Becoming Lady Darcy

by Sara Smallman

  There had been many triumphs in their marriage; his foresight to invest in the railway line that now ran across the northern edge of his estate had meant that the family coffers had continued to grow and, more importantly, had resulted in the family Dukedom being reinstated by the young Queen in a simple ceremony that took place with very little pomp at St James’s Palace. Darcy smiled when he thought of how his Aunt would have reacted at having to call his wife ‘Your Grace’. Lady Catherine De Bourgh was long gone now, but he suspected that the thought of it alone was enough to make her turn in her grave.

  Charles and Jane had been gone a while now, passing out of this world within a few months of each other, leaving a family of seven children and twenty grandchildren at the last count; Georgiana, his wonderful sister joined their parents shortly after her fiftieth birthday, she had lived a joy-filled life with Henry, adding five children to their family, including her youngest son, who was named Darcy after his Uncle. Mr Collins had predeceased Mr Bennet, dropping down dead in the middle of a sermon during the Sunday service. His widow Charlotte went on to marry a gentleman recently returned from the navy, kept a happy home in Surrey, and gave birth to three healthy boys. With no other male heirs, the Longbourn entail was nullified, and the house bequeathed to the youngest Darcy boy, Francis, who had always been his grandfather’s favourite, reminding him as he did of his second eldest daughter.

  Sitting in his leather chair, he found it harder to see the words that he had already written on the paper; he hated how his body was failing him now, his mind was as sharp and alert as it had always been, but he found that he ached more, struggled to walk and drag his old bones around the house that he loved. Outside the snow was getting deeper, covering the circle of lawn in the centre of the forecourt with its obliterating whiteness. Mainly driven by the coldness that was pervading the room as the fire died down to embers, he finished his letter, folded it, sealed it with wax and placed it carefully in his drawer with a grand finality.

  He took out his pocket watch, the rounded gold timepiece had been in the family for years; broken and worn, Elizabeth had seen to it that it was repaired as a birthday gift over twenty years ago now. Engraved with the family motto, it now ticked away in the pocket of his waistcoat; measuring its own heartbeat in time with his. Time would allow him a chance to ride up to Cage Hill before dinner despite the weather; the power of his horse enabling him to forget the frailty of his own wretched human condition as it thundered to the summit.

  Darcy slowly began his ascent up the north stairs; the cold wind penetrating the draughty house and spiralling up the staircase behind him and he felt icy to his core, unable to shake the chill which was enveloping his body and taking his breath away. He took a moment to admire the portraits, the artefacts and the objects they had lovingly collected in their home; each item on display held a special memory, each portrait was of someone who was loved or had been loved by them. He crossed the landing, the welcoming sight of the grand staircase with the hand carved balustrade and the ornate plasterwork ceiling with the Darcy family escutcheon dominating the centre. He was taking it all in, as if he were viewing Pemberley for the first time; he walked towards the entrance hall, and felt lighter almost weightless, as he bounded down the small staircase and past the picture of Mary Darcy, which was hung there once more.

  There was the first fleeting memory of his mother dancing in the hallway as she skipped along, holding his hands in her own, he could hear her gentle tinkling laughter and hear the noisy clack-clack of her pearl necklaces as they bounced up and down around her neck. He could hear his father’s voice, quiet but authoritative, teaching him how to play billiards and the gentle thud of the cue ball hitting the red, and in the distance, the sweet trill of his sister Georgiana singing and playing joyfully, loudly for all to hear.

  Amidst the music was the joyous sound of children’s giggles, Fitzwilliam, James, the loud thumps of youngsters running towards him. His memories were becoming cloudy in his mind now, as if he was desperately trying to remember a dream, but he couldn’t quite grasp it in his hands.

  A flash of red and gold,

  a laugh,

  echoing around him now,

  twisting past him,

  running away,

  slipping through his fingers

  Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth.

  “I have waited for you, my love,” she said, weaving around him, a voice in the air.

  “I apologise, Madame, for taking an age to get here.”

