Becoming Lady Darcy

by Sara Smallman

  The obvious solution would be to demolish the house – it was in a state of disrepair, a constant job to be done, a leaking roof, and so very cold – they could sell some of the land for housing and live in one of their other properties permanently. The house would be lost, but the park would be safe, and the estate would survive.

  “Demolish Pemberley?” Kitty clattered her teacup in the saucer in an act of protest. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I most certainly have not, and I will kindly ask you watch your tongue.”

  The two women were drinking tea in the housekeeper’s room, waiting for Mrs Reynolds to return, as they polished the silver. There were only four members of staff now – Mrs Reynolds, Mr Staughton, Kitty, and James, the footman. Her father was convinced that they were living like paupers, but what use was it having an army of servants for the two of them she told him one evening, as she listened to him plonk about on the piano.

  “There will be another way,” the younger woman said, swilling the last dregs from the pot, before she started to buff the soup tureen.

  The Darcy crested silver centrepieces lay out before them, sparkling and shining and ready to be sent off to auction. Millicent ran her finger over the intertwined ‘F & E’. These were the pieces of the collection that adorned the dinner table of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth; she wondered if the most famous Darcy would judge her for selling it to fix the hole in the roof over the long gallery, plugging the constant drip that was causing the wood above the windows to fracture and crack. She couldn’t help but think he would view her as a complete failure.

  “If there is, I cannot find it,” Millicent lit a cigarette. “God knows I’ve bloody well looked.”

  Kitty reached over and took a drag, “you will though, Penny, I have every faith in you. You always solve everything.”

  “I always like a challenge, Kitty, it’s not quite the same thing.”

  “It is! You said it would be the easiest thing to have the house demolished, but in all the time I have known you, I have never known you to choose the easiest thing.”

  The answer came to her one fretful sleepless night. Who knew that Kitty Blake would be so wise? It occurred to Millicent, as she sat with a glass of brandy in the drawing room, that the house on Grosvenor Square was grand and opulent, but also empty and deserted for almost eleven months of the year. A discreet advertisement was placed in one of the more upmarket newspapers, and she received an offer from an American hotel magnate who remembered her mother with fondness. She negotiated hard, and in the end the gentleman offered the family a grace and favour penthouse in perpetuity once Derbyshire House was transformed into the city’s newest and plushest hotel. Furniture from the house was auctioned off, with people from across the world eager to own a piece of Mr Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, even if the pieces they bought were refurbished, reupholstered fragments of what was once there.

  She only kept a few items from the house that had been Isabella Stratton’s inheritance. It had once played host to princes and archdukes; but now there were just so many things for her box up or get rid of. Portraits, old trunks full of gowns and other pieces of nonsense were sent back to Pemberley and put in the Wyatt tower, which was now devoid of giggling chambermaids and lay empty. Egyptian artefacts that had been brought back by Fitzwilliam Darcy were donated to the British Museum and boxes full of books from the library were packed up and ready to be shipped to Derbyshire. It seemed endless, but it had to end.

  “You have twenty boxes to be removed to Pemberley, Lady Darcy, Ma’am,” said the efficient removals man, brandishing a clipboard and asking her to sign. Millicent walked around the empty ballroom, a room that soon be filled once more with noise and laughter and music. She gestured to a portrait on the wall. Dressed in yellow, her hair in ringlets, a pearl and diamond necklace around her throat, Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy smiled down at her from above the fireplace. “That too,” she said, as she signed the paperwork, before closing the front door with a firm clunk for the final time.

  Edward never knew how his daughter had managed to keep her son a secret for so long, but he was pleased to meet the young boy who stood before him. He was five years old and had the light colouring of his mother and the furrowed brow of the Darcy men.

  “Are you my grandpa?”

  “Yes,” he said firmly, with a quick nod of the head. “I am.”

  “You have a very big moustache.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  The two Darcys continued to study each other, Millicent stood at the edge of the room, watching them. The boy looked to her for cues.

  “Mama says that I will live here with you.”

  “Yes, if you like,” he gestured for the boy to follow him. “Come with me, young man, you can choose a bedroom.”

  Millicent watched as her son and her father disappeared up the grand staircase together. Edward had never asked her who the boy’s father was, but she knew that he had his suspicions. Even though her son wasn’t legitimate, there were enough husbandless wives up and down the country that she could easily pretend she was a grieving widow. It wasn’t too far from the truth.

  Edward Darcy walked down the long gallery watching as the boy ran ahead of him to the north end of the house and then back to him.

  “Can we play billiards now, grandpapa? I am big enough to reach the table.”

  “Of course, we can, dear sweet boy,” he said, ruffling the boy’s blonde curls.

  The war may have taken his wife and sons, but Edward knew now that there was a little flicker of hope, and his name was Winston Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  Nineteen

  Lizzy opened her eyes somewhere past Birmingham, the lights of the city flashing across their faces as they hurtled down the M6 and onwards to London. She reached over and placed her hand on his knee, wanting to feel something real, The Beatles were playing on the radio, and she tried not to think about what was waiting in the private wing of the Chelsea and Westminster hospital.

