“Oh god, Lizzy, I’m so broken.” he said softly.
“No, you’re not,” reaching out she placed her hand on the back of his neck, twisted his curl inadvertently. “But you have to promise me that you will do all you can to conquer this. You can’t fuck it up.”
“I promise I will do my best.”
“I mean it,” her voice took on an urgent tone that he had not heard before, “you have to promise me, because I don’t want to wake up in the world and you not be in it.”
“Lizzy… I promise.”
She seemed reassured. He knew enough of Elizabeth Georgiana Darcy to know that this was as near enough to an admission of actual proper feelings he was going to get.
“Every day I think I have you figured out, think that I know who you are,” he cupped her face in his hands, “but every day you surprise me.”
“I try my best,” she said in a small, honest voice free from joking and humour.
He leaned back, stretching out against the soft leather seats which creaked as he moved to face her fully, twisting his body around awkwardly so he could see the outline of her face in the pale light of the early morning. Benn had wondered what it would feel like to tell someone, but now as he saw the tender expression on her face, he realised that he shouldn’t have been worried at all.
He didn’t know quite what this was, but the name coursing through his veins, echoing around his brain, resounding within him like a big bass drum was Lizzy. She flowed through him in tiny sparks of gold and silver and he knew that she was why the universe had given him a second chance. It seemed as if she was standing there now before him, stripped down and raw and ready to be primed and painted.
He leaned towards her, kissing her gently on the forehead, the touch of his lips to her temple sending a little shiver through her; it was slow and unrehearsed. This was Benn Williams now, not the actor, not the professional kisser, but the man who might perhaps be part of her future.
There was a split second when she felt that this was the start of their story, that this was the way they would begin.
“C’mon then,” he grabbed her bag and coat and got out of the car, before opening her door and taking her firmly by the hand. “Let’s get this over and done with.”
He guided her across the road, walking with her towards the photographers, protecting her from the questions, shielding her from the furore and the flashbulbs and the noise, before leading her through the revolving doors and inside.
1822
The marriage of Georgiana Margaret Darcy and Henry Montague Armitage was the most joyous of affairs, the happy couple exchanging vows at the small church in Lambton, before returning to Pemberley for their Wedding Breakfast. Elizabeth had arranged with Mrs Reynolds for a delightful summer feast, and the ladies of the kitchen had excelled themselves in the preparation of such. The centrepiece was a rich, fruit cake, covered in sugared icing and decorated with flowers.
The new Mrs Armitage and her husband were to travel firstly to Kent, and then onwards to visit relations in Scotland. Darcy thought that he might burst with pride upon seeing his sister so deliriously happy and he knew that this marriage with Armitage was more than he could have ever wished for her – the two were so in love and he was anticipating great things for their future, especially as he hoped to see them both at Pemberley very frequently.
“Elizabeth!” The shrill tone echoed from the entrance hall, “Mrs Darcy, I must demand your attention at once!”
Turning on her heel, Elizabeth made her way back down the stairs and towards Lady Catherine De Bourgh. Once so intimidating, Darcy’s aunt had begun to shrink in her old age, both in size and demeanour. Eleven years had passed since she had refused to attend their wedding, stubborn to the core and with a ruthless snobbery that affected all of her close personal relationships, it had taken effort on Elizabeth’s part to alleviate the animosity between her new relations. It had not been easy, and Lady Catherine had been a hard taskmaster
Anne De Bourgh had now been married to her cousin Richard Fitzwilliam for these past ten years, and they had one son and a smattering of daughters. Lady Fitzwilliam, once dominated by her strong-willed mother, but now strengthened by the love she never thought she would find, had enforced a move to the simpler dower house for her mother a few months after her wedding, which had caused ructions in their relationship.
Lady Catherine, reduced to the living on her widow’s allowance, which was still a generous two thousand a year, found herself travelling the length of the country in the barouche box that her daughter still permitted her to use, residing with any relatives gracious enough to permit her to stay. She was usually in residence at Pemberley from the last week in July until the second of August – a three-week stay being the limit for the Darcys and their household.
