Becoming Lady Darcy

by Sara Smallman

  “I like this car.”

  The journey was short, and they decamped to the store quickly, avoiding a quick shower of unseasonal rain for which neither of them was suitably dressed, stepping over puddles in the uneven tarmacked floor.

  “So, what is he like,” Deb said, whizzing paper bags full of granola squares and choc chip shortbread into the basket. “Is he like Iain in ‘Still into You’?”

  “The one where he played the narcissistic sociopath? Yeah, he’s exactly like that,” she snorted.

  “All I’m saying is that since you went out for tea with him a week ago, he has been at your flat every night and you have barely said two words about him,” she threw pitta chips and humous into the basket.

  They surveyed the sandwiches on offer, reaching past elderly ladies with blue rinses to reach their favourites.

  “We seem to have just clicked… and I’d rather have him over at my house with company than rattling around the Armitage by himself.”

  “I bet you do!”

  “I do!” She protested, perhaps a little too adamantly. “He makes me laugh, I mean, he is genuinely really funny, not in the way he is in interviews either…he’s funnier…”

  “And fit as fuck! Stop pretending to me that you don’t even find him slightly attractive.”

  “I’m not blind, of course he is attractive, but it’s not like that.”

  “Oh, come off it! I know a liar when I see one Elizabeth Darcy!”

  “Literally he comes over and we have food and watch a film or something.” She pulled a carrot cake off the shelf. “Although I did find out that he used to work in this record shop in Manchester that I used to go to.”

  “Really?” Debs rolled her eyes, “sounds fascinating.”

  Debs was the mum of two girls, both in primary school and as opinionated as their mother; they had moved from the small town outside Newcastle when the youngest was three – escaping an abusive marriage and looking for a new life somewhere green. Debs had chosen Lambton because she fell in love with Pemberley after watching Colin Firth walking across the lawn in his wet white shirt; it had been on television one night at the hostel she had run to with her children after her husband’s behaviour had spiralled and she knew she needed to escape.

  Derbyshire looked like a nice place on the small flicker of the 20” screen in the shared sitting room, and she began to look for a house, for a job and for a new future. It had been hard, uprooting herself and her girls’ miles from their support network; but she had found the job online, interviewing with relative ease and plopping herself down smoothly into a brand-new part of the world.

  It helped that Lady Darcy was a single mum too, and they often discussed the perils of children and dating over a bottle of wine and frozen pizza in the flat at the top of the tower. Deb was always amused how Lizzy called the flat ‘little’, when it covered over three floors and was bigger than her house and the one next door put together.

  Lizzy didn’t think twice about throwing a twenty quid bottle of Sauvignon Blanc into the trolley or dropping fifty quid on a new set of towels that she simply must have, and Deb found that she was a little jealous of her lack of budget. It made working out the expenses claims a nightmare, and she was constantly pestering Lizzy to keep all her receipts in the little tin she had bought her off eBay. Lizzy might not have been bothered about claiming for petrol and hotel stays, but Harris was – wanting everything above board and accounted for – and Deb found herself spending the last few days of the month writing out receipts and checking Lizzy’s card statements to make everything balance.

  “Oh,” she started, reaching into her bag, “I checked your receipts from last month, one of them was a bit off.”

  Lizzy was scanning the cake through the self-service checkout, “which one?”

  “It’s a place in Kympton…you remember,” she raised an eyebrow, she had heard all about it.

  “Oh, yes,” she took the paper and scanned it. “That can’t be right, surely…”

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  She tried to remember the night at the bar where she had got drunk with Benn; he called it their first date and she told him to stop being silly.

  “I can only remember ordering two bottles of wine, but there are four on here… and whisky. I definitely didn’t have whisky, it makes me throw up.”

  “Maybe Benn drunk it?”

  “Four whiskies and at least two bottles of wine? On a Wednesday? Humm…”

  “Maybe they messed up your bill,” Deb surmised. “I need you to check it, that’s all.”

