Becoming Lady Darcy

by Sara Smallman

  “No,” she pulled him closer to her. “I want you know that whatever your worries are, you do not have to face them alone.”

  “Certain worries are too large for a gentleman to share with his wife.”

  “They are never too large. Darcy, I know that you are apprehensive about the birth of our child. I am too, but I know that it affects you more keenly because of the loss of your own mother.”

  “It would not be about the child, Lizzy, children are resilient, children can overcome such a loss,” he stopped, unsure of how to intonate his feeling, “but how could I live without you?”

  She was filled with an immediate rush of love for this complicated man who she shared her life with. Turning to him, with his sad grey eyes and his mournful look, she pulled him into her, letting his head rest upon her chest as she stroked his hair and held him close.

  “You would live without me, Fitzwilliam, and whilst I would expect a respectable level of mourning and sadness, I would not want you to pine for me for the remainder of your life. You, above all people, need someone to laugh with, pull you out of your moods and remind you that there is always something to be thankful for and enjoy, even on Sundays when you are bored and monstrous!”

  She stood up and tried to drag him to his feet, struggling a little with the weight of her belly and the imbalance it caused.

  “Anyway, all this worry is for naught,” Elizabeth stated jovially, still tugging on his arm as he playfully resisted. “I have no mind to die young and leave a tragic footnote in history, and neither should you, for even though I would be able live without you, I would rather not.”

  He stood up and engaged her arm in his, a smile returning to his face, all melancholy gone for the moment, and the Darcys began their morning routine, laughing and teasing each other as they did.

  Luck be a Lady!

  Socialite Imogen Darcy, 19, currently the main squeeze of Babes of Bayswater co-star Jonty Winchester has been spotted partying and gambling in the luscious Mandalay Bay hotel in Las Vegas. Currently resting after a recent bout of pneumonia, invincible Imogen, youngest daughter of the Duke of Derbyshire, was later seen sneaking out and into a plush Range Rover with her best friend on the show, Abigail Delancey-Fothergill, before filming begins next week for the USA Spring Break episode of ITV’s ratings hit. Both girls seemed to be in the middle of a winning streak and left the pleasure palace in the early hours with a stack of chips and two handsome admirers. We don’t know about you, but we are looking forward to the new season of Babes of Bayswater to see what surprises the Vegas Special has in store!

  Five

  The small Italian restaurant in the centre of Lambton was quieter than it usually was on a Monday. With its bare brick walls, painted scenes of Tuscany and Sicily, and the red candles half melted around Chianti bottles standing proudly on the red and white checked tablecloths, ‘La Piccola Pasta’ hadn’t changed since at least 1975. Lizzy always remembered eating ‘sketti meatballs’ with Winston when she had been very young, returning to Pemberley smelling of garlic and cracked black pepper, with a dish full of tiramisu for Mrs Reynolds.

  “So,” Maggie asked casually, “are you ready for a month of filming?”

  Lizzy rolled her eyes and ate a mouthful of pasta, slurping down the spaghetti, dropping blobs of sauce onto her top which engrained themselves in the lacy fabric like a bloodstain.

  “I’m always ready for a month of hot Hollywood actors and regency romping,” she said, wiping the sauce off herself with the napkin.

  “I can’t wait to see Benn Williams in a pair of tight trousers, do you think Joyce will organise a meet and greet?”

  “I can guarantee it, although I wouldn’t expect much of a greeting from him. He is very miserable,” Lizzy laughed. “But you know how crazy she is for Darcy; we might even have to peel her off the courtyard!” She took a sip of her wine, let the alcoholic warmth of it slip down her throat, then casually the words slipped out, “did you hear about the job?”

  Maggie look at Lizzy with a puzzled look on her face, “what do you mean?”

  “There are never any surprises at Pemberley, you know that…” she laughed softly.

  Nothing could ever be a secret at Pemberley, she was certain that everyone knew Sam, the senior curator, was pregnant before she had even peed on the stick; and everyone knew that Maggie was getting ready to fly the nest, she was surprised that it hadn’t been pinned up on the noticeboard or emailed out on the weekly newsletter.