  She was there before him now, her dress was red, her hair twisted and curled as it had been the first time he ever saw her in a crowded Assembly Hall. If he knew then what he knew now, he would have danced with her all of that night and married her the next.

  “It is time for us to dance now, Mr Darcy,” she said, taking him by the hand, “are you ready?”

  He moved close enough to smell violets and bergamot, in the far distance he could hear music again, a gentle waltz and he pulled her into him and began to lead her around the room, until all he could hear was her laughter… there was a light now… brighter than anything he had ever seen before, and a warmth that filled him from his boots up.

  Mabel was waiting in the library for news of her father when Staughton entered, a sad look on his face and Darcy’s watch in his hand. They couldn’t know that the horse would slip and fall, throwing him from his seat; that as he landed, his skull cracked against the large rock on Cage Hill. The only daughter of Fitzwilliam Darcy would never know that as he took his last breath, he whispered her mother’s name.

  A Truth Universally Acknowledged…

  With her famous family and her gorgeous looks, Lady Imogen Darcy, heiress of Pemberley – the country estate immortalised by Jane Austen – has an active social life, and Instagram account, and doesn’t stick to any posh protocol. Imogen – youngest daughter of the Duke of Derbyshire – shares her glamorous lifestyle online, giving us all a taste of how the other half live. Last month she was pictured at the premiere of the new Henry Jones film, accompanying dishy Marcus Stansfield, who plays Head of MI6 Gilderoy Manwaring, and only last week broke all the rules by posing topless on the balcony of the family villa in France. If we had Lady Imo’s lifestyle and bank balance, we would be showing off about it too!

  1985

  The house was cold, but the little girl with curly hair was too busy playing with her new doll to notice. She was pleased that Grandad Duke had remembered she liked dolls with yellow hair. He had bought her this for her birthday. She was four now. The new dolly was called Jane. The rain was loud outside. Her room was at the very top of the house and sometimes it was scary. She was wearing a pink jumper that was fluffy. The carpet in her bedroom was blue.

  Mummy was in the bathroom, she could hear her talking to herself. Mummy did this a lot. Sometimes she was very sad and would cry lots, but today she had been very happy and made Coco Pops for breakfast. She was never usually allowed Coco Pops, but Mummy had danced around the kitchen singing ‘wake me up and pour me Coco Pops’ to the song on the radio and she had laughed lots. They had leftover birthday cake with cups of sweet, milky tea.

  Daddy had gone to work when it was still very dark. She had been sleeping in the middle of them, cuddling up to Mummy who had pulled her close under the heavy duvet. She had wrapped her little finger around Mummy’s yellow curl and twisted it. Daddy had kissed her on the head and told her to be good. His beard was scratchy on her head. He smelled like aftershave. The one from the green bottle. Brut. He was wearing his purple tie. She was always good for Mummy, but Mummy sometimes forgot to tell Daddy. Sometimes Mummy forgot lots of things.

  She went downstairs in her plastic princess shoes – the best ones with the diamonds on them – they clomped loudly on the wooden steps. Mummy would be cross at the noise. She sat down and took them off. Her socks were pink and had lace around the top. Mummy’s favourite record was playing, the one with the blue lady on the front. The car
pet was wet in front of the bathroom door and she could hear the water running over the side of the bath.

  “Mummy, you have left the water on again, silly.”

  “Mummy.”

  “Mummy?”

  “Mummy?”

  Her feet were wet now.

  Something was wrong.

  She ran into Mummy’s room and climbed back into the bed. She took her socks off and hid under the covers until she felt warm.

  The music stopped.

  It was dark outside when she woke up, but she could not hear Mummy. Her tummy was rumbling. She slipped out of the bed.

  There was water on the bedroom floor now.

  Daddy came home with chips, she could smell the vinegar.

  Then shouting and noise and blue lights.

  Mrs Burrows tucked her Care Bears blanket over her legs, and they sat on the couch watching television.

  There were custard creams and hot chocolate, but they didn’t taste the same.

