My dearest darling,
How I miss you, how I long to have you next to me once more scolding my terrible penmanship and bad turn of phrase. Your last letter gave me so much joy. I thought my heart would burst with love, my world has become a little brighter, my days over here not as arduous knowing that there is you and our babe to come home to. I remember when we spoke about marriage and you said that you would not, but this war has made me think that maybe I should ask you again. Say yes, Millicent Darcy, be my wife. Find this ring as a symbol of my unending and complete love for you and for our child, who will be loved beyond measure.
Be safe, my sweet Penny, I love you.
Until we meet again,
Rupert
PS: we have just heard that the Germans are retreating. We think it’s all over.
It is now, she thought sadly as she tipped the ring out from its velvet pouch. It was a silver band with a round, luxurious pearl as the centrepiece. She wondered how it would have looked next to her wedding ring on the wedding day that would never be now, how would it feel as he slipped the platinum band on to her hand in the little church in Lambton, would the lace of her veil have been scratchy, the heady perfume of the lilacs cascading down the aisle. His uniform would be starched and proper and the sunlight would glint of the trim of his epaulette, the hair at the nape of his neck turning into a curl.
Millicent knew that she wasn’t the only woman in England with a missing sweetheart, but it didn’t stop her heart from shattering into pieces as she sat on the riverbank with his ring on her finger and every dream of them drifting away on the current. She removed the ring gently, tucking it safely back into the soft pouch and then tightly into the pocket of her bag. He had bought her the bag somewhere in France, sending it over with a gentleman called Fothergill-McHeath, who had called on her in London. Rupert had seen the bright blue lining and it had reminded him of dancing with her in the ballroom of Derbyshire House, when she had worn the aquamarine dress that matched the colour of his waistcoat. He could still feel them twirling around, he had written, how he had been unaware of anyone but her.
She fell out of her daydream and jolted back to earth, it took all her strength to maintain a quiet dignity on the riverbank. She wondered how long it would take before her heart realised that he was gone for good.
It was days later when the tears finally came; she had huddled under the covers of the bed in the room that had been his, feeling the world was ending and nothing would ever make sense again. The Countess knocked on the door gently, directing the servant girl with a tea tray to place it on the table, walking over to the bed she gathered the girl into her arms and held her until the dusky blanket of night fell upon the estate.
Catriona noticed the rounding of the belly under the cotton nightgown, the fullness of her bosom; she had birthed eight children and recognised the early signs. She realised that though fate and gunfire had taken three of her sons, God had given them a great gift. She pulled Millicent in closer and whispered to her that everything would be alright, everything was always going to be alright, and they both cried for the loss of Rupert, David, Henry and the millions of other boys who would never make it home.
The last war had been all about loss, but she sensed that this one would be about survival and she needed to do all she could to protect Pemberley and her family’s legacy. They volunteered to take in evacuees from the local industrial towns, and the long gallery was filled with lines of small trundle beds ready to be occupied by frightened children who had never seen sheep before, let alone the herds of deer that still roamed over the ancient hunting land. Looking out at the horizon towards the city lights of Manchester, Millicent took a long, hard drag of her cigarette. All they could do now was wait for it to be over; wait to see if they all made it through alive.
She twirled the small pearl ring around on her finger, still wore it as a remembrance of him, a sad memento of a future that never was. She had loved again; the handsome American who had delighted in her for a year before travelling back to Utah and marrying his childhood sweetheart; she had been left with a beautiful daughter who had emerald green eyes and perfect teeth. And there had been other lovers, who had come and gone, passing through life, touching their footprints upon her heart for a short time.
But it would always be Rupert she chose in every lifetime, in every eventuality; and sometimes when the nights were cold, and the moon was high, she could still feel the rough scratch of his moustache on her breast, the smell of leather and cognac ricocheting around the room.
Imogen
Imogen knew that the stories in the papers were always rubbish, and she knew because they had been writing them about her since she was sixteen years old. She was tired of it all now, it was exhausting always trying to be what people expected of you. At first the attention has been fun. People knew her name, thousands of likes on Instagram, retweets on Twitter, the ‘friends’, the freebies.
But then people thought they knew you, owned a piece of you. She had found out the hard way that freebies were never free. She had told him no. She had told him no over and over. But he had done it anyway. And no-one had believed her.
