Becoming Lady Darcy

by Sara Smallman

  “I can do that,” she exclaimed. “I would love to work here.”

  “Well,” he said with a smile. “That’s settled. You can start Saturday week, go and see Mr Wickham in the office, and he will sort you out.”

  Joyce glanced up from under her flippy Charlie’s Angels fringe, “Mr Wickham?”

  “Don’t worry, you don’t have to elope with him straight away!”

  The Duke walked back out to the front of the house where a few other visitors had gathered next to his makeshift ticket booth. Joyce Hutchinson squealed with excitement before running up the steps and into the house.

  Joyce was now the General Manager for the whole Pemberley estate. It hadn’t been easy. She had worked hard before getting her post, studying part-time for a master’s degree in museum studies whilst working as a curator at Dunmarleigh House in Cheshire, raising two children and nursing her mum, who had early onset Alzheimer’s and a tendency to wander off. But she loved it here. Joyce was always firmly of the belief that Pemberley held a special kind of magic and, as far as she was concerned, she was the one responsible for making sure it kept hold of as much of it as it could.

  Sitting down at her desk in the office at the front of the house - the room that had once been the study of Fitzwilliam Darcy – she heard the clash and clatter outside, and she cringed wondering which part of the house the production team had damaged now. Despite all the publicity and extra visitors that would ensue when the film was released, and the injection of cash that they had already received from the production company, she was still having to cut costs across the board to maintain the property at its current level, the huge visitor numbers still not quite enough to fully meet all of the requirements of a huge estate; she was even covering for her Senior Curator, who was on maternity leave, to save a few extra pounds. Extra damage was all she needed today. Getting up, she swigged her cup of tea, and made her way outside with an angry, pinched look on her face, her walkie-talkie blaring away at her hip.

  Lizzy clambered out of the minibus and thanked Steve profusely for the lift before grabbing her bag and jacket before run-walking as well as she could in heels. She tottered past the small group of paparazzo who had gathered to try and get shots of Tamsin McLeod with no make-up on, or Benn Williams looking sad and depressed since his pretty wife left him. None of them deemed her of any importance, apart from Harold – who must have been eighty by now – he shouted, ‘Lady Liz’ and took what could only be called a ‘pity pap’ as she did her most gracious smile before hurrying on her way.

  She was determined that one day she would not be late for work, the small practice of Winchester, Sparrow and Jones in Lambton was only ten minutes away from the estate by bus, nestled amongst the row of small shops in the centre of Lambton, but it was arduous when carrying everything that she needed for the day. Blundering through the door, she nearly knocked over Angela’s spider plant with what Harriet called her ‘Law Bag’ – a huge old leather satchel that used to be Winston’s and still had a faint whiff of cigars and the British Empire about it.

  “Bloody hell, Lizbot, you look a bit flustered this morning,” shouted Rob Sparrow from his desk at the back of the office. “Stick the kettle on, will you?”

  She sighed and threw her bag down on the cluttered desk that was piled with books and papers; the satchel slipped and sent a pile of buff folders ticker taping to the ground. For all she was disorganised on her desk, Lizzy was organised in her head, but it did drive Deb, a feisty Geordie with fifteen years of paralegal experience and a sharp tongue, to distraction – especially when her own desk was laid out with such a perfect symmetry that it nearly bordered on obsessional.

  “Liz is not putting the kettle on, Rob!” She yelled down the corridor outside the office they shared. “If you want a bloody coffee, you can make it yourself!” She shut the office door behind her. “Arsehole.”

  “You do remember that his dad is your boss, right?” Lizzy reminded, switching her computer on, “and, like, my boss and the man who owns the firm?”

  “He needs to remember that he is perfectly capable of making his own drink! He needs to get up off his arse and do it,” she said, obviously irritated. “Don’t worry, I got us both a caramel latte from Starbucks, my treat.”

  “I’m sure it’s my turn,” she sighed, even though she was grateful for the sugary hit of caffeine.

  Lizzy slouched down in her office chair and began picking up the files off the floor, she had been working on a complicated inheritance case involving multiple heirs across five countries and she was hoping for a resolution before the end of the summer.

  Probate had not been something she had longed to do when she completed her degree and dragged herself through the LPC, but it seemed apt at the time, but however much she tried to gloss over it in her head, it was dull. Even the interesting juicy cases weren’t particularly appealing, or maybe she had just been doing it for too long – nearly twelve years of dealing with the recently dead was always guaranteed to put a dampener on the working day.

  “What happened at your star-studded party on Saturday, any shenanigans that I should know about. Did they have that prosecco with the gold leaf in it?”

  Lizzy, still facing her monitor, swivelled around on her office chair and raised her eyebrow. Deb caught the look and knew full well that something exciting had happened at Pemberley; Lizzy didn’t really venture out to events often, preferring the quiet solitude of wandering through the park after the gates had closed for the night, or spending her evenings half writing novels that she never finished. However, when she did go out, there was always a story, always something wondrous and exciting.

  “What did you do?” she said excitedly, emphasising the words.

  Lizzy rolled her eyes. “Nothing!”

  “Groped by a grip?” Deb raised her eyebrows suggestively.