  He knew how she felt – midnight calls and being summoned to distant hospital wards - it had been the night after Madeleine’s thirty-eighth birthday party when he received a similar call. His dad had finally succeeded in drinking himself to the point of no return and his brother was on the phone, begging him to go to Manchester to make his peace with him, but he never had, would never be able to now.

  “You make me dizzy, Miss Lizzy!” he sang badly, trying to glean a smile from her face. He was trying hard to maintain a level of seriousness about the situation, but also trying to keep her upbeat.

  She turned the radio up – a smallest hint of a smile crossing her face as she remembered the tune, she thought she had forgotten it, but the lyrics were all there at the edge of her memory.

  “My Nan was called Lizzy,” he turned the heating up slightly after he noticed her shiver, sharing a memory that had been pushed to the back of his mind “I remember this song. We used to dance with her when we were kids.”

  They sat in silence again as the music turned to a song that Lizzy instantly recognised; she turned it up, basking in the husky, youthful tones.

  “Please don’t tell me that you like this,” he laughed, reaching to search for another station. “I bloody hate Joni Mitchell”

  “Don’t turn it over.”

  He deep sighed and turned his eyes back to the road, “do you actually like this?”

  “My mum…” tears unexpectedly and strangely forming behind her eyes. “She loved Joni Mitchell. So weird this song is on the radio.” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper, “This was her favourite…I think.”

  “You think?”

  “I can’t really remember much about her. Just that, she liked this song… strange what you do remember, isn’t it?”

  There another silence, but not a comfortable one; one that felt like a balloon being blown up to bursting point, waiting for the bang, the release, the noise. Lizzy inhaled deeply, gulping for air in the car which smelled like lemons and rosemary, she opened t
he window slightly, wanting to feel the cold rush of quickly moving motorway air pounding against her face, the resistant current push against her fingertips as they danced together.

  “Do you miss her?”

  “No.”

  It was matter of fact; as if she was ordering food in a restaurant. Benn was unsure how to react and she saw the momentary hesitation glance across his face.

  “I didn’t know her, so I don’t know who I would be missing,” she reassured him, trying to assuage any awkwardness. “I don’t remember much about her. Coco Pops, the smell of acrylic paint – she was an artist you know, a really good one; some of her pictures are in the flat – custard creams, and George Michael, and she had a pink fluffy jumper, and she had me one made exactly like it, and I loved that jumper. Strange, what you remember about someone, isn’t it? This song reminds me of her a lot though, but I don’t know why.”

  They listened for a moment, before he felt he needed to lighten the mood.

  “Oh, I could drink a case of yoooooou, darrrlllliiiiiing…”

  “Good job you can act, because you really can’t sing…”

  Benn returned her smiled and reached for her hand in the darkness, finding that she instinctively grasped it, holding on tightly.

  The services outside Oxford were half-closed, patronised by long-distance lorry drivers and a few other travellers on their way to Dover for the early morning ferries. Lizzy always recognised them by the proud stickers on their people carriers; the small tired-looking children plodding through the brightly-lit arcade to use the loo and buy magazines with garish toys taped to the front, the mums shrill and fractious as they tried to keep one step ahead of the itinerary, the dads scrolling through their phones.

  She was sitting by the window, tucked into the corner, looking out at the past midnight nightlife, she had been checking her phone constantly – her call to the hospital had confirmed that there had been no change – she thought about her little sister who had felt so unhappy about her life on this earth that she had tried to remove herself from it, and she couldn’t comprehend how the vivacious, bubbly girl with the long legs and the big smile had ever felt so alone.

  Benn – currently being accosted by the barista, who was convinced he was off the telly – was buying coffee and cake as requested, and it seemed to take ages before he wandered over with a tray, balancing two large lattes and a slice of carrot cake. He slid into the booth next to her and handed her the drink, which she took greedily from his hands, slurping the caffeine into her veins.

  “Did you get recognised?” She wondered how often it must happen for him; outside of Derbyshire nobody knew who she was really, and she was grateful for that.

  “No,” he took a gulp of his own coffee, needing to feel more awake than he currently did. “She thought I was off Coronation Street – asked me if I was married to Gail!”

  “Everyone has been married to Gail, you should have said yes! We might have got free cake.”

  “Lizzy, I was nominated for an Oscar,” he said with mock consternation

  “Yes,” she said cheekily, “but you didn’t win.”

  “I was a close second,” he said sternly, taking a forkful of the cake and offering it to her, she took it gladly.

  They had been on set most of the day, and even though production catering was good, the cake made her realise how hungry she was.

  “I’ll have to watch out for this – first profiteroles, now carrot cake – you’ll make me fat!”

  They drank their lattes, Lizzy’s phone bleeped several times: messages from her dad who was probably only about fifty miles behind them now, and a message from Matthew who had collected Harriet and taken her to the Armitage.

  “He said that he can move your scenes to later on,” she said, as they walked back to the car with coffees and cake to go. “So, you can have a sleep when we get there, can’t you?”

