Becoming Lady Darcy

by Sara Smallman

  “He’s still so in love with Madeleine Tennant,” she turned, offering him a sip from her bottle of water. “I asked him why he cheated on her.”

  “He didn’t cheat on her.”

  “Yeah, he did,” she snorted. “It was all over the paper.”

  “She left him, but he was never unfaithful,” Matthew always wondered why Benn Williams decided to take the fall. Maybe it was better to be the cheater than the cuckold.

  “Oh, I wonder why he just didn’t tell me that.”

  “She was seeing someone else, it was all convenient for her, I guess.”

  “Convenient? Why?”

  He wasn’t sure if he should reveal this information. It wasn’t his secret to share. He took a deep breath.

  “Benn likes to drink,” he said firmly. “Sometimes too much.”

  “So, he gets a bit drunk occasionally… so what? We all do.”

  “No, it’s more than that.”

  She sniggered, “are you trying to tell me that he’s an alcoholic?”

  He nodded. He didn’t why he expected her to be shocked or repulsed or angry, because he knew – he always knew – that in fact she would feel an overwhelming rush of care for Benn Williams and his hidden vice.

  “It’s why ‘Shellstone’ ran over last year – you know when I was taking the kids to Florida? We had to do reshoots because he went missing for three days. We found him holed up in a room at the Savoy.”

  “It explains how he still loves her. Poor Benn.”

  He came up behind her now, moving her hair out of the way and kissing her neck in the way he knew she couldn’t resist.

  “Explains why she left him, more like,” he murmured, “but I’m not here to talk about Benn bloody Williams…”

  His soft forceful kisses increased in pressure as his hands wrapped around her waist, under her breast, pulling her back into him, and she fell into it.

  She always did.

  2010

  The train started rolling out of Manchester Piccadilly station as Lizzy Darcy ventured to London for the final time in what had been a frantic and tiring nine months. She was dealing with a difficult inheritance case; this trip should be the final visit to the beneficiary of a complicated lady’s complicated estate and, though it had taken many hours of work, many gallons of coffee and fair amount of sleepless nights, she was content that she had done her best work and proved herself, finally, as the latest of the Darcy attorneys.

  The first Darcy to take up Law was Francis, youngest son of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, his father approving of the career path and agreeing that it was most useful in the legal wrangling that was occurring behind the scenes at Pemberley. He had been a brilliant lawyer and a key member of the Law Society in its early days; there was an Italian marble bust of his likeness in the hallway of the headquarters on Chancery Lane and Uncle Jeremy always gave it a reverent nod when he walked past.

  The youngest Darcy son had been known for his hideous fits of temper, which saw him screaming for servants to do his bidding and resulted in him being disliked by senior members of the household. Afterwards he would ride into the woods for hours and only return after everyone was in bed, still demanding supper. Lizzy was often saddened by the story of the bachelor uncle who defined the career path of his Darcy descendants; he was buried in the graveyard of the small church next to the house at Longbourn after succumbing to pneumonia at the grand old age of ninety-five – born when the country was celebrating the victory of Waterloo and dying when the world was embroiled in what felt like an unending war.

  Francis had never married, had lived the life of the Bachelor Lord, focusing on his career, and becoming a genial uncle, assisting his young nephew in running the estates when he inherited prematurely. It was in stark contrast to the bad-tempered youth who had shouted at housemaids and vexed Mr Staughton. In the letters to his dearest Mama, Lizzy could read between the lines, understanding more than Elizabeth herself why the gentleman never took a wife.

  “You look busy…”

  The man sitting across from her smiled as the train pulled into Stockport station. Usually she hated when strangers tried to speak to her on trains, preferring instead to hide behind the safety of a book, this was why she always paid the extra money for First Class. He looked friendly enough, was dressed in a smart suit and a pair of nice oxfords, Hugh had always told her to pay attention to a man’s shoes.

