“You should have kissed me that night.”
He eyed her curiously, swallowed hard. If he had known that she had wanted him to then he would have done it. But he hadn’t, and she didn’t, and they couldn’t, and the time was gone now.
“I wanted to kiss you that night, the things I wanted to do to you that night. I had it planned in my head,” he felt as if he was telling her a great secret, “but I couldn’t quite get up the nerve.”
“Maybe things would have been different if you had.”
“Who knows, we are all of us only ever one decision away from a different life,” he said, his words tinged with a faint hint of regret. “But that was the thing, you didn’t really want me to kiss you.”
“I really did, but I didn’t want things to change.”
“But things did change, Lizzy.”
“I always wanted us. That never changed. But I couldn’t have us. You would have resented me eventually, for holding you back. I had no intention of forcing a future on you that you didn’t ask for.”
“It wouldn’t have been forced. Being with you, having a baby with you… the thought of it…”
“The thought of it sent you running back to London with your girlfriend.”
He didn’t understand this, because that wasn’t the way he remembered it. He had gone back to London with Cara, but there had been the letter. He studied her face, he always thought she had known this and chosen to do it all without him anyway.
“The thought of it made me happier than I had ever been,” he moved next to her. He felt her relax a little. “I was ready to do it all with you… ready to be a dad, be a husband if that was what you wanted. I was ready to do all of these things with you, because the thought of doing them with someone else… well, that just didn’t make sense to me.”
“Matthew, you never told me this!”
“I did tell you,” he said adamantly. “I wrote everything in the letter.”
She hadn’t read the letter, hadn’t wanted to see his rejection written down in words on the page.
“I didn’t…” she shook her head quickly.
“No response is still a response. When I messaged you before the wedding, I needed to know how you felt. I would have called it all off for you. It was still you, Lizzy, even then.”
She was still the same girl that he loved for nearly his whole life. Different kinds of love – playful, angry, romantic, lustful, unrequited, jealous, empty – but love nonetheless in all its different forms. It was simply never the right love at the right time and their time had faded quietly into history now, never to be revisited. He had always believed that in some other glorious alternate reality their time streams had collided in perfect harmony – blazing across an imaginary universe with incandescent fire. But a relit cigarette never quite tasted the same as it did before, and they both knew it.
“They always say that it’s a question of timing, don’t they? That you meet the right person at the wrong time.”
“They do,” she said. “It was never that with us, was it…”
She had always felt that these little snippets of him, the half days and hours of frantic attention, the stolen kisses, the hidden relationship had been all she deserved, that this was all he wanted to give her, but she realised that all this time he had been holding back. He couldn’t keep offering his heart on a plate to her time and time again and have her refuse it.
“No,” he said gently. “You see if you meet the right person at the wrong time, it only means one thing.”
“It means that they’re not the right person.”
“However much you might have wanted them to be.”
There was a look, a single glance, and she knew that he understood. She grasped his hand; the one that used to be covered in mud as they scrabbled about in the woods as kids, she studied it – it was almost as familiar as her own; his little finger was slightly bent from where he broke it one summer learning archery, the odd nail on his thumb where she had closed the car door on it and it had swollen and cracked with infection, and finally the ridge on his finger where his wedding ring had been.
The band of gold had always been removed before his hands had touched her body, as if he thought it was able to bear witness to his infidelity. All that was left now though was a faint indent in the skin as the reminder of fifteen years of marriage. She wondered how he felt about it now that it was over, she knew she would never ask. For Lizzy it felt as if the vast path of destiny had conspired to keep her at Pemberley, her roots firmly entrenched in the dark soil, her branches tangled and lashed, her leaves refusing to unfurl.
ARCHIVED: ‘THE STAGE’ 23/1/200-
Tennant/Wolff Split Shock
Madeline Tennant, the child star of ‘Happily Ever Now’, has left her husband of a few months for her ‘Pursuit of Happiness’ co-star, the relatively unknown bit part player Benn Williams. Tennant, 28, daughter of the late Richard Tennant and actress Jessica Entwistle, walked out on BAFTA winning actor Dominic Wolff, 44, after meeting Williams during rehearsals for the new play by Casey Muir, the writer who wrote last year’s Oscar winning short, ‘Ubiquitous’. Madeleine moved out of the home she shared with Dominic in Bayswater last week and friends say that he is heartbroken. The couple had been together for six years. Tennant and Williams, 29, are said to have become very close and an insider at the theatre said it was only ‘a matter of time’ before a relationship began. A spokesman for Miss Tennant confirmed the split last night and said: 'Madeleine Tennant and Benn Williams attended RADA together, they renewed their friendship during the rehearsals for ‘Pursuit of Happiness’ and began a relationship a short time ago.'.
‘Pursuit of Happiness’ by Casey Muir, and starring Madeleine Tennant is on at the Old Vic Theatre until September.