  “Sod off! If you are going to joke then I don’t even think you deserve to know.”

  “Erm, you spent the evening snapchatting with your new bestie Jenny Graves, and snogged Philip Thomson?”

  She wasn’t in the mood for guessing games this morning. Both of her girls had driven her halfway up the wall on the way to school and she turned back to her screen, taking a big gulp of the much-needed coffee.

  “Well no, but I did get some selfies with Franklin Hughes, and I did sing Dancing Queen with Mariella Jones,” she said nonchalantly. “Oh, and I met Benn Williams…is that’s exciting enough for you.”

  Deb spat out her latte all over her desk, droplets of Starbucks dribbling down the wall and her new pink file folders from Paperchase.

  “Are you joking’? The Benn Williams? But I thought you said he was only coming for a few days.”

  “I don’t know how long he’s here for, but he’s staying at the Armitage,” she caught the look on her friend’s face. “I have not told you that!”

  There was a knock on the door and Harris Jones popped his head around the doorframe. He was a small, ginger man with almost translucent skin, and he reminded Lizzy very much of a dormouse.

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Harris.”

  “Do I have to mention about the shoes again?”

  He gestured to the bumblebee wedge shoes that were peeking out from underneath her desk.

  “I’m sorry, it was a genuine mistake this morning. I overslept.”

  “Yes, that’s the other thing. Timekeeping. You’ve been late three times this week already.”

  Lizzy tried her best to look contrite, “I didn’t mean it. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “Okay,” he seemed placated, never wanting to tell off Lady Darcy, whose name alone was enough to generate ample business for the small firm and scampered away down the corridor.

  Deb snorted into her coffee again, setting her off into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Lizzy laughed louder than a woman dealing with death probably should, they turned the radio up and danced on their chairs to her ABBA playlist for the rest of the morning, much t
o the annoyance of Harris, whose shouts down the corridor were promptly ignored as usual.

  1988

  The girl had sneaked off from the library, where groups of old people were making noise about nothing. She had reached up on her tiptoes, her hands glancing across the polished walnut wood, the scrape of her dungaree clasp against the handle of the dresser.

  The room was cold, dark, only partly illuminated by the light escaping from the room next door, the faint chinks of moonlight pushing through the heavy shutters that had been closed earlier that evening. She always expected to be scared walking through the grand staterooms when no-one was about, but she never found the house scary. When the shutters were closed, and the curtains drawn, she felt as if it were simply resting for the night, giving out a creaking yawn and settling down for an evening’s slumber.

  “Lizzy,” the voice was stern, it came from nowhere. It made her jump. “Be careful with that!”

  It was Grandad Duke. She ran towards him, holding onto his legs tightly. He was dressed in his dancing suit; it smelled like outside and smoking. She grasped onto his hand and pulled him towards the dresser. The box had always held a strange fascination for her. Plain and unassuming, it seemed out of place in the ornate room where it lived. She reached out and placed her hand on it.

  “Grandad, what is it?”

  Winston had found that despite himself, he had come to adore the little eight-year-old with her loud opinions and determined manner. She had only meant to stay for a few months, a year at most, until she had been old enough to board at St Margaret’s in Bushey like all the Darcy girls did; but she had never made it to Hertfordshire. Instead she had lived here for three years now, running through the house like a whirlwind, breathing fresh air into his home, resuscitating Pemberley for a new generation.

  “It’s a box of something very precious.”

  Elizabeth reached for the wooden box, carefully holding it in her hands. It was smooth and solid, heavier than she imagined, and she placed it down on the rug. Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of it, glancing up at her grandad with expectant eyes.

  “What’s inside? Is it jewels? Is this where you ‘ide the all the ‘eirlooms”

  Winston frowned a little, sending his granddaughter to the local primary school in Lambton had resulted in more than a hint of a Derbyshire accent, and a plethora of dropped aitches.

  “Do you really think we would hide our jewels in the house, Lizzy?”

  “You can ‘ide them in plain sight,” she said knowingly. “When Charlie was ‘ere…”

  “Elizabeth,” he interrupted, “if you insist on continuing with this story then you need to speak properly.”

  She paused for moment, eyed him under her curls, and then very seriously in a cut-glass accent that he swore was identical to that of his ex-wife, she enunciated very clearly.

  “When Charlie was here, he said that the best place for one to hide one’s precious things is in plain sight,” she was very serious. “Your Grace.”

  She performed an awkward bow from her position on the floor and beamed at him with a cheeky toothless smile. Her front teeth had both fallen out within days of each other, and she had left a list of demands for the Tooth Fairy under her pillow, which included a tiara, a wand, fifty pence and a Milky Way. He had, in his capacity as Tooth Fairy, happily obliged, fully aware that she had him wrapped around her little finger.

  Trying to hide a smirk Winston shook his head, “all of the jewels are in the vault at the bank. We’re not pirates, Elizabeth!”

  Disappointment crossed her face and he could see the slight shudder of her sulky lip, he lowered himself to the floor, using his ever-present cane, and sat in front of her.

  “No jewels?” her voice aching with disappointment. “What is in here then? It must be very precious.”