  “I am sorry, how terrible of me not to introduce myself,” he said, in a way that was rather dashing, “I’m David Forsythe.”

  He held out his hand, and she returned a firm handshake which she could tell surprised him a little. It made her smile to herself.

  “Elizabeth Darcy, pleased to meet you,” she had smiled back at him, as a thousand butterflies danced across her belly.

  By the time the train arrived at Euston, they had exchanged numbers and planned to meet for dinner later that week. It was a whirlwind and one that she let herself be carried along on. He worked in the City and had a whole wardrobe of nice suits, expensive shoes and an apartment with a view of the Thames. David had been obviously impressed with the Grosvenor Square address, where she was staying with Charlie, Emma and the boys, and her ability to obtain tables at The Ivy. Their second date ended with crazy, drunken sex on his Conran sofa.

  In the first few months of their romance, after copious amounts of wine, he proposed to her on the balcony overlooking the river with a Haribo ring and a massive grin on his face.

  “Marry me, Lady Elizabeth Georgiana Darcy! Make me a very happy man!”

  “Are you serious?” She giggled.

  “Of course, I am,” he said on one knee, struggling to get back up. “Who would not want to marry you, Lizzy. You rock my world!”

  “Rock your world? You are drunk… and an idiot,” she was kissing his face, pulling him towards her with each touch of her lips on his skin. “But I will marry you. We can be Mr and Mrs Idiot.”

  “That sounds absolutely bloody perfect,” he gently pulled at the straps on her vest top, sliding it over her shoulder. “Although, we would be Mr and Lady Idiot, of course…”

  The morning brought bacon sandwiches, coffee and croissants. There was no mention of the proposal.

  A year later, she had booked a fancy hotel room for their anniversary and travelled down to London with expectation in her head and a longing for more in her heart. This love felt different to how she expected, she thought, always believing that falling in love would be very much slowly and then all at once, but she found that she had fallen quickly into the deep end and was struggling to keep her head above the water.

  “Lizzy…” he said, unable to look her in the eye. He hadn’t removed his coat, which she thought was odd, but she ignored the voice at the back of her head.

  “Is everything alright?” she said, unsure but doing her best to stop the echoes of disappointment crossing her face.

  He nodded, as he looked down at his shoes.

  “I picked the tickets up for the show, have you ever seen Les Mis?” she continued with a false enthusiasm that belied the waves of panic rising in her stomach.

  “Lizzy, please stop…”

  She stopped, her heart thumping hard in her chest. She noticed that he wasn’t wearing his suit, wasn’t dressed for the dinner at Le Gavroche that she had planned for them, on his feet were battered gym trainers.

  “David,” she said carefully. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Bianca…” he said flatly. “She’s pregnant.”

  It wasn’t as surprising as she suspected he thought it would be, but it still hurt. Still felt like a hard, heavy thump in the heart as she realised that this was the end of it all now.

  “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he explained in fits and starts that they had always wanted children, but nine failed rounds of IVF, with its invasive nature and disappointment, had made each time harder to get over. Each time it didn’t take a part of them die
d and then it drove them apart.

  “Lizzy, you made me realise what it was I wanted this whole time. You and Harriet, you’re so close and you are both so great and I want a family,” he paused, and then slowly, ashamedly, “but I don’t want to insert myself into yours, I want my own family, my own children and the only person I can imagine being their mother is my wife.”

  “Well, I’m glad I could be of use to you, David,” she said, “What was I in all of this?”

  He paused, thought about it carefully and then he spoke.

  “A distraction.”

  He reached out to put his hand on hers, but she moved away and walked over to the window. The sparkling city was illuminated below her, and she wished, more than anything, that Harriet was there to look at the view with her and get over-excited about the glittering lights of the capital. Suddenly the gentle touch of his hand on his shoulder felt like a personal attack.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  He looked across at her sadly, but she refused to look at him, didn’t want him to see the angry tears running down her cheeks.

  The door closed softly as he left.