  There was no Mummy.

  Lady Darcy found dead in London home.

  The Countess of Berkshire was found dead at the family home in Central London yesterday. Whilst the cause of death is still unknown, it is believed that Patricia Darcy, 29, drowned in the bath, although police confirmed that there were sleeping tablets and vodka at the scene. Elizabeth, the Countess’s four-year-old daughter, was in the house alone with the body of her mother until her father, Hugh Darcy, Earl of Berkshire, arrived home around 7pm. Patricia, granddaughter of Sir Percy Montague and former winner of the prestigious Holstein Prize for Art, married the Earl in 1975. They also have a son, Charles, 8. A spokesperson for the Darcy family said, ‘we ask for privacy at this time, understandably the family are devastated by the loss of a wonderful wife and mother

  DEBS: I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.

  LIZZY: It’s okay.

  DEBS It’s not okay.

  LIZZY: They need someone to make an example of, who better than Lady Darcy?

  DEBS: Lizzy…

  LIZZY: You need this job. You’re good at this job.

  DEBS: You do know that it’s all a mistake, don’t you?

  LIZZY: Yes, I don’t think for one minute that you’re a master embezzler.

  DEBS: Thank you, I will speak to them. This is stupid.

  LIZZY: It will be alright.

  DEBS: I know, everything always is in the end.

  LIZZY: Always.

  DEBS: Thank you, Lizzy. I don’t know how I will ever repay you.

  LIZZY: Deb, it’s okay.

  DEBS: I’ll see you afterwards?”

  LIZZY: Definitely, you can buy me a caramel latte!

  Winchester, Sparrow & Jones ESTABLISHED 1782

  235 HIGH STREET

  LAMBTON

  DERBYSHIRE

  DE42 8PX

  STRICTLY PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL

  To be opened by the Addressee only

  Lady E.G. Darcy

  c/o Estate Office

  Pemberley

  Lambton

  Derbyshire

  DE42 7JG

  By recorded delivery and by email: e.g.darcy@pemberleyestates.org.uk

  Dear Elizabeth

  SUMMARY DISMISSAL FOR GROSS MISCONDUCT

  I am writing to you to confirm the outcome of the disciplinary hearing held at the offices of Winchester, Sparrow and Jones on the 22nd April.

  Having considered the situation in detail, including representations made by yourself during the hearing, I have reached the conclusion that you are guilty of gross misconduct and consequently I confirm that your employment is terminated without notice and with immediate effect.

  According to our records you have taken 6 days less than your accrued holiday entitlement to the date of termination. Therefore, the Company will pay you a sum in lieu of your holiday together with your final salary payment in accordance with your contract of employment.

  Your P45 will be forwarded to you in due course.

  Yours sincerely

  Harris Jones

  Managing Partner

  On behalf of Winchester, Sparrow and Jones

  1939

  Millicent Darcy stood on the roof of the Wyatt tower. It had once housed the senior female servants and the occasional small child belonging to visitors, but now it was mainly used for storage and she had pushed her way past boxes and trunks to reach the highest point of the house, clambering up the spiral staircase in her velvet shoes with the diamante buckle which were once for dancing, but which were now for housework.

  The moon was bright, the sky above Pemberley bluer than she had ever remembered it being in September, but it felt bittersweet. War was in the air and the rampage of Adolf Hitler throughout Europe had resulted in an announcement, the tinny reverberation of which had sent shivers down her spine as if each word was full of electricity, charging through her.

  They had perched round the wireless in the drawing room, holding hands and smoking cigarettes, before Sybil started crying hysterically and Winston, fully aware of the obligations ahead of him, stared at his mother looking stoic, determined and frightened as hell. He had grown into an overly tall and lumbering man of twenty-two with a crease in his brow that had deepened after years of concentrating on being good enough. His blonde wavy hair tended to frizz out unless carefully attended, and he had a little curl at his forehead which he could never smooth down with Brylcreem no matter how hard he tried.

