“Fitzwilliam,” she said tentatively, “the baby is nearly a month old, and she hasn’t been given a name yet. Rather than wondering why something terrible happened, you have to focus on the babe you still have.”
Darcy nodded. He knew what needed to be done now, he simply didn’t know if he has the strength in him to carry it out. He arranged for Samuel Joshua Darcy, named by his mother, to be placed in the family mausoleum at St Peter’s Church in Lambton; it was something not usually done in cases such as these, but he felt that it was the proper resting place for his son, and he arranged for an appropriate service and a marker to signify the existence of the child they had lost. Elizabeth screamed at him, scolded him, held him, sobbed, but it was as if his own feelings and emotions were disregarded, his wife consumed by an all-encompassing grief that was devouring her and he did not know how he was going to get her back.
Mrs Reynolds had employed the services of a wet nurse for nursing the baby as Mrs Darcy, still unwell with nerves, was unable to herself. It was a peculiar time, the lady thought as she swaddled the youngest Darcy in cotton blankets and held her as she once did Miss Georgiana, who had been left similarly, but more permanently motherless. Yes, she thought, these were peculiar times indeed.
“Do you think the mistress will recover,” Betsy asked Ellen as they were finishing supper one evening.
The maid was concerned; she had been unable to rouse her mistress in any way, had tried to speak to her but been rudely dismissed on each occasion she had deigned to raise the issue of the baby, however subtly she had tried. She had Mr Darcy’s ear on this matter, and she knew how worried he was too, but nothing she attempted was helping. Ellen had only seen this happen once before to a woman in the village who had lost three babies one after another, and she was unwilling to share the desperately unhappy outcome of that tale, scared that her mistress was slipping on the same treacherous path.
“Who knows,” Ellen said. “She sees no joy in anything.”
“She hasn’t been out of her rooms in a week,” Tilly added. “She doesn’t want her sheets changed, she tells me to go away.”
“I reckon that she would be best off in town with parties and balls to entertain her, divert her attention from it all,” Betsy wondered out loud. “I think she would forget it all if she had a few new gowns.”
The girls fell silent as the ominous figure of the Darcy housekeeper loomed behind the youngest housemaid, who was still talking oblivious.
“Do you not agree? I think a new gown and a dance at the Assembly Rooms would make me the happiest woman in Christendom, I’m sure Mrs Darcy would agree.”
“We do not pay for your opinions, Betsy Harrop, and you would be best off keeping them to yourself,” Mrs Reynolds scolded, clipping her over the head with a cloth, “any more talk like that and it will be Mr Staughton who boxes your ears.”
“I was only saying Mrs Reynolds, that…”
“You need to shut your rattle, girl,” the housekeeper said sternly. “Now prepare my tray before you go up, and no more talk like this from any of you. Do you think the master would want to hear it? It’s bad enough that Mrs Darcy is unwell, he doesn’t need to worry about idle gossip from idle housemaids!”
The older lady stomped off into her parlour and the girls looked at Betsy, who was still completely unaware of any offence she may have caused.
“Maybe they should just hold a ball,” she said.
“You’re lucky she only clipped your ear,” Tilly said grimly.
Elizabeth kept to her rooms, which were stifling hot and unaired, and was rarely seen outside in the grounds. Darcy had held her, cradled her, wrapped his arms around her and caressed her face, but nothing could fill the hollow emptiness inside of her as she wept for the loss of her child. She stood by the window of her rooms, hiding in between the long, heavy curtains and the condensation that had built up on the rectangular panes of glass. Pressing her forehead to the cleansing coolness, she prayed silently for a release from this pain which seemed unending. This was the worst of times.
The following morning the household woke to the shouts of Ellen sounding out around the bright gallery, her voice carrying to the opposite end of the corridor, the crystal ringing.
Darcy woke suddenly and knew that something was very wrong.
Elizabeth was gone.
Sixteen
It was a crisp October morning at the top of Cage Hill, the countryside below was turning from soft green to burnished orange, the change of the seasons cascading throughout the landscape. Harriet had been there since before six taking pictures of the hunting lodge for her college project. She loved the way that it stood on the skyline, sometimes looking gigantic, and other times miniscule, and she had walked around the edges of the park taking photographs from different angles trying to capture the grand majesty of the ancient building that had reigned over the skyline in one form or another since Henry VIII was King.
Walking past Mr Darcy’s horse chestnut tree, she noticed some conkers lying on the floor, snatching at them she peeled off the spiky shell to reveal the beautiful soft seed inside. Darcy conkers had always been the best ones, even better than the ones from the massive old horse chestnut tree in Lambton. Harriet smoothed the conkers in her hand until they were like polished gems, satisfied with their prettiness she began her descent towards the house. At the edge of the hill there was a large protruding rock which came up to her shoulder; when Harriet had been younger Lizzy had lifted her up to it and swung her down to the ground, it felt like flying as she had been spun round and round, the horizon fading to a blur before they fell about giggling on the hillside. It had also been in this spot on a cold, cruel December night that Fitzwilliam Darcy had died. His body had been found by servants from the house who had been sent up the hill to look for him in the waist deep snow.