  “I’ll text him after lunch – have you got everything?”

  Deb nodded and took her bag from the self-service till. The rest of their lunchbreak was filled with a conversation about Debs’ new boyfriend, Gareth, who was blessed with both a large member and a voracious appetite.

  It was a match made in heaven, Lizzy thought.

  LIZZY: Afternoon!

  BENN: Oh hi, you okay?

  He was currently enduring his specially portioned ration of food from the black box, which Cheryl had shyly handed him from the catering truck. After lunch there was a 5k up through Knightslow, over the fence, up a massive hill, along the park wall, up to the Cage and back to the house with Patrick, who was getting frustrated at his lack of commitment. Benn was looking forward to later when Harriet was making them all Falafel wraps and scones for tea, it was only the thought of clotted cream and jam that was making him want to run in the first place.

  LIZZY: Just a quickie, receipt for bar is four bottles Pinot and Talisker?

  BENN: That’s not right.

  LIZZY: No, thought not.

  2006

  Hugh Darcy had never really appreciated Pemberley when he lived here, it was always unbearably cold, especially in winter, and his memories of coming home from school for the holidays were of being freezing and coughing from the smoky fires, which were never cleaned often enough. His room, called the ‘mahogany room’ due to being panelled from floor to ceiling in the deep dark wood, had two windows which faced the lake, and both rattled when the wind rushed over the moorland.

  During one particularly harsh winter, the roads out of the estate were unnavigable, and even though the ice on the lake was thick, the Darcy boys were banned from donning skates for their amusement – their Aunt Sybil sharing the story of Peter Darcy, her grandfather’s brother, who fell through the ice at the age of eight and was lost for eternity.

  Ever enterprising, Jeremy and Hugh opened every single window down the length of the long gallery, pushing up the creaking sashes as blasts of cold air whooshed into the room, then they tipped buckets of water all over the floor and waited for it to freeze. It didn’t, of course, but the two brothers felt the icy wrath of Mrs Reynolds, who demanded that they clean up before their father discovered what had happened.

  Hugh had secretly been hoping that Winston would find out and send them back to the warmth of school as punishment, but he didn’t, and they spent an afternoon soaking up freezing cold water with rags before being sent to bed without supper, although Staughton did send up hot buttered toast and tea after Mrs Reynolds had retired for the evening.

  Summer had always been wonderful at Pemberley; especially when their mother decamped to London to star in a show in the West End, or off to Pinewood to film the terrible comedies that she still regularly appeared in. Sylvia Pratchett had only been twenty-two when she married the dashing Duke of Derbyshire, a man who was twice her age, and even though he was still handsome they found that they had little in common. The new Duchess longed for parties and society, whereas Winston preferred country living, or rather his mother preferred him living in the country so that was where they remained. They divorced quickly the spring before Hugh was sent to Eton; the Darcy children mainly saw their mother at the cinema, her ghostly image flickering to life on the screen as she giggled and romanced her way through an illustrious career. When they saw her in the flesh, she never quite seemed as r
eal.

  The baton of motherhood passed to Aunt Sybil, who had returned from Boise when she discovered, after fifteen years of marriage, that her handsome GI husband was actually someone else’s handsome GI husband too. Without any children of her own, the pouting, acerbic woman with the transatlantic accent and pointed fingernails, took the Darcy children under her wing and introduced them to Pemberley the best way she knew how – well-organised, well-planned adventures. There was boating on the lake, a mini-Olympics on the lawn, orienteering in the woods, climbing at the Lantern – a broken arm for Hugh, a broken ankle for Jeremy, tears and tantrums from Julia – and baking cakes and pies in the kitchens, much to the annoyance of Mrs Reynolds, who complained bitterly to Lady Millicent.

  Joyce was walking up towards the Orangery when she spotted the Duke walking towards her. He must be here to see the girls, she thought, as she mentally worked out where she could walk to avoid him. But it was no use, she was halfway past the portico and couldn’t turn back on herself, it would be too obvious.

