harriet Darcy awoke with a jump upon hearing her mother’s shriek echoing throughout the flat, and then stubbornly closed her eyes and tried to fall back to sleep. It was early – super early, well before eleven – she knew because of how the sun shone through the curtains and where it landed on the wall, illuminating but not quite reaching the smouldering face of Heathcliff on the Wuthering Heights poster that was directly opposite her bed. It was Saturday, and she had already heard her mum

  clunking the old plumbing to life, making coffee, doing laundry, watching crap telly. She just wanted to sleep.

  Lizzy came in without knocking and walked over to the window and opened the curtains, the early spring sunshine blazed through. Her daughter hidden under her Harry Potter duvet, with only a fluff of her hair was visible, and a be-socked limb poking out of the bottom of the bed. She pulled the sock off her daughter’s foot, before tickling the bottom gently, Harriet’s toes curled, and she pulled her foot back under the safety of the cover.

  “You need to get dressed, your shift starts in half an hour and there are people in the house already.” Lizzy put a pile of clothes on the chair next to the dresser, grabbed some cups and dishes. “C’mon, Harry, don’t be a shirker, be a hard worker!”

  “Really, Mum. Really??”

  Harriet squashed her pillow over her head, giving a silent scream as her mum clomped heavily down the stairs. She was a hard worker – you had to be when everyone knew who you were – but she disliked working in the tearoom, especially as she had to dress up in regency costume and serve afternoon tea, complete with cake stands and fancy teapots, to foreign tourists who wanted to take her picture for Instagram, and tip her with currency that she wouldn’t be able to spend. Her friends from school thought it weird that she lived in a house that you could pay to visit, they all lived within five minutes of each other on the housing estate in Lambton which was filled with medium-sized pre-war semis, which had names like Rookwood, Wodehouse and Meadowside. Sometimes she wished she lived in one too, instead of in the flat at the top of Pemberley, which was always bitterly cold in winter and roasting hot in summer.

  It could have been worse though, she could have been shoved off to boarding school like her cousins, Tom and Josh, or forced to some Swiss finishing school like her mum’s sister, Imogen, who was only four years older than her and had already appeared on Babes of Bayswater and a whole cacophony of celebrity websites, dressed in skirts so short you could practically see her cervix. She didn’t really see Imogen that much, but she knew that she would look down on her brown waves, un-plucked eyebrows and ability to get out of cars without flashing her underwear.

  Dragging herself out of bed, she cleaned her face with a wipe from a pink packet before sighing deeply; Harriet could say with absolute certainty that her aunt would never be forced to get a Saturday job, she didn’t think Imogen would gratefully accept six pounds an hour for any kind of manual labour, especially after seeing her three day stretch on ‘Filthy Rich and Farming’ where she was voted off after an hysterical meltdown caused by a rogue cowpat. But then again, she didn’t think her infamous Aunt would be locked in a strategic bidding war on eBay for a 1930’s embroidered clutch bag that could only be won when she
received this week’s wages. She was so close to winning that to give up now would be foolish, and she couldn’t wait to receive the bag through the post, wishing away the days. It was so close to being hers that she could practically feel the soft threads of the floral design under her fingertips.

  Her handbag infatuation started with the gift she received from Great-Aunt Sybil on her birthday the year before. It was made from a sturdy, yet supple leather; lined with a bright blue shot silk, it smelled like rolled tobacco and the faint musky smell of something forbidden and exotic. This particular bag had belonged to her suffragette great-great-grandma, who had known the Pankhursts and been arrested more than twelve times. It had been given to Harriet on her sixteenth birthday by her great aunt, who proclaimed that all Darcy women should be in possession of a beautiful bag. Sybil, with her liver-spotted hands and translucent skin, had pulled it from a faded green dustbag, marked with ornate branding of fashionable Parisian fashion house, and held it close, before handing it over slowly as she entrusted something precious and irreplaceable to the teenager with the frizzy hair.