I: I need to speak to you
I: I need to know what happened…
I: Please call me
I: This is important
I: I don’t understand why you are ignoring me, I don’t even know what I have done wrong.
I: Fine.
The sky above Pemberley was never usually this blue, she thought, it was the colour of sapphires, the stars sparkling like encrusted diamonds. Underneath her feet the sandstone felt cold and rough, like a pumice stone she thought as she delicately tiptoed along the narrow bannister, her years of ballet classes paying off. Lifting her arms high above her head, Imogen felt the cold nights breeze flow over her like a baptism of ice. It felt dreamy, almost ethereal; she was a spectral goddess dancing across the rooftops – her sheer floaty gown lifting gently with each gasp of air, before falling in waves across the sky like a parachute squadron.
Imogen stood at the corner of the balustrade – a foot on each side - on the left the pointing Verdigris encrusted figure of Neptune furiously stabbed the heavens with his trident, his lead face incensed and raging for eternity. She laughed out loud at his metallic wrath, the wine she had drunk earlier to numb her emotions finally serving its purpose.
And then she fell.
1649
General George Darcy, a short, stout man with a friendly face, had earned himself a formidable reputation during the tumultuous years of the Civil War as a fierce General and a brave warrior. His courage, valour and sheer determination to succeed had marked him out to the Duke of Newcastle, who had required his support during many key battles in the attempt to defeat the Roundhead army. Oliver Cromwell himself had singled Darcy out and focused some of his attentions to the medieval manor house, which had been targeted during the last few months when it was obvious to all involved that the Royalists were not going to be triumphant.
The family had left England in the first few days of 1649, when it became clear that Charles, the proud uneasy man who tried to force his divine rule upon a tired and bankrupt country would not live long into it. As a man of twenty-two with a young bride, he had sailed from Scarborough to Hamburg, where they were lucky enough to find sanctuary with their fellow exiled natives. He was unsure if he would ever be able to return to the country of his birth, or the green hills that he called home.
Mary Darcy, nineteen and two months wed, was hysterical for the most part of the journey. She had married George for the security he had offered, but now she found herself running away with her small dowry of jewels - her mother’s ruby ring, a sapphire locket and necklace with a silver clasp, made from three strands of pearls given to a relative by Mary, the Scottish queen, a long time ago.
Her father, Henry Wharton, had fought with Prince Rupert at Marston Moor and died on the battlefield not knowing that his two sons had already suffered a similar fat
e. Mary’s mother, a favourite of the Queen, had sailed for France and safety, leaving her daughter to decide her own destiny. She didn’t know this man she called husband, but she did know that he was her only hope of survival in a world that was changing around her and so long as God had joined them together, she would do His bidding.
Maybe it was the cruel whip of the wind against her face that was making her eyes water, or perhaps it was the sheer helplessness she felt, but Mary sat down on the deck – not caring for rank or cold – and began to sob. She sobbed for the situation, for the freezing wind that was making her shiver under her bodice, for everything that had happened. Mary knew that these were selfish sobs, because despite her loss and her grief, she was alive and escaping from the confusion and anger that was now rife in her country.
The war had been brutal for everyone. At Morevale she had seen the worst of times; had seen people die in front of her, from their wounds, from sickness, from the terrible crush of people being thrown together in such horrendous circumstance. Mary had been but a child when the rebellions had begun; her father and brothers off to fight for their King – and continuing to fight even when it became obvious that they were not on the winning side.
They had never recovered the body of her father, that tall, dark haired man with the hearty laugh and easy charm, but his watch had been returned to her months later by a man who had worked their land in the summers and fought by his side in the battle that had claimed his life. The watch was in her pocket now, keeping time, still constant. She instinctively reached for it and turned it over in her hand, feeling the soft rounded metal, the tremor of each second as it ticked away in time with her own heartbeat.
Sitting here on the deck of a sloop ship, running away to safety was not how she imagined spending her first few months as a newlywed. The ship was called ‘Mercurial’. It was smaller than she had imagined it to be, she thought that if she stretched out as wide as she could she would reach both sides, and she didn’t know how it would manage to convey them across the vast sea. Mary Darcy had never seen the sea before, except in books and on paintings, it was much colder than she had imagined.