  No, she would have to walk past him and be courteous.

  Pretend that she didn’t recognise him.

  She smoothed down her jacket as she walked, hoped that she looked presentable, surreptitiously glancing up under her fringe as she casually walked past.

  He hadn’t changed. His dark hair may be sprinkled with silver, his eyes a little crinkly, but he was the same man she had fallen in love with over the course of a summer, when she had been working every hour as a house guide to help pay bills and he had been languishing about with nothing to do.

  Hugh had joined her tour more than once, asking tricky questions that he knew she couldn’t answer, purposely trying to annoy her; he apologised afterwards and pulled her up onto his horse, riding hard to the top of Cage Hill with her clinging onto his waist for dear life; there was swimming in the pond on the hottest day of the year and she had screamed at him when he had thrown a frog at her. He had wrapped his arms around her that day and they had retreated to the cottage on the edge of the woods where they lay together on the flat coolness of the stone floor and she knew she would never be the same again.

  On their last night before he returned to Cambridge, they had taken the Duke’s expensive telescope onto the roof to look at the stars, it had accidentally fallen down the stairs with an ominous thud as they shared kisses and sweet nothings. Joyce was fully aware that it could only be fleeting, could never be more than what it was, and she cherished her memories of that glorious Pemberley summer.

  Now here he was again, standing in front of her, saying hello.

  She found herself inadvertently doing a little bob, “Your Grace”, before moving to walk past him.

  “Joyce” he said hesitantly.

  He would have recognised her anywhere; remembering her face in vague memories that were tinted with the heat of the sun, the sound of laughter and the smell of strawberry shampoo.

  “Sir,” she tucked her hair behind her ear, smiled brightly. “Nice to see again…after all these years.”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “You haven’t changed at all, you’re the same as I remember.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This is a surprise, I turn up here for Harriet’s first day at school and here you are. I knew you worked here, of course, but I have never seen you about when I’ve visited.”

  They began to walk together, inadvertently walking in step with each other down towards the west front of the house overlooking the Dutch garden.

  “I’ve been here for five years now,” she turned the bleeping radio down.

  After the near-miss at the Christening, Joyce had scheduled her own rota to purposely avoid times when Hugh would be here. It was awkward, especially when the Duchess was here too, lording it over everyone as if she thought she truly was the lady of the manor, rather than a hotel receptionist who had caught Hugh’s eye on lonely work trip to Doncaster, which is what she was. Joyce wasn’t a snob when it came to rank and titles, but there was a difference between class and breeding and Carol Darcy, Duchess of Derbyshire, had neither.

  “Five years, crikey! Does that qualify you for a special award or something?”

  “No, unfortunately not, but I do get to work here every day and it’s still my favourite place in the world.”

  “It always was, wasn’t it?” he twisted on his signet ring, suddenly feeling slightly nervous as he fiddled with the cuffs on his shirt. “I never understood, not until recently, why you always loved this place so much.”

  “Pemberley is magic,” she grinned. “It casts a spell on you, I think.”

  “Or gives you influenza!”

  They reached the edge of the gardens and stood for a moment in silence before the radio made a racket that she couldn’t ignore.

  “I have to go, but it’s been lovely seeing you again.”

  “Yes, it has been lovely.”

  He held her gaze a little longer than either of them felt comfortable with before Joyce walked away firmly in the direction of the house. Hugh watched for longer than was necessary before walking purposefully in the opposite direction and back upstairs where Lizzy and Harriet were waiting for him.

  The playground of St David’s Primary was the same as she remembered. The same gravelly finish underfoot, and the same oak tree languishing regally in the corner, its branches waving tall and proud above the classrooms. Harriet was beaming with excitement and eagerly ran over to the little friends she knew from pre-school – a short, stout girl with big blue eyes and massive blonde curls called Summer, who reminded her of Imogen, and a taller girl with two ginger plaits and a serious face called Caitlyn. They started to dance about on the grass, running and whooping with laughter, before stopping suddenly, grouping together and comparing their identical shoes, before setting off again with giggles and screams.