  His mother knew that as a peer of the realm he was far too valuable an asset to be allowed on the frontline and risk capture; but she was also aware of her son’s overwhelming need to prove himself. Even though he had been legitimised by an act of Parliament, there was still a feeling of inferiority that ran through Winston and she saw it manifesting itself in an urgent need to overachieve. He had to be the best, the cleverest, the most accomplished; and whilst she knew it for what it was, it appeared to others to be a very unbecoming aristocratic arrogance.

  “You don’t need to go, Winston,” she stared at him from across the room. “I can speak to a number of people to ensure that you don’t have to go.”

  “What? Have me as a pointless figurehead, tramping about in a costume pretending I’m doing something?”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “If they will take me, I will go.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Please don’t go and leave me here, Winston,” Sybil whined. “What if you never come home?”

  “You are so dramatic,” he pulled her in close and held her tightly. “Look, this might be all over and done within a few months – we don’t know, but we have to set an example. People will look to us and we have to be seen to be doing what is right.”

  Winston reminded her so much of his father sometimes; the vivid memories illuminated with every familiar gesture, each little characteristic a remembrance of the brilliantly bright boy who lay silent in the lonely blood-soaked soil.

  Lord Fitzwilliam felt duty bound to send for Millicent Darcy after the telegram had been received informing him that his eldest son and heir had been killed in action. She had driven the Daimler, twisting and curving on the country roads, to the house near Wakefield that the Fitzwilliam family called home.

  Inside the rooms were dark and cavernous, the faded grandeur of a family who had been hit hard by death duties and bad business investments obvious in each decaying, opulent room. Over the marble fireplace, hung a portrait of Mabel – delicate and beautiful in her wedding gown, wearing the Lady Anne necklace that Millicent’s mother had remodelled into various pins, brooches, necklaces and rings; the diamonds and sapphires scattered across the family like stardust.

  On the console table there was a photograph of the same lady taken in 1907, when Lady Mabel was a shrivelled but proud old woman of eighty-nine, still firmly holding onto life. Millicent had only met her famous great-aunt once, when she had been very young girl, but she remembered how she had jutted out her chin with a haughty arrogance, dism
issing death as a mere inconvenience. She had done so many great things, but was now simply a portrait on the wall, a forgotten face lost to history.

  She wondered how the Fitzwilliam family matriarch would have felt about this time, and she was glad she was not alive to see her descendants clad in black - for David, for Henry, and for Rupert – three boys lost to the battlefields of France, three more still out fighting somewhere in the great big nowhere of the trenches. They sat for a moment, drinking tea, talking about Rupert as if he was merely out on the hunt, or simply in town for a visit. Catriona Fitzwilliam, the gentle red-haired Countess of Matlock took a seat beside her. She was sitting closer to her than was socially acceptable, but Millicent appreciated the proximity. There was an envelope. It was buff-coloured, and regulation sized. Millicent immediately recognised the hand.

  “This came for you,” she said, “it arrived the day after we... It arrived the day after we heard.”

  Millicent felt the smooth edges of the letter pressed against her palm.

  “Have you read it, Aunt Fitzwilliam?”

  Catriona shook her head, “it is not addressed to me, so I have not. But… can you let me know if he was alright? There are no more letters waiting for us, this is his very last one.”

  They both looked down at the ill-written hand, the little doodle of a bird on the reverse. He would not have drawn it seriously, she thought, probably distracted on the line, and now this little absent-minded bird had turned into something especially poignant.

  Escaping into the untamed wilderness of the once formal gardens, Millicent hid near the river. She remembered sitting underneath this bridge before, it was where she had once played with Rupert. They had whipped off their tough leather boots and thick woollen stockings and dipped their feet into the water, feeling the current underneath tickling their toes, before they ran back to the house, arriving breathless, barefoot and filthy. It was always worth getting scolded, she thought, as she slipped off her shoes and dipped her stockinged feet in the water. Tentatively she ran her finger under the seal, thinking of how his lips had once touched the paper.