1677
Lady Sophia Louisa Darcy was the only daughter of George, Duke of Derbyshire. Whilst most titled men with a considerable property longed for a brace of healthy sons to inherit, George longed for a girl. After a short wait, eleven years and three sons to be precise, the Darcys were blessed with a delicate, dark haired bundle and they declared their family complete. As the first of their children to be born in England, she was rewarded by being sent away at the age of eight to be the companion of the second daughter of the Duke of York at the special request of Queen Catherine, who favoured the pretty girl with curls, whose laugh sounded like sunshine.
Anne was a clever, playful girl whose wit and down to earth humour was at odds with that of her stern, older sister. The Princess and Sophia, of the same temperament and mischievous nature, would often sneak away from the nursery and into Mary’s chambers, moving her possessions to cause confusion. The two girls were inseparable and often found hiding in corridors, under tables and in each other’s beds, giggling and laughing away, something that would continue for the next few years, much to the exasperation of their governess. They grew up into well-refined ladies of court with all the pomp, finery and expectations that came with it.
Sophia was home for the Hunt and breaking her fast with eggs and sausage. It had been an early start that morning and already she had taken an illicit, solitary sojourn around the grounds before returning to the house. The surrounding countryside was entirely beautiful at this time of year and it was wonderful to be back at Pemberley, because it was home. Home. What a strange notion! She had barely lived here during her childhood, but the house in Derbyshire cast a magical spell over her – it was and would always be the place where she was the happiest in the world.
King Henry VIII had ridden out with the Pemberley Hunt over one hundred and fifty years earlier, and to think that she was such a small part of a much bigger history overawed her much more than it probably should. There was painting of the famous Tudor in the gallery at Richmond, and she would spend time looking at it. She wondered if the man himself had been as foreboding as his reputation. That was the problem with men, and husbands – they had all the power and the wives merely had to do their bidding. Marriag
e was something that Sophia was fully aware was looming in her future and she pretended with all of her heart that it wasn’t.
“Is Hortense at home?” Sophia enquired, taking a bite of sausage.
Cyril looked up from the papers he was reading at the table and, taking a swig of his coffee, shrugged, “when is my wife ever at home?”
Sophia studied her older brother, dressed and proper as always, ready for another day of taking charge and making everything right. Since their father was always at court, it fell upon Cyril to look after the daily running of the estate. He did it remarkably well.
“I must admit to you, brother, that your wife being away from this house is not such an unfortunate event.”
She suspected that Cyril was equally unhappy with his choice of bride as were the rest of the household, but she was waiting for his confirmation.
“Sister, this is not talk for the breakfast room,” he stated, folding his papers and getting up from the table. “It will not do.”
She wished that he could find some semblance of happiness in his marriage, even if that meant becoming a widower at a very early age. It was wrong to have such thoughts, but since her arrival Hortense had managed to aggravate everyone in the house in Derbyshire, including her.
“I am so sorry that you have been saddled with such a dull wife, Cyril. If only dear Charles or poor Henry had lived, then surely you would have been spared such a terrible fate. Such is the responsibility of the heir to continue the line with a reputable and well-monied lady.”
Sophia’s voice was dripping with sarcasm and it was a tone not lost on her brother.
“My wife really is the most unconscionable bore, sister,” he grimaced. “I would not want to wish her upon anyone.”
“I try to engage her in any kind of conversation,” she gestured to Staughton to take her plate, “I am a great conversationalist, anyone of my acquaintance would agree.”
“It would be easier to get a sentence from a lump rock.”
“I imagine a lump rock would make a warmer companion of the bedchamber too!”
She glanced over at her brother who had been married to Lady Hortense Holland now for nearly two years with no child forthcoming. It was not a problem with Cyril, who had a little family of bastards with his servant girl lover out hidden in the woods, so the issue was definitely with his wife.
“You need to entertain the oldest Fitzroy when he arrives, father is most adamant about it.”
“Father is always adamant about everything, but I’m not of the mind to risk my virtue so he can claim the King’s illegitimate offspring as a relative.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Cyril rose from his seat, walking the length of the long table to sit closer to his sister. “Rumour has it that there is a bigger prize for you, if you are patient.”
“You make it sound like I could snare the King himself.”
“He certainly admires you.”
“He can admire from afar, for I will not be swayed or tempted before I have a husband. His Majesty can be as enamoured as he likes, but he will never be invited into my bed,” she said firmly, “unless he would like to arrange a suitable match with a vaguely handsome gentleman who has enough wit about him to keep me entertained, and enough money in his purse to provide a suitable home in which to entertain me! The King will always get what he desires one way or another, and he can make a cuckold of my husband, but he will not make a whore out of me before I am wed and respectable.”
“I always recall you saying, most adamantly, that you would never marry! That marriage was for fools!”
“Unfortunately for me, marriage is the only protection for a woman in this day and age,” she sighed. “If I were a man it would be different.”
“If you were a man you could have married my wife instead!”
“I would not claim that honour, my lord, your wife is all for you!”
“More is the pity for me.”