  “What is in here is much more precious than jewels, in here is a whole life.”

  “That doesn’t sound as exciting as jewels, grandad.”

  He reached into his pocket, shuffled about a bit with a few bits and pulled out a small key, unlocking the box. She noticed the smell first; musky paper, smoke and, faintly, an orangey smell that she didn’t quite recognise. These were letters, well they looked like letters, all tied up with a yellow ribbon.

  Winston sensed her disappointment, knew that she couldn’t realise now what he was showing her. But one day, when she was grown up, she would know.

  “You see, Lizzy, we are simply guests in this house. It is our duty to look after it and care for it, for when we are gone, we will join those who have gone before us.”

  She shook her head, her curls falling loose from the red bow that tied them up and she closed the box shut, satisfied now she knew what was inside.

  “But why are you keeping old letters?”

  “Well, these happen to be very important letters.”

  “Is it because they are old?”

  “They are old. Over one hundred and fifty years old, and they were written by a lady who used to live here a long time ago,” he had piqued her interest. “She was a very special lady. Shall I tell you why?”

  “Yes, please!”

  “Her name was Elizabeth Darcy too, and she was so special that another very famous lady wrote a book about her.”

  Lizzy wasn’t sure about the existence of another Elizabeth Darcy – especially not one who lived at Pemberley.

  Surely, she was unique in her Elizabeth Darcy-ness.

  Mrs Reynolds often said, ‘there’s only one of you, Elizabeth Darcy, and thank the heavens for that!’ and Mrs Reynolds was never wrong.

  “A book about Elizabeth Darcy like me? And she lived here too? At Pemberley?”

  Winston nodded, sure that she would be impressed.

  “And, was she real?”

  She eyed him with great suspicion. Grandad Duke liked telling fibs.

  “Yes, she also happens to be your great great great great great great grandmother.”

  Lizzy stared at her grandad in complete and utter awe, her mind wasn’t sure how to wrap itself around this whole idea.

  “That’s a lot of a greats.”

  “She was an especially great lady.”

  “These are very special letters then, aren’t they?”

  “They are,” he paused for a moment. “When I am gone, Elizabeth…”

  “Gone? Where are you going?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Lizzy. Listen. A long time from now, when you are a big girl, you must promise me that you will take this box and keep it safe.”

  She wasn’t quite sure what was being asked of her, but she nodded.

  She would remember.

  He ruffled her hair and she grinned up at him. They placed the box back on the dresser and walked through to the library, where guests and tea and biscuits waited for them.

  “They’re all here you know, grandad,” she said as she pulled him into the warmth of the yellow room

  “Who?”

  Lizzy took a seat on the settee in front of the fire and took a large slurp of tea from her teacup. In the bay window she could hear the quiet, well-enunciated chunner of the ladies from the WI who came over with lemon biscuits, knitted cardigans and opinions on her education, and the warm northern tones of Mrs Wharton floating over it all.

  “The other Darcys who have lived here before,” she reached for a biscuit, shovelling the crumbly shortbread into her mouth. “They’re here in the stories, or the pictures, in the things they bought or made.” She slurped her tea again, “every time you touch something they touched, it’s like we touch them. It’s like we’re time travellers, Grandad,” she said boldly. “We just don’t know it.”

  Winston realised that in the seventy-three years he had lived at Pemberley, he had never thought about it that way, but she was right.

  “Yes,” he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “We’re very lucky, aren’t we?”

  Lizzy sunk back into the velvet damask, the sound of conversation and the comfortin
g heat of the fire surrounding her and nodded.

  LADY IMOGEN ARRESTED

  Lady Imogen Darcy, 19, was arrested at the family home in Belgravia during the early hours of Saturday morning for breach of the peace. The naughty noble, great granddaughter of socialite suffragette Millicent Darcy, was cautioned by Police and released on Sunday. There was no comment from the Darcy estate.

  Seven

  The front door was up a small flight of stone steps, with a cast iron railing on each side before a tall and imposing door with six glass panels and brass handles, opened and lead into the epic grandeur of the entrance hall. Mr Darcy was sitting full dressed in his Regency splendour, and there was a flurry of activity surrounding him as production assistants and crew prepared for the scene, their voices and the noise echoing around the square courtyard at the centre of the house. He had been driven to Pemberley early that morning and sent for a run around the park with Patrick, the persistent and perky coach who had pushed him hard for the last few weeks until his breeches began to fit comfortably, and his six-pack began to re-emerge.

  Lucy finished styling his hair; they had worked together for a long time and she could confidently state that she knew every pore on his face. She was currently brushing out his sideburns and smoothing them with wax, they tended to puff out when he got hot.

  “I’m glad you shaved the beard off,” she said.

  “You are?”

  He had thought he looked good with the beard, even buying a beard comb and some expensive oil from Neal’s Yard.

  “I thought beards were ‘in’ now.”

  He was sure they were, he had read a ‘50 Hottest Beards Right Now’ article in Star Goss and been convinced to take a foray into facial hair. Lucy, the sun shining from behind and casting her bright red hair into a scarlet halo, had a scrunched up look on her face.