Sitting in a large satin upholstered chair, she was scrutinising the new and imposing fireplace which had recently been installed, staring at it with a curious expression through the eyeglass that hung on a chain around her neck.
“Was this your idea, Elizabeth?”
“Lady Catherine, do you approve?” Elizabeth always found the best way to counteract her Aunt by marriage was to ask her another question, the Lady always enjoying advising others of her opinion, whether they asked for it or not. In this, Lady Catherine was not altered.
“I do approve,” she nodded. “I find that it always benefits a house such as this to install new fancies and fireplaces to keep abreast of fashion. People scoffed when I commissioned the new chimney piece at Rosings, the cost alone – eight hundred pounds, which is a vast amount of money – was a source of ridicule and dismay amongst many in our circle.”
“It is a very impressive chimney piece, Lady Catherine, I can testify to its superiority”
“Why of course it is, Elizabeth. My taste and fine eye for fashionable accoutrements are incomparable, I have often been told this by the greatest people of our acquaintance.”
“I am glad that you approve of the fireplace, Aunt,” she said in an affectionate tone, she had grown to hold this crotchety woman in high regard and whilst she would probably never say that she loved her, she appreciated her visits. Lady Catherine reached over and took Elizabeth’s hand in her own, holding it tight.
“Mrs Darcy, since you have joined our family, I have been astonished at how amicably a woman of low-born connections such as yourself can assimilate so satisfactorily into the role of mistress of Pemberley.”
She held back a laugh and smiled genially, “thank you for your compliment, Lady Catherine, it makes the toil worthwhile to know that you hold me in such regard.”
“Indeed, it must be daily struggle for you. Now, where is my niece?”
Elizabeth knew, with a relief felt in every bone of her body, that she had been dismissed and went to look for Georgiana, who had escaped into the gardens away from her forever disapproving aunt.
Darcy was sitting in the grand chair in his study at the front of the house. From here he could see out onto the driveway, down the hill towards the gatehouse, and then onto the gardens of the west front, where the ornamental gardens – laid out only the summer before - were now fully in bloom, the scent of camellias drifting in through the open window on the warm, summer breeze.
This was his domain. On one side there was a row of bookcases from floor to ceiling – it was here that he kept items from his own private collections, volumes that had had collected on his grand tour, and manuscripts and books that had been given to him by his father-in-law on the occasion of his marriage from the gentleman’s own admirable library at Longbourn. In the centre was the large oak desk that had belonged to George Darcy – the portrait of the gentleman hanging above the fireplace opposite. How he wished his mother and father were alive to see this day; to see Georgiana so agreeably matched and beginning her married life from their ancestral home, and how delighted they would have been to see his own young family.
There was a knock on the door. Henry Armitage was a well-rounde
d gentleman of nearly thirty; he was solid and smooth, never moving without cause, never saying more than needed to be said. He reminded Darcy very much of a Greek statue. Educated at Cambridge, as had Darcy, he was the second son of the Earl of Struthers and both families were pleased at such a fortunate match. Georgiana, with her dowry of thirty thousand pounds and a newly-found confidence, had already decided that they would live in Derbyshire House for the first few years of their marriage. She had enjoyed the company of society in town and had made a strong circle of friends with whom she was regularly seen at countless parties, balls and the theatre. Nurtured by the sisters she had acquired through her brother’s marriage, she had flourished and grown into a desirable, accomplished and well-liked young lady of the Ton.
“Darcy,” Henry’s voice was firm and confident, the tutelage of the Old Bailey lending it an authoritative air. “I know that you initially had concerns about my fortune. When one is a second son, one has to make one’s own way in the world somewhat.”
“I did have reservations, Henry, but my wife reminded me that some things are more important than the size of a gentleman’s fortune.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the size of a man’s heart.”