The Pemberley Hunt was one of the most famous in the county and her father took pride in the fact that he had rebuilt the estate after the war from ruins to a court playground. The house was now a wondrous cavern of small rooms, large rooms, nooks, crannies and hiding places, with the impressive picture gallery being the crowning jewel of George Darcy’s reconstruction works. He had pulled panelling and features from other houses owned by the family, creating a lengthy space for entertaining and business. The centrepiece of the room was a suitably ornate mantel, emblazoned with the Coat of Arms of the House of Tudor, gifted to Sir Percival Darcy by Queen Elizabeth. It had been moved from the house during the war, saved by the Wickhams, who had squirrelled away treasures and valuables, hiding them from looters and raiders until the family returned.
It was in the grand long gallery that a young gentleman was paying suit to Sophia Darcy as she sat in the window seat, looking out over the lake. She was flushing pink as he read her a rather romantic sonnet, fawning over her and flattering in such a manner, that she was convinced she could fall half in love with him before the day was done. James Fitzroy was so dashing on his horse, so regal, so handsome. She couldn’t describe what she felt when she looked at him, but it made her feel a bit funny.
Walking quickly through the house, Sophia passed through the drawing room. It was full of women entertaining each other with cards and showing off – they were all eager for new husbands or new lovers, she thought, as she pushed through them, the air heady with scent and powder. Sophia entered through the heavy door, which was opened by a footman in blue and silver livery. At the north of the house, this room caught the early glare of the new sun and was the inner sanctuary where her mother prepared for her day. It had acquired the gentile title of ‘morning room’ now, but Sophia knew that this was where her grandmother, Margaret of Woodbury, had cried over her prematurely deceased husband. This room had been the mourning room, she thought, standing under the portrait of the great lady whose grief was now all but forgotten.
Over by the window, her mother was sitting at the ornate dresser being attended by Jane, her scrawny, undersized maid. Mary Darcy had seen too many husbands have their eyes turned by a bonny servant and had no intention of having it happen to her. The Duchess of Derbyshire was beautiful, despite being close to her fiftieth year; as a close friend of the queen, she was also a powerful courtier in her own right, learning quickly during the court’s time in exile how to make friends, influence people and protect those closest to her.
“Sophia.”
Mary was a formidable opponent in any argument, and her daughter could sense that she was already losing before she had even opened her mouth.
“You must exercise a degree of caution,” she warned. “You of all people must know that this flirtation with James Fitzroy cannot go anywhere.”
“Mama, I do not expect anything from Lord Fitzroy.”
“He is not a Lord!”
“Mama, he is! Despite your opinion of him, you cannot deny a gentleman the honour of his rank.”
“He is the bastard son of the King and a whore, and you would do well to avoid him. You were seen together today; do you deny it?”
Mary was furious that Sophia had taken it upon herself to walk, unchaperoned, into Knight’s Low with Fitzroy, who had good manners and a terrible reputation. There had been at least three girls at St James’s dismissed from service after being caught out by the advances of Fitzroy, who was – she couldn’t deny – very charming. It was what made him so very dangerous to young ladies like her daughter who had not seen enough of the world to know better.
Sophia had not realised that she had been sighted; holding his hand, kissing his mouth, feeling the weight of him against her as she cried out no, whilst her whole body was saying yes.
Her eyes flashed black and she flew into a rage at the unjustness of it all, words shooting out of her mouth like arrows.
“It was my father who told me to entertain the Fitzroy brothers, Mama! I was simply doing as I was told by your husband!”
Mary
moved quickly towards her daughter, “I do not know what sins your father may have asked you to commit on his behalf, but it would do you well, child, to seek your own counsel,”
“You think I would give up my virtue to the first boy who asks for it?” she questioned. “You do not know me at all, Mama.”
“I am simply saying to look to your own heart before you do anything rash.”
“I understand, but I am not playing my father’s game.”
“We all play his game in the end, my child.”
“Not I! I do not like the way he plays with others!”
“Be careful, Sophia, that’s all I ask,” the older woman had softened now, “as Darcy women we have to be careful, we are easy targets for those who wish to hurt our family. Your father has made many enemies at court and we need to exercise great care. It is always our responsibility to save our menfolk from themselves.”
“I will, I promise you,” she said, hoping that her mother believed her.
Walking out to join the remaining ladies she stepped hurriedly through the yellow bedroom, the rustle of her skirts felt loud, and she felt her face flush, could feel the flutter of her heart underneath her corsetry, the weight of the necklaces felt like a noose, and she had to stop, hiding out of sight. In the quiet and almost claustrophobic coolness of the wig room, she pressed her face against the glass of the small window. Underneath her the voices of men rose up from the courtyard, she could hear the brag and braw of men flattering themselves and conversing as if no-one could hear. Even out in the Derbyshire countryside, the conceit and vanity of court was still prevalent.
“Are you alright in here, m’lady?”
“Thank you, yes,” she said to the son of her father’s steward. “I am simply taking a moment to wonder.” He looked up at her expectantly, she knew that he was curious. “You can ask me what I am wondering about, if you like. We have known each other all of our lives, there is not a need for you to stand on ceremony with me.”
Becoming Lady Darcy Page 23