  Instinctively, she reached for her phone.

  LIZZY: I need you.

  MATTHEW: Where are you?

  LIZZY: St Martins Lane.

  He checked the time; Cara was out tonight, the boys supervised by Meena, the Polish nanny who had been chosen specifically for her unattractiveness. He waved them all goodnight and slowly clicked the door closed.

  MATTHEW: I’ll be half an hour.

  LIZZY: Promise.

  MATTHEW: Always.

  It felt like forever as she watched the minutes tick away.

  1912

  “She is nearly twenty-one,” Cecily sighed one evening to her husband. “She must be settled soon.”

  The famed society hostess was concerned about her youngest child. The last of three and the only girl, Millicent Augusta was a force to be reckoned with, even for her fiery American mother. Edward Darcy was unsure what his wife wanted him to do, it’s not as if he could force his daughter to marry someone; this was the twentieth century, after all.

  “I agree that she needs to find a decent chap, but there is no hurry, is there?” He removed his robe and climbed into the bed that they pretended they didn’t share. “You were nearly twenty-five when I married you, practically an old maid!”

  “And you’re lucky that I had you!”

  “I know, my love,” he pulled her into an embrace and kissed the top of her head. “We will find a match for Millicent. I hardly expect her to look after us when we are old.”

  “Can you imagine,” she said closing her book, “she would have us marching in protest for reform and paying to educate our servants.”

  “What about my cousin Henry’s boy, Rupert? He’s a decent sort.”

  “The dull gangly one who used to stay with us over summer? Do you think he is suitable … would he be able to keep up with her? I don’t want her to be bored.”

  “They were always running about the place before he went to school. I imagine that he is much improved now. I think she taught him how to shoot!”

  “Trust your daughter to be the one to teach a boy how to shoot,” Cecily smiled softly. “I suppose it might be worth inviting him for a visit. I shall write to his mother.”

  “It would mean she would be a Countess eventually,” Edward thought out loud. “Would that finally satisfy your father’s inherent social climbing?”

  “My father’s social climbing means that you received a very good settlement with which to install electricity and indoor plumbing!”

  “Your father’s social climbing meant that I was very fortunate to have married such a wonderful woman who, coincidentally, had a very large fortune.” He kissed her gently, “we will find a husband for her soon enough.”

  Cecily snuggled down into her husband’s embrace. Daughters were always a worry.

  Edward was reading his newspaper at his club on St James’s Street when he heard that his daughter had been arrested for setting fire to a post box in the name of Women’s Suffrage. This was the twelfth time that he had been summoned to the police station to bail her out and it was becoming tiresome.

  “Are you sure it’s her, Boothroyd?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” the voice confirmed. “Lady Millicent is currently in custody, although the detective there said he can release her if you get someone there before noon.”

  Edward sighed, “alright, call Albert Armitage, pay what you need to. I will be there to collect her.”

  Despite his wife’s disgust, and the cost to his own purse, the Duke of Derbyshire was secretly proud of Millicent’s newfound infamy as one of the younger leaders of the suffragette movement in the north, along with the Pankhurst’s, whom he funded with anonymous donations. He wasn’t surprised, however, to find that instead of bailing out his daughter, he was faced with a working-class girl with red hair and a smattering of freckles.

  “Don’t you work for me?” He asked her quickly.

  “Yes, sir,” she curtseyed.

  “And your name?”

  “Kitty, sir,” she said, with the hint of a tremor in her voice. “Kitty Blake.”

  “Well, Kitty Blake,” he said rather sternly, “why are you standing before me and not my daughter?”

  The girl shifted in the borrowed shoes; she was wearing Millicent’s heavy purple wool coat and her dress too. The Duke was a nice man, she had heard Mrs Reynolds say so; but looming over her in the street he was quite intimidating.

  “You need to speak up, Kitty.” The tone of his voice changed, “I know my daughter can be very persuasive and I imagine it was Millicent who convinced you to accompany her.” He noticed the look of fear on the girl’s face. “Does Mrs Reynolds know that you are here?”