She looked at the tributes written on the rock – there were quotes from Pride and Prejudice, drawings of the various actors who had played the role, and, not unusually, a random flowery bra. Harriet thought it was crazy how people were so in love with the fictional version of him when the real man was much more interesting. He had travelled far and wide, adventuring across continents and raiding tombs – although she was undecided if he was a plunderer or a protector – bringing back countless numbers of objects that had been displayed in the rattling glass cabinets of Pemberley for longer than anyone could remember.
After his father died, he had become the MP for Lambton, overseeing the changes that were rapidly occurring as the people protested for democracy – even publicly vilifying the behaviour of the officials involved in the Peterloo Massacre, much to the outrage of his peers – and always pushing forward for change. In the distance she could hear the train to Manchester rattling along the railway line that Fitzwilliam Darcy, with all his ambition and foresight, had petitioned for and which had been built, completed and then extended in the years following his death. Most people didn’t realise that he did these things, only saw him as a one-dimensional romantic hero. Personally, she blamed Colin Firth and his wet shirt.
Harriet realised that Mr Darcy would never have been happy with a meek and obliging society lady; that when he travelled to Hertfordshire, he had resigned himself to lifetime of solitude, not knowing that he was about to meet the woman who would change his world forever. She pulled the two conkers from her pocket and gently placed them next to the rock, taking a moment to wish him a very happy birthday.
Loitering at the north front gate, she observed the dozens of people milling about like ants over the grounds, before walking down the hill to the car park, which was overrun with production trucks and catering vans, where she knocked on the door of her dad’s trailer. There was no answer, so she stepped up and popped her head in.
“Dad?”
Looking left and right, she wandered through the trailer absentmindedly, but could not see him. Filming this time had been much more fun than usual as she had been able to do something; usually it was about as much fu
n as sitting in the offices of Winchester, Sparrow and Jones, playing with the photocopier and waiting for her mum to finish with a client. Her friends from school didn’t understand how visiting a film set could be so boring, but most summers her dad’s filming schedule dominated holiday plans. Last year she ended up spending three whole weeks playing Minecraft with Oleander at some grotty little industrial estate in Kent rather than going to Florida like they had been promised.
She found it strange because her dad was usually on set by now, especially on days like this when his full control freak mode set in and everybody walked on eggshells until he was happy. Somewhere she could hear his distinctive text tone – his own voice at his Oscar acceptance speech – sounding somewhere in the trailer. She decided to ring; the theme music from Ubiquitous sounded out loudly, emanating from the bathroom, the deep bass vibrating against the wall and the pitchy violins sounding sharp and shrill.
“Dad, are you on the loo?”
There was a loud shuffle as something fell against the interior wall of the trailer.
“Harriet, can I meet you up at the house in about ten minutes?”
He sounded strange and she felt that she must question it.
“Are you alright in there?” she pushed, “is this like when we went to Mexico and you were wee-pooing for three days?”
There was a noise that she thought was someone stifling a laugh. There was someone here.
“No, H, it’s okay… I’ll see you up there, okay?”
The forced joviality in his voice was an obvious sign that he was trying to get rid of her now. There was definitely someone else here. She quickly scouted around the room looking for clues, but there was nothing obvious, which meant that he was getting much cleverer at hiding his various infidelities.
Harriet wasn’t one to judge her father, but she wished that he tried a little bit. It made sense now that he had been away on location since June, and that neither Cara or the boys would answer her FaceTime calls, she had probably already caught him and was busy working out her next move, not needing the hassle of his other random child to confuse things.
“Okay, I’ll meet you at the shop, but you will need to buy me something.”
“Yeah, course!” She was convinced his voice had moved up several octaves. “See you in a bit!”
Harriet grabbed her bag, stomped over to the door, opened it and then closed it again before sitting on the sofa, just hidden from the view of the bathroom. It only took a minute or two before her father emerged, dishevelled and post-coital, followed by Tamsin McLeod, who was smiling until she saw the frowning face of Harriet Darcy in the corner of the room.
“Oh, Dad,” she sighed, “what are you doing?”
“Harriet, I... uhm... you said you were… uhm,” his eyes darted from Harriet to Tamsin. “I can explain this, please don’t tell Cara… or your mother…”
“You know he’s married, right?” she addressed Tamsin directly, the tiny blonde looking incredibly young without her professional make-up. “He’s like twenty years older than you, you could do much better… what happened to Rowan? He’s gorgeous! Please don’t tell me you sacked off Rowan Morris for my dad, because you would need your head checking if you have. Look at him, he’s dead old!”
She pointed at Matthew, seeing a man who was nearly forty and, in her eyes, super ancient. Tamsin didn’t see what Harriet saw, instead she saw a deeply attractive man in his late thirties who was in a bad marriage, and she knew that she could put all of his broken pieces back together, even if he was fifteen years older than her. The role of Lydia should prove to be her breakout one, finally she would get away from playing studious nerds and could finally aim for the Manic Pixie Dream Girl roles that had so far eluded her, and if she managed to make Matthew Wickham super happy along the way then that would be the icing on the cake.