  “I haven’t heard yet,” Maggie fiddled with her napkin. “I should know by the end of the week.”

  “Austenation will be absolutely bonkers if they don’t offer you whatever you want….”

  As much as Lizzy disliked the organisation and their complete domination of any vaguely related to do with Austen and her novel, she knew that being there would make Maggie happy.

  It had been hard for the last few years, especially after Jean Wickham had died; it had been merciless battle with lung cancer that had left them all reeling from the loss, but Maggie most of all as she had nursed her mum in those last frantic days. Even though Lizzy knew that she would miss her ridiculously, she also knew that she was desperate to make her own stamp on the world without the shadow of Pemberley.

  “Are you cross?” A look of nervous hesitation passed across her face.

  “Why would I be cross?” Lizzy grabbed a spoonful of the risotto from Maggie’s plate.

  “I feel like I’m abandoning you, and Harriet, and even Joyce… I feel like I’m just walking away.”

  “Abandoning us?” She swallowed the mouthful of rice, “don’t be silly! You have to live your own life, Maggie… Pemberley has been around for centuries now and I’m sure it will continue to stay there as long as we keep finding money to fix the roof.”

  Maggie smiled at her friend, it was such a relief. She has been so nervous about telling her that she was intent on leaving her job of nearly seventeen years and the home she had lived in all her life to move down south to be with a man. Strictly speaking it was against her feminist principles.

  “I’m hoping this film will pay for a good wodge of the repairs this winter to be honest, Matthew promised us a great payment, but I’m not sure what they settled on in the end.”

  “Aren’t they dealt with by HQ? I didn’t think we had much to do with it at a local level.”

  “Technically, Lizzy, you don’t have anything to do with it – you know how annoyed Joyce got when you wrote that letter about volunteer expenses.” Maggie chastised her friend.

  “Well, Mary deserved that £15.87 and she just wouldn’t ask for it.”

  “Yes, but you have to let Joyce deal with it. That’s what she gets paid for. No wonder she gets so pissed at you.”

  She poured another glass of wine and called the waiter over to ask for the dessert menu, even though they never ordered anything off the menu anyway. Luciano knew the ritual and it was always worth paying extra attention to the girls from the big house, who were generous tippers. He stood behind the bar and opened another bottle of Pinot in anticipation. Lizzy took a moment to order the mascarpone and figs that hadn’t been on the menu since 2012; Maggie had the brownie and they ordered another bottle of wine, which appeared on the table within seconds.

  “Is Matthew okay? I haven’t heard from him.”

  “He’s in the midst of a mid-life crisis, if you call that okay.” Maggie took a large gulp of the fruity white wine from her glass, “when was the last time you two…”

  “Erm... I can’t remember.” Avoiding the subject, she took a large swig of her wine, the acidic sharpness catching on her throat. She could never lie to Maggie, but she could avoid the subject.

  “Yes, you can.”

  She placed the glass down, “yes, of course I can…It was about a month ago when I went to London for work, he came to Longbourn for dinner. Uncle Jeremy was very disapproving,” Lizzy laughed into her wine. “He said that he was quite happy for me to be the scarlet woman as
long as I didn’t get named in any litigation. Said that he wouldn’t be my counsel if it all went to court. He refused on moral grounds.”

  “Jeremy refused on moral grounds? That’s a first!”

  “You know he’s been strange since Aunt Victoria left him for the nanny.”

  “Poor Jeremy!” Maggie pondered on it, “he knows Cara’s dad though, doesn’t he? That could be awkward for him if it came out.”

  “Everybody knows Andrew Dalhousie! It’s such a musty, fusty old club down there…You would hate it! Remember the time you came with me to that ball that my dad made us go to? And all of those horrible girls!”

  “That bunch of bitches!”

  “They’re all still the same, just older and richer – and that horrible Sarah Delancey who, by the way, used to go out with Benn Williams at Cambridge - she’s even more horrible now she’s divorced from her hideous middle-aged old banker husband, has a face full of fillers and about a hundred million quid to spend.”