  “She thinks I’m sick, and in my bed,” Kitty’s voice raised slightly. “Please don’t sack me, Sir, I’ll work ever so hard.”

  “Miss Blake, I have no intention of that,” the girl was drowning in lilac, “you better get back.”

  Kitty curtseyed out of appreciation and relief.

  “Oh, Kitty,” he called after her. “If you are sneaking in, I always find that you are better going through the stables and up the back-south stairs.”

  Kitty smiled briefly before setting off down the street, Edward watched after her before looking up at the Police station. God only knew where his daughter was now, he should have known. Millicent would often switch identities with the poorer girls, knowing that her rank as a member of the aristocracy granted her a leniency not usually granted to women of a lower status. He quite admired her spirit, although he had no idea what he was going to tell his wife.

  It would be three months before Lady Millicent was released, celebrated by the group of sisters outside the gates of Holloway, who cheered and celebrated. Furious and weak, but battle-hardened by the hunger strikes and force-feedings, she went straight to the WSPU headquarters in Kingsway, where she planned to attend the Derby. The plan was to pin rosettes to the Kings horse as it hammered past them; but the crowd was too busy, the horses too fast, and Millicent and the rest of the women dotted about the crowd watched as their friend was trampled to death, powerless to save her. Arrested once more, she was bailed and returned to her father like lost luggage. He promptly sent her back to Pemberley for recuperation and fresh air, despite her objections.

  “We are fighting for revolution!” the younger woman screamed at the unflappable Cecily across the dining table, “why can you not understand that this is for all women, it’s for you too!”

  “You will forgive me for doubting your revolution, darling, when all of us are aware of how it all worked out for the aristocrats in France.”

  Cecily continued with her onion soup; she rolled her eyes. Edward, failing to notice the cue, took a mouthful of the meal before being verbally accosted by his daughter.

  “And you, Father, do you not think that it is ridiculous that women don’t have a
ny right or any say over what they do? A woman is her father’s possession until she marries and then she is the property of her husband. What if she never marries…who does she belong to then? Does she finally belong to herself or does she get entailed away?”

  “I’m not sure, Milly,” he stammered, looking at his wife for assistance. “Do you really think this is –”

  “You should know!” She threw her spoon into the decorated china, it clinked loudly, soup splashing over the tablecloth. “This is intolerable. You are keeping me a prisoner here.”

  Edward shot a knowing glance at his wife, who took a large mouthful of wine. She didn’t know what she had done in a previous life to deserve such a boisterous and argumentative child, but she imagined it was the rebellious American half trying to burst through the dusty establishment. Although Millicent’s behaviour may have been tolerated in New York or Chicago, even Boston at a push, Cecily knew that it would never be acceptable in the upper echelons of polite English society.

  “I wish you would start behaving like the Lady that you are,” Cecily gestured to James to pull out her chair. “The thought of this has given me rather a headache, please excuse me.”

  She disappeared into the drawing room, shooting a firm glance to her husband. Edward looked sternly at Millicent.

  “What have I done now?”

  “Could you, for once, at least put up the pretence of being a respectable young lady?”

  “How very dull,” she said with a wave of the hand.

  Edward sighed. He would, at some point in the future, like to enjoy dinner in its entirety without either his wife or his daughter storming out between courses. They were so similar. He nodded at Mr Staughton who was standing by the door; the butler acknowledged this and dismissed his staff, leaving the Duke and his delinquent offspring alone.

  Millicent rose from the table and walked to the window, the dining room looked out onto the Elizabethan knot gardens, the Orangery, and in the distance, Wyatt’s folly still stood firm and proud in its place in Lantern wood. There had been a tree planted in front of it by one of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s children, which had grown and blocked the view, and now the poor yew tree stood with the top left quarter cut out of it, vexing the gardeners whose job it was to keep it suitably trimmed.