Tamsin, her hair rumpled and her eyes like saucers, looked from Harriet to Matthew, then grabbed her shoes and bag, which she had hidden in a cupboard, before quietly exiting the trailer. Harriet stood looking at the father with her hand on her hips, a judgmental glare on her face.
“You look exactly like your mother when you do that.”
“I expected better of you – she’s twelve!”
“She’s twenty-three, Harry, I think you’re being slightly judgmental.”
“Slightly judgmental? Are you not slightly married?”
He stood there, limp, saying nothing.
“And what about Mum?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand adult relationships. They’re more complicated than changing your Facebook status, you know.”
“That’s not patronizing at all, is it?” She picked up her bag and began to walk towards the door of the trailer, “and nobody under forty uses Facebook anymore.”
“Don’t come in here and speak to me like that,” he protested. “Things haven’t been great with your stepmum and me for ages now, she barely tolerates me being there…and your mother…well…”
“What about her? You’ve been sleeping with her for the past ten years! It’s like you think I’m fucking stupid!”
“Don’t speak to me like -”
“I’ll speak to you however I damn well want!” Harriet was livid, and she wasn’t stopping now. “I’m not arsed about you sleeping with Tamsin McLeod. I. Do. Not. Care. But I do care that your sons are upset and worried, and you’re ignoring it like you always do!”
“Harriet, please don’t talk about things that you know nothing about…”
“You need to make this right for the boys,” she said. “Stop thinking about yourself for once. Stop being so selfish!”
Harriet slammed out of the trailer.
Matthew sat on the sofa, threw his head back and exhaled every last breath in his body.
His daughter was definitely a Darcy.
1816
Dressing herself in a simple gown, jacket and her sturdiest boots, Elizabeth Darcy had risen before the crow and ventured outside. She was surprised to see that the world around her was still the same when she was so different; all her emotions somehow deadened by the loss she had experienced and the grief that still overcame her when she was least expecting it. She had pretended to be asleep when her husband, he himself still grieving, had come to her rooms the night before and sat gently on her bed, pouring out his heart and soul to her, not aware that she was listening to every word he said.
He felt the pain too, he said. He did not ever think that they would lose a child, but that they had been given a great gift and had another baby to look after and cherish, and this baby and their sons needed their mother, and he needed his wife. She had wanted to speak up and tell him that he could not experience the loss in the same way she had, had not carried the babe in his belly for nine months and felt him move and grow, and now there was nothing. No life and no future for the dead child, the lost son, the missing Darcy.
Elizabeth planned to walk to the Cage, which she managed in reasonable time, looking back towards her home which was still as beautiful today as the first time she ever saw it.
Onward and onwards, she walked further, through the deer park and into the moorland beyond. The early summer months had hardened the ground and she found it strong and easy to stride across.
Onwards and onwards, she pushed on until she could no longer see the outline of the three-hundred-year-old hunting lodge dominating the skyline.
Onwards and onwards, keeping the momentum of one foot in front of the other, over stiles and past cottages on the furthest expanses of the estate, whose tenants she visited in the winter, bringing them gifts from the house.
Onwards and onwards, until it was mid-afternoon, and she decided to stop; her feet aching and her mouth dry. She was unsure of how many miles she had walked, and she was aware of the impropriety of it all. But Elizabeth knew where she was going, and she trudged ahead, onwards and onwards.
Gallagher didn’t expect to see Mrs Darcy of Pemberley, sunburned and dehydrated, walking do
wn the driveway towards Dunmarleigh, he had thought the bedraggled and scruffy looking woman was perhaps a wandering gypsy looking for work. It was only when he spotted the expensive looking necklace under her spencer, the heavy fine embroidery to her mud-soaked hem that he realised he was mistaken. He jumped from his horse and pulled her under his arm, lifting her onto the chestnut mare and striding purposefully up to the house.
“Madame, are you alright there?”
She was pale, her bonnet falling down her back, the ribbon around her neck.
“I feel sick.”
“Have you walked all the way from Pemberley, miss?”
He kept his eyes forward, not wanting to look at her.
“I think so.”
“That’s near enough twenty miles.”
“I believe so.”
“Pardon, Mrs Darcy, but why have you taken it upon yourself to walk twenty miles when, beg pardon m’lady, you have a fine carriage.”
“Sometimes you need to walk away from your life, I think,” she studied him. He was older than she expected now she could see him properly, strong as well, given the way he lifted her onto the horse.
“What is your name, good man?”
She meant it, he was a good man. She could see his goodness etched across his face.
“Gallagher, Mrs Darcy. Francis Gallagher.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr Gallagher,” she nodded her head, he responded with a nod in response.
“Mrs Darcy,” he pulled the horse onwards. “It won’t be long until we’re at the house.”
Mrs Bingley came running through the corridor, her bonnet coming lose and falling to the ground as she reached her sister and gathered her up, calling for small ale and ice. Elizabeth pulled herself into Jane’s arms and was held there on the floor of the house for a long time, crying and sobbing until there was nothing left inside her.
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