  Maggie finished her glass and poured another.

  “What was Benn Williams doing with her?”

  “Probably cheating on her with someone younger and blonder I reckon,”

  “You are wrong about him, he wouldn’t cheat on his wife. He wouldn’t do that. He’s too gentlemanly.

  Maggie had a bit of a thing for Benn Williams. She never quite believed that he would throw off his wife of ten years for someone almost young enough to be his daughter.

  “Maggie,” Lizzy said softly. “Do you think I am a terrible person?”

  “For sleeping with my brother?” She laughed, “no, I think you are possibly a little bit blind and sometimes very stupid, but not terrible… he’s not happy with Cara, he hasn’t been for a long time and the fact that he sees you all the time, and other girls too – you know about the others – suggests to me that he is the one that should feel terrible.”

  “I think he’s just scared.”

  “Do you want the truth, Lizzy?”

  She nodded, filled her mouth with a spoonful of mascarpone and a sweet fig, swallowed hard. Maggie was always very wise, but she was also very blunt.

  “Matthew isn’t going to leave Cara. Ever. It’s easy to stay with her. It’s easy for him to pretend that they have a glamorous life, and it’s easy for him to meet you and do whatever it is you do-”

  “We obviously just play Uno and drink tea,” she said dryly. “I have no idea what else you think we would possibly do in a bed naked.”

  “Elizabeth, that is my little brother you are talking about – please don’t.” Maggie struggled not to laugh and then recovered. “Look, it’s easy for him to play Uno with you when you are sitting around waiting for him to stop drinking tea with everyone else.”

  “I think I need to find someone else to play Uno with.”

  “I think maybe you need to start drinking coffee!”

  The public areas of the house were all strictly out of bounds once they had closed for the day, unless given permission by one of the management team. Usually she had to wind her way through the corridors and back passages, but tonight she knew the top door would be accidentally left unlocked by one of the tour guides as it always was on Monday. Thank you, Diana, and your predictable forgetfulness.

  She skipped through the bright gallery, past the stern portraits of the elderly Darcy matriarchs, their unblinking eyes ever watchful and attentive. The cupboard still wobbled, teetering on a loose floorboard and she scared herself a little as the vase on top rattled and echoed in the quiet night. It was cloudy, but the moon peaked through to cast shadows on the wall as she made her way up the gentle turn of the grand staircase, designed for delicate-footed ladies in their vast gowns. It always made her think of the White Lady of Pemberley, the resident house ghost – the loitering spirit of Lady Hortense Holland-Darcy.

  Winston had delighted in terrorising Lizzy and her friends when they were younger, teasing and grumbling as they hid under duvets and pillows. He would sit on the chair by the fire with a torch under his chin, the plaster busts on top of the bookcases casting eerie shadows around the room, the moonlight peeking through the gaps in the heavy red velvet curtains that covered the creaking sash windows.

  “Lady Darcy, it has been told,

  Did not have a heart of gold,

  And because her soul was painted black

  It is said that the Devil took it back.

  With her finest jewels and her foot e’er slight,

  She wandered through the lonely night.

  Down the hall and up the stair,

  Bejewelled, she walked without a care,

  But with each fateful step she took,

  It was clear that she was out of luck.

  Over the bannister she fell,

  And Lady Darcy went straight to hell,

  Dead on the floor ne’er more to roam,

  She departed this earth with a mournful groan.

  As she stood before the unholy throne,

  She asked why he had called home,

  ‘Twas not I’, the Satanic Beast did cry,

  ‘Who caused your earthly soul to fly.

  Lady Darcy, you led a troublesome life

  Twas your husband who thought you a disposable wife!’

  Returned as penance to the site of her doom,

  She wandered through each darkened room,

  A soulless spectre, a ghostly bride,

  To view her meant an ill betide,

  And until her soul from its prison can flee,

  She will remain the White Lady of Pemberley.”