  Handbags were so personal and so unique to each owner; you could tell a lot about a person from their bag. Her mum carried a big old leather bag with only one inside pocket filled with change and jewellery she discarded throughout the day, and a faded designer label which would have been impressive when it was new about fifteen years ago. It held everything that she could possibly need for the day, but everything was thrown into it and you had to rummage about to find what you needed. It was organised, but messy, a bit like her mum.

  Aunt Maggie had a smaller blue fabric bag, that was well-structured and had plenty of pockets for all those bits and pieces that she kept squirrelled away. It was like Maggie, in that respect. And Joyce; well, Joyce had a wonderfully beautiful Hermes Birkin, which she used every day and treated with care and respect. She had told her once that she had saved up for it for years, invested in something she really wanted. The brown leather bag would never go out of style, would never kowtow to fashion and trends. Harriet thought this bag was a good reflection of the woman who ran Pemberley, and it helped to support her theory.

  The youngest Darcy lady didn’t know if she would ever live up to the reputation of Millicent’s handbag – she had been a formidable woman who had lived so many lives - but she found that the more she used it, the harder she tried, her great-great-grandmother’s memory pushing her on to achieve what she wanted, and stray from the beaten path. Harriet Darcy was the latest in a long line of obstinate, headstrong girls who had roamed the halls of Pemberley House and she was going to do as she pleased. Strong women seemed to run in her family and she fully intended to carry on the tradition.

  1811

  The early morning sunrise crested over the summit of Cage Hill as the last carriages of guests pulled away from the front of Pemberley. Elizabeth stood at the window in the drawing room. The fire, which has burned so furiously the night before was now embers, and the air was still and cold. Upstairs her houseguests were all still tucked away in their chambers and she suspected it wouldn’t be too long until a flurry of maids woke from their rest and began work in the kitchens downstairs, preparing food for breaking the fast later that day. Darcy had been up since dawn the day before, helping her prepare, supervising and giving his firm instructions to Staughton. The food, despite her concerns, had been well received and the illustrious pineapple – complete with its own pewter stand – had been the talk of the night. Emily Warner, who lived on the neighbouring estate, had even asked if she would be able to borrow it for her own event the following month. Elizabeth had agreed, of course, and this had started what to all intents and purposes was a waiting list for the loan of the pineapple.

  “I say, Lizzy, that wretched fruit has a more eventful social life than we do – why I think it will be dining with four and twenty families before the evening is over,” Darcy said quietly.

  She had given him a gentle nudge in the side before returning to sit with her mother, who was complaining most heartily to all that despite living some distance away, she too would like to procure the fruit for a dinner she planned to host upon her return to Meryton.

  “Dearest Mama, it is your birthday soon, maybe we could buy you a pineapple as a gift and send it down to Longbourn by carriage,” Elizabeth said, with humour.

  Her husband, still standing within earshot, guffawed loudly, but managed to disguise this breach of manners with a well-timed cough, even if it did not go unnoticed by his wife.

  “Oh, Mrs Darcy! My dearest Lizzy, I knew that you would put your riches to good use to guarantee the happiness of your Mama. You are such a good girl. My daughter,” she said to her audience. “Mistress of Pemberley and all you can see here today!” She waited for the collection of middle-aged women to look impressed. “Well, go on, Lizzy, stand up...”

  Elizabeth rose to her feet and did a polite, if mortifying, curtsey for the assembled ladies before quickly making her excuses. She made a beeline for her husband, who was trying to casually disguise a knowing grin as he passed her a glass of wine.

  “Dearest, we need to procure a pineapple for my mother.” She took a longer gulp of the wine than was proper in company. “Maybe we can sell some silver to finance it. We don’t need all those plates that have been in the family for centuries, do we?”

  “No, no, not at all. Useless heirlooms, gathering dust, creating more work for Staughton. Best rid of it all, I’d say.” He paused for moment, “do you have any idea how much that wretched thing cost? We can’t even eat it, apparently. Does it have to be a pineapple? Can we not placate her with a nectarine or maybe some exotic apples?”