“I want you to know that I love Georgiana, most fervidly. She is the most vibrant, clever, challenging woman I have ever had the pleasure to know.”
“I know how it feels to love such a woman in such a way.”
“Georgiana often mentions that she could not have settled for a man she did not love, she believes that yourself and Mrs Darcy set the bar very high in that respect.”
“Did she indeed. I am of the belief that we are, all of us, so very fortunate.”
“I believe we are, Darcy.”
He looked at Armitage, who was full of nerves and yet so cheerful. He reminded him of himself on his own wedding day and he was taken back to that joyful day when he knew that Elizabeth would be his and his alone until death parted them. Walking over to Henry, he placed his hand on his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. The two men acknowledged an unspoken understanding – outside on the west front lawn, their wives were talking and laughing with a crowd of small children who were running about in the summer sunshine. Georgiana, dressed in a simple yellow wedding gown that belied her ancestry, had flowers in her hair and an immoveable smile on her face; Elizabeth was dressed in a pale lilac muslin and skipping along to the tune that was playing in her head, dancing with her children, immensely happy.
Twenty
Imogen Penelope Darcy had hair the colour of wheat and eyes as blue as the July sky she was born under. She was of such a pleasant temperament that she delighted everyone she met, dancing across the state rooms at Pemberley during the Duke’s Christmas visit, her little voice singing a song by Elton John as she twirled next to the ten-foot-tall Christmas tree. Her mother watched proudly, and various members of staff clapped and took photos of Lady Imogen beaming widely and curtseying on their disposable cameras.
As she grew older, family members commented on how much she reminded them of her great-grandma Millicent in the painting that hung underneath the grand staircase. At just eleven and a gangly, tall, girl, Imogen could not see how she even resembled the magnificent creature in the portrait before her. Painted when Millicent had been in her late twenties and done by a respected society artist, she could not see how her own lip pouted in the same way – the gentle crease of the cupids bow on her top lip – her hands, long and tapered were almost the same, she could see that, but it was only when she squinted her eyes and tilted her head that she saw a face that resembled her own.
It was the eyes, she thought, they had the same eyes. Most of the Darcys had slate grey eyes, but Imogen had eyes like sapphires that sparkled even when she was sad, and everyone commented on how she was the least Darcy-like of all of Winston’s grandchildren.
“Can you see it now, Imo?”
“Yes. Do you think I will be as beautiful when I am a grown up?”
“I think you are that beautiful now.”
The younger girl blushed; Lizzy unwrapped a packet of Cherry Drops and the two Darcy girls sat on the carpet in front of the painting, blocking the pathway for any paying guests. Imogen was mesmerised by the image of the Lady Darcy dressed in soft blue satin and posing against a table. Her hair was the colour of a harvest field, a glittering tiara of diamonds pinned through her curls; her lips painted red, her hands long and tapered, the embroidered sheer of her dress clinging gently to the curve of her back.
“This is for you, we thought you would like it.”
Imogen opened the soft velvet pouch to find a delicate silver band with a pearl in the centre, two small diamonds on either side. She tipped it out of the bag and held it up to look at it in greater detail, slipping it on her finger she found that it fit perfectly.
“It belonged to her, it was one of her most precious pieces of jewellery. She wore it all the time, and Dad thought it was time it had a new owner. Look!”
Lizzy pointed up at the oil-painted Lady, watching her younger sister recognise that the ring on her own finger was the same one gracing the hand of Millicent in the ninety-year-old portrait. Imogen beamed and hugged her sister tightly, maybe she was more Darcy than everyone thought.
Lizzy sat by her sister’s bedside in the private room of the Chelsea and Westminster hospital. Benn had walked her to the ward, holding her tight as if trying to fill her with courage and she had pulled him in close, not wanting to let go because letting go would mean that she would need to accept that this was real. That her little sister, the curly haired diva, was lying silently in a hospital bed attached to tubes and monitors.