  They would all scream and hide under the covers and Winston would retreat upstairs, leaving Mrs Reynolds to wrangle the teenagers by bringing them lemon biscuits and hot chocolate and telling them all to settle down and be quiet. They never were, laughing and giggling past midnight, counting down until morning as the clock in the room next door rang out its centuries-old melody every hour.

  Cyril Darcy’s first wife had fallen over the low bannister that ran along the top corridor to her death. There was still a blemish on the wood that marked the spot where the woman landed on the hard surface, her skull cracking and the blood pumping out of her onto the floorboards, staining them forever. It was never known whether Cyril was responsible for his wife’s death, but he had married Henrietta Morley with rather unbecoming haste. The story of the unlucky Lady Darcy has always been a favourite when she was younger, but now it felt rather macabre to think of the poor woman dying alone, crying out for help to an empty house.

  BANG! She jumped and turned; poking his head through the door at top of the staircase, looking tanned and expensive, was Matthew Wickham. His manner was gracious, relaxed almost, as he padded across the landing in his Ralph Lauren socks, his hand curling around hers as he pulled her up from the step. Lizzy wrapped her arms around him, the familiar shape of him fitting the indentation on her own body. He kissed her gently on the cheek before whispering softly in her ear, a frisson of anticipation shooting its way down her spine.

  “Did my sister fill you full of Pinot G and send you home, because I never normally receive this kind of welcome.”

  “Yes, pretty much,” she giggled into his shoulder. “When did you get here? Was London good?” She walked past him and through the door leading to the flat. “I’m ravenous, fancy some toast?”

  Smirking, he closed the door with a firm tug after checking the landing to ensure that no errant spirits were still loitering.

  “Yeah, we got back about five,” he watched her confusion at the bunch of flowers on table, studied her as she sniffed them. “Harriet was knackered so I…” he caught the smile on her face, “Lizzy, you’re pissed, aren’t you?”

  He laughed at her, which made her frown at him as she reached into the kitchen cupboard and grabbed a loaf. He reached into the fridge, passing her the butter, as she knocked the large basket of peonies and daisies drooping their scent and pollen over the counter.

  “Did you bring me flowers?”

&nbs
p; “Might have done…” he fingered the lace on her top, noticing the spaghetti sauce blotches. “Or maybe you have a secret admirer.”

  She batted his hand away, but he grabbed it and pulled her close; there was no space between them now, and he moved nearer, his hip touching hers as they leaned against the worktop.

  “Your eyes have always amazing.” He raised his hand and ran the back of it down the side of her face. He could feel her breathing get heavier; she felt the heartbeat in her chest flutter. “They’re like the dark side of the moon.”

  “You’re getting good at this,” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm, “who have you been practicing with?”

  “I’ve always been good at it.”

  He moved close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath on her cheek and as she turned, she felt her lips graze his for the tiniest of moments. This was always dangerous, she thought, always too hard to resist. It was too easy to fall into it, when really, she should be picking herself up and dusting herself off. The toast popped in the toaster, and the spell was broken.

  “Don’t try and seduce me, Mr Wickham,” she whispered. “I am not Lydia Bennet…I will not fall prey to your wanton acts of seduction.”

  He took a bite of the toast she had just buttered, planting a kiss on her neck, “so if I decided to keep you company this evening….”

  She turned, “you would be staying on the couch.”

  “You know full well that I have never stayed on the couch,” he grabbed the last piece of toast from the counter. “Anyway, I should be having very stern words with you about harassing my actors. Upsetting my leading man terribly, you naughty little madame,” he crunched on the toast, “asking him lots of questions and making him feel nervous.”

  There was a look and they both burst out laughing. Matthew was grateful that his years of working with temperamental creatives had enabled him to deal with Benn Williams’ frankly ridiculous tirade a few weeks earlier. The fact that he had managed to do it with a straight face led him to secretly believe that he was a far superior actor to the troubled star of his new film. He had known Benn for a long time now and suspected that his overreaction was more due to his home life than anything Lizzy could have done.