  “Dearest, I am very much hoping that my mother will continue to imbibe wine at her current rate, resulting in her recollections of the evening being less than accurate.”

  The Darcys watched the result of their months of planning coming to fruition, Fitzwilliam reached for his wife’s hand and gave it a tight little squeeze. She grinned from ear to ear, and he moved his hand to her waist pulling her in close. Two younger girls, who Elizabeth recognised as friends of Georgiana’s and newly out this season, tottered past and twittered at this public display of affection, they were resplendent in their brightly coloured and be-feathered turbans, the rustle of satin and stiff new gowns following them.

  The whole room was filled with people and music and colour, muted green and reds with the odd dazzling blue or gold. The six-hour candles – expensive but, according to Mrs Reynolds, necessary for the occasion - were flickering away happily around the room and everywhere gaiety and merriment were apparent. Darcy spotted his sister over by the pianoforte, happily engaged in conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  Georgiana had always been a little shy, and whilst his own reserve presented itself as a haughty arrogance, hers sometimes overwhelmed her, causing her to seek retreat rather than attempt to fight it. It was here that the presence of Elizabeth had benefited Georgiana the most; she was blossoming into a confident young woman who knew her own mind and her own heart. Darcy found himself bullied and teased by the two enemies in his very own camp; they would mock his majestic moods, enabling him to laugh at himself and his occasional pomposity which would manifest itself whenever he failed to keep it in check. Georgiana loved how Elizabeth made her brother smile, Darcy loved how she increased his sister’s self-confidence and it was common knowledge within their society that they made a very happy threesome at home in Derbyshire.

  Elizabeth spotted her father walking to join them from the other side of the banqueting hall and waved him over. The stress of living with two of the silliest girls in England, or three if you counted Mrs Bennet, took its daily toll on Mr Bennet and he eagerly anticipated spending the next few days having conversations that did not involve talk of soldiers, ribbons or sermons. As much as it pained him to not have her close, he could see how adored his Lizzy was here in Derbyshire, how effortlessly she had adapted to be the mistress of a great estate.

&
nbsp; “Elizabeth, what is all this I hear of your mother being gifted an expensive tropical fruit from Mrs Darcy herself!” He gladly took a glass of wine from Darcy and with a sardonic smile sighed, “How will I ever afford the upkeep of such a precious delicacy?”

  Elizabeth missed the playful banter and easy wit of her father, the company of her mother being a fair price to pay to be back in his presence even if just for a few nights.

  “What about a painting of a pineapple? Or maybe an embroidered pineapple? I’m sure you could turn your hand to embroidering a pineapple for your mother, Lizzy.”

  “You know as well as I, Papa, that any embroidery from me would not be a gift that one would want to receive.”

  “I can testify to that,” Darcy murmured, shooting a knowing glance at his wife.

  “I am very sorry, Papa,” she stated with a faux solemnity. “But I am afraid we have committed to the purchase. Besides, I think we all know quite well that Mama has probably already sent a letter by post to Mrs Philips and by now surely everyone in Meryton will be fully aware. Would you like to be the one who tells her that you have declined the gift?” she teased, arching her eyebrow.

  Mr Bennet looked at Darcy, who looked at his wife, who looked at her papa. He sighed and finished his wine, before kissing his daughter on the cheek and shaking the hand of the host.

  “I’ll be in the library,” he said. “If you see your mother, please don’t tell her where I am.”

  Darcy held Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it gently. She glanced up at him for a moment and beamed, before turning her attention to the dancing, which she watched with glee. Darcy thought his wife the most beautiful in the room that evening, looking positively resplendent in a blue satin gown with a gold brocade trim, surely it appeared to be the most perfectly cut gown that she had even worn, excepting her wedding dress, and he must thank his Aunt for recommending such an adept and talented modiste. Her hair had been placed in curls with jewelled flower clips holding them in place, the look reminiscent of a Grecian goddess and her long neck elegant, almost regal. He wished that he could take this image and preserve it forever, keep it locked next to his heart to remember this vision of beauty.