  “He doesn’t want me to look like shit for the close-ups, that’s all!” He opened the door for her, and she clambered in. “Don’t think that he’s developed a duty of care or anything!”

  “He did say that you would need extra time in make-up and said…that he wouldn’t be shooting your close-ups in 8k? Does that make sense to you?”

  “Yeah, it does. The cheeky bastard!”

  They began their journey again, the sleepy romantic songs of the middle of the night moving to more upbeat early morning ones and they found themselves dancing along to Meat Loaf as they hit the M25, before turning off the radio and driving into central London in a hushed silence, both preoccupied with their own thoughts and worries, but one thought lingered, kept pushing forward and he knew he had to ask.

  “Do you know why she did it?”

  “I have no idea. I’ll never understand how feel so hopeless that they would want to do that.”

  “But sometimes people do feel like that.”

  “They do, but even when the world is really dark, there is always a little chink of light to be found somewhere.”

  She looked quickly at him, as if wanting a reassuring answer and found it lacking. He was clenching his jaw; his eyes were glassy and focused intently on the road.

  “That day when we first met…”

  “The day when you were a complete arse…”

  She joked, but the look on his face made her realise that this wasn’t funny.

  “Yes.”

  He swallowed hard. She noticed the crack in his voice, the creases on his forehead, the way he was blinking as he did when he was nervous.

  “What is it? Tell me…”

  “I was in a bad place when I got to Derbyshire.”

  “I remember, you said that.”

  Her voice softened, and she placed her hand on his, wrapping her fingers around his.

  “Last year was awful. The worst year of my life, and I was drinking a lot. I am a selfish, horrible drunk. I don’t care about anything apart from where the next drink is coming from. I’m no good to anyone when I’m like that.”

  His voice was low, scratchy and he grabbed her hand, holding tightly, feeling as if he was holding on during a storm and letting go would send him falling beneath the waves.

  “I had been drinking since eight that morning, not quite whisky on my cornflakes, but not far off… the day was so empty, nothing in it... just thoughts running around my head. It was rush hour when I decided I needed more booze. My brother had been to all of the shops within walking distance, told them not to serve me, and they wouldn’t.” He recalled that night, how he felt, how it hurt, “but London is a big place.”

  He was telling her was something that he kept hidden in the secret parts of himself, this had been buried somewhere deep inside where he never let any light in and he had never told anyone about it, scared that they would view him differently, that it would change their opinion of him. But now, driving to the capital in the middle of the night with her, he knew that he wanted to let her see all the hidden corners, allow her access to the darkest parts of his heart.

  “There was a shop in Balham that would have happily sold me enough whisky to drown in…”

  His face was wistful, haunted almost as he tried to pull the events of that night from the dark, deep dungeons of his mind.

  “I stood on the edge of the platform, waiting for the tube. Only one stop, get the booze, then home for Netflix and trying to forget the utter clusterfuck that was my life.”

  He swallowed deeply again, trying to centre himself. He knew he couldn’t stop now, couldn’t end the story, would need to carry on until everything was spread out before her, so she could see, so she could know that his confidence and charm was an act. That really, he was broken and bent and bruised.

  “I stand right at the edge, feeling as if I could touch the other side and I know how easy it would be to let go of it all. I can feel my toes on the curve of the platform, that gust of air that you get before the train comes, that warm air, that smell’s so familiar. All I could think that this would be my last brea
th and I breathed it in, wanting that comfort, that smell coating me inside…and then I hear that annoying song, that one off the advert with the dancing bear. Someone is playing it through a phone – the last thing in my mind would be that shit song being played shittily, and it annoyed me.

  I hear the screech of the train and feel myself lean forwards. I’m ready to go now, I’ve made my peace, and it’s time. I know it’s my time to go. I fall forwards, close my eyes, wait for the dark. But then there is a yell and then it hurts. It hurts so fucking much, and the train siren is blaring away. I can hear laughing. When I open my eyes, I see the train racing through the station, and I realise that the laughter I can hear is mine. This man with red braces and a stupid moustache who stopped me, who is glaring at me, who doesn’t even know who I am, saved me. I came so close. I can understand the temptation.”

  He could feel the tears running down his face, hoped that she wasn’t thinking less of him, or worse, that she pitied him. Lizzy reached over, pulling her sweater over her hand, gently dabbing the tears away as he drove on into the city itself and then she held his hand, feeling as if she could never let go.

  As they passed the main entrance of the hospital, she could see that there were photographers already gathered, accosting anyone who came out, asking for news of Lady Imogen and she felt her stomach turn. The car pulled up outside the imposing structure of the hospital and as soon as it had stopped, she unbuckled her seatbelt and wrapped her arms around him, holding him in the tightest of hugs, the firmest of embraces.

  “If you ever feel like that again, you tell me,” she whispered into his ear, inhaling him deeply, gently pressing her lips to his cheek.

  “I am so sorry to burden you with all of this.”

  It was shameful, he thought, laying this at her door knowing how difficult the next few hours would be for her.

  “It’s never the answer, you know, but I understand that it can sometimes be the question.”