  Moira, Summer’s mum, came bounding over introducing herself; fawning over Hugh and calling him ‘Your Highness’ at every possible opportunity, which he found highly amusing. She eventually bounced back to the other mums in the corner of the playground, but not before she had pressed her business card into his hand.

  Standing in the same place they had played as children, was Matthew. Married now, he looked tired, his hair artistically long, his beard gone, the chip in his tooth fixed with pearly white veneers. Standing next to him, creeping and congratulating was the headmistress, Mrs Sanderson, who had always been mean and angry, but who was now brightened by being so close to retirement age. He glanced over and caught her eye; Lizzy looked away too quickly for it to be unnoticeable.

  The first time had been the trip to Disneyland; where they had shared a bottle of Merlot and a bed. The second time he had turned up at the flat after a long days filming in Manchester under the pretence of seeing Harriet, and they had quiet, giggly sex on the sofa whilst she slept in the room upstairs as a hurricane raged outside. The third, fourth and fifth times were tinged with guilt, and Lizzy had stopped it, said it wasn’t fair, even though they both knew that Cara Wickham was currently sleeping with her personal trainer. Matthew wasn’t even sure if the baby was his, could barely remember when the last time they had been intimate had been, but he owed it to his wife. He knew he did.

  “We need to stop doing this,” he grinned, as he pulled at her top and she fiddled with the buttons before pulling the shirt over his head.

  “Yes,” she breathed heavily, she could feel the heat of him on her cheek, the soft pressure of his lips on hers, his arms around her neck, she pulled him into her, the weight of him pushing her back against the wall.

  “But we can’t.”

  “But we should.”

  He sighed into her neck as he ran his hands over her hips, lifting her skirt, his hands on her thighs ensuring that the tingle ran through her like an electric current.

  “It will always be you and me, Lizzy. You know that as well as I do.”

  She inhaled quickly, the breath catching on her lips as his mouth moved down her body. She ran her finger
s through his hair, it was longer now, more like it had been when she had first realised that kissing could feel this good, how the push and the pull made you sparkle all over. Even now, she could still feel that familiar burn for him deep within her and they moved together in an unrehearsed performance.

  Eleven

  It was after six when the last of the staff left, their soft chatter and gentle footsteps echoing through the bright gallery and down the north stairs as they clocked off for the day, eager to get home and enjoy the last bursts of glorious sunshine. The gallery ran around the house on three sides and had been the perfect place to learn how to roller skate, despite the unevenness of the floorboards. People forgot when they walked around the house using hushed tones of reverence that Pemberley had always been a family home. Lizzy loved it on busy Summer holiday weekends when dozens of small visitors descended upon the grounds, dressed up in regency costumes borrowed from the dressing room and ran around the gardens laughing and shrieking as they did.

  “My god, it’s busy today,” she exclaimed to Kate from the ticket desk, as she helped restock the shelves in the shop. “Did you see those little kids chasing each other with the croquet mallets?”

  “Yes. Steve was panicking as it was his idea to grab it out of the storage cupboard, and now he has to fish the hoops out of the lake. You finished for the day?”

  “I have indeed, it’s Harriet’s prom today so she has been out with her friends getting spray-tanned and manicured, and I’ve got to make myself presentable.”

  “Baby Harriet is going to Prom? Bloody hell, Lizzy, that’s one way to make me feel old as Moses.”

  “You feel old? How do you think I feel?”

  Lizzy stepped outside of the panelled oak door that was marked ‘private’ and led the way to the Wyatt tower and up to her flat, usually she didn’t use this door, instead climbing her way up the three flights of steps in the south corner of the courtyard, and through corridors and passages that visitors didn’t see, places that had allowed the servants of Pemberley to historically move about the house unnoticed and unseen. Sitting on the top step, she felt the thick, woollen carpet underneath her fingers, it was another thing that had never changed, although it was a lot cleaner now that when she had been younger.