“It will be okay,” he said, holding her hand as they sat outside the room waiting for the consultant.
“You can’t know that.”
He didn’t really know what to say because she was right. He didn’t know what was going to happen. Imogen had taken a dubious narcotic party cocktail, followed with a chaser of sleeping pills.
“I don’t know what will happen,” he said. “But I will be here whatever does. You don’t have to do this by yourself, Lizzy.”
She held him tighter and the tears came once more. It had been easy to watch Imogen go off the rails, especially when she seemed to have so much fun doing it, but now as she saw the pale face of the young girl, she wondered that if maybe all the times Imogen looked as if she was enjoying the rollercoaster ride that was her life, she was merely white-knuckled, clinging onto the safety bar, petrified of falling out.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, Matthew was calling, he declined the call, which was followed by a text message.
MATT: Can give you until 6pm, but no later. Hope Lizzy ok.
It was nearly 11am and he knew he would have to leave her, even if the thought of travelling back to Derbyshire without her was making him worry.
“Are you going to be alright?”
She nodded, holding onto him tightly as they said their goodbyes inside the building.
“My phone will be on and Leanne will have it,” he reassured. “If anything changes, if you need me, anything at all, you call me.”
“I will.”
He held her for the longest time before disappearing outside, escorted by a security guard who helped him to avoid the press.
Lizzy sat next to the lifeless body of her little sister. Her hair was a ratty bleached blonde and even though her face had been cleaned, traces of eyeliner remained in the corner of her eyes. There was a tattoo of a bee on her wrist, which was new. On the bedside table in a plastic bag were the items she had been wearing; the Olivia Burton watch dad had bought her, a Tiffany heart necklace, and the small pearl ring that had belonged to Millicent. She found herself studying Imogen as she waited for any sign of movement, any sign of normalcy that would signal to her that this was all going to be okay, but she had been there for nearly twelve hours now and there had been no change. Hugh had been in and out of the room all day, Carol hysterical
; it was all a waiting game now, wishing and hoping and praying that everything was going to be alright, because if it wasn’t, it would be the end.
Imogen was in a white room, she felt weightless and free. Ahead of her was a bright light, but there was a noise behind her. It sounded like music, a tune that she could recognise but couldn’t quite remember… there was the faint sound of piano keys being hit and she followed it, as she did the room became grey, became black and there was darkness.
She could hear the words, could hear them ever so softly…
‘Count the headlights on the highway…’
They became louder now.
‘Lay me down in sheets of linen…’
She recognised the voice.
‘You had a busy day today…’
As she fell into the voice, there was a rush of weight and heaviness and she coughed loudly, choking now…struggling…couldn’t breathe… noises, voices, beeps, shouts, light, alive, sounds, smells… air – breath – gasp!
Tiny Dancer.
1693
Lady Sophia Clarendon-Darcy, the Countess of Dortmund, was silent in the stag parlour; raging in the hearth, a large fire was filling the room with an overpowering heat. Seething with anger, the lady tapped her foot on the edge of the window seat in the corner of the room where she had been placed to prevent her causing trouble. At the table her brother Cyril, her father George and the Cheshire Gentlemen, a small group of local landowners loyal to the former King James II, were gathered amidst smoke and ale, discussing their plan to restore the deposed Monarch to the throne in loud, bellowing voices which belied the secrecy of their very treasonous plotting.
As the mother of two Royal bastards, Sophia was a key part of this plan – but it had never been her idea to force action on behalf of the rightful King and legitimise her own children as his successors. Edmund and Richard, strong healthy boys, resided in the country – too precious to be kept close to the park at Pemberley, or even at her house in town. Even though they had been officially recognised as sons of the King, being given the name Fitzroy and the titles of Earls of Bentinck and Struthers, their position under the rule of William of Orange was tenuous, especially given his wife’s own inability to provide the country with a Protestant heir. The Darcys themselves were staunch Catholics, but also staunch Royalists, and this most recent of developments had caused problems.
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