They were travelling to Hamburg, and suddenly she was struck with regret that she did not pay more attention in her classes at the modest manor house where she had grown up. The rounded, brown haired girl was unsure how life had managed to conspire against her in such a way that she was on a boat in the middle of the North Sea with a man she barely knew, dressed in clothes that she had borrowed from a servant girl. The garments were itchy, her stomach rumbled with hunger and the wind was icy. She had moved onto deck to try and abate the nausea that had overcome her, but it was no use. Nothing was helping, she feared nothing would again.
‘Mistress Darcy?’
Mary raised her head from her knees and looked up. It was George, he looked tired – she supposed he would be, they had ridden through the night after the call came from the neighbouring estate that Parliamentary forces were gathering up their opponents for questioning and almost certain execution.
‘Mary, are you alright? I did not know where...where you had…had gone,’ he stammered.
For the most part George managed to keep this childhood habit under control and defeat it, but when he was nervous or worried or scared, it would remerge. He walked over to her, offered his hand and then pulled her up to her feet. His eyes searched for hers and he found them tired and red.
‘Have you been weeping?’
He reached inside his jacket – the garment of his steward, Wickham – and handed her a handkerchief. She held the cloth between her fingers – she noticed that it was her own embroidery, one of the few things that she had stitched for him before their engagement. It was their interwoven initials in a bright blue thread.
‘You kept it,’ she said warmly, a small smile brightened her face.
He nodded, gently taking the handkerchief from her.
‘Of course, one always finds a handkerchief most useful for wiping away tears and blotting the noses of beautiful young ladies on the decks of ships.”
He pressed the cloth gently to her face and wiped her tears.
‘I know you are scared, my love,’ he said. ‘I know that you are unsure about what the future holds for us, but please know that I will do everything I can to protect you’.
Mary looked at her husband. He was shorter than she remembered – maybe even the same height when she was in her cotton feet, however, he was broad; solid and reliable. She was not sure if she loved him yet, but she trusted him and believed that he would do everything he said he would, he was so wise for such a young man.
It came over her quickly, the sickness, before she even knew, and she vomited on his shoes. George stood silent for a moment, then looked at his wife with a kindly look in his eye and laughed. Despite herself and her embarrassment, she laughed too.
‘I think you need something to eat, Mistress Darcy,’ he said, as he let the sea water wash the sick from his shoes.
‘Will you give me the honour of accompanying you downstairs for supper?’
And with that, they retired into the cramped warmth of the lower deck. As she nursed her aching belly and wiped away the tears from her eyes, Mary Darcy didn’t know that it would be eleven years before she would set foot again on English soil, that the regard and gratitude she felt for George Darcy would develop into a deep, respectful love that would envelop her body and soul. Mary would return to England as the mother of three children – with one more yet to arrive in the years following – the house would be rebuilt, brick by brick, stone by stone, George’s fervent promise to rebuild resulting in a grand country seat of which she would be mistress.
With her husband’s title restored she would be received in court as the Duchess of Derbyshire, be a close personal friend of Queen Catherine, and treated with more deference and respect than this country girl would have ever hoped. But these things were in the future, and for now, she felt more scared and alone than she had ever felt in her life.
The sky was getting darker now, around her there were shouts of noise in a language she did not understand. Mary Darcy vowed to herself that if she were fortunate enough to survive this and tell her children about it, then she would embellish it as the greatest of adventures. At the end of the storm, just about as far as her eye could see was a clear sky, and she knew that her life would be perfectly wonderful if she could have to courage to chase that small patch of blue.
Twenty-Three
It was February when the roof in the west wing started to leak, the water trickling down the interior walls and causing the wood in the mahogany room to swell and crack. The offices of the HHS also suffered, with three rooms being off limits due to plaster falling from the ceiling; superficial symptoms of a larger and more dangerous hole in the leaded roof that was threatening the very structure of Pemberley itself.
Joyce had blamed herself for what she saw as a terrible failing, but it was more due to the huge budget required to keep the house in tip-top condition. Matthew Wickham’s ‘Pride and Prejudice’ was slated for a Christmas release, which meant that all the promotional material that they were relying on to drive visitors to the house couldn’t be used until at least July. Even though the west wing wasn’t as strategically important as other areas of the house, it still housed some keys parts on the visitor trail and was currently closed off to all but the most senior of HHS staff.
She sat in the leather chair in her office at the front of the house with her eyes focused on the spreadsheet on her computer screen. Whatever she thought of, wherever she clicked, there was just simply not enough money to fix this right now, she looked at the small portrait of the formidable family matriarch Mary which hung in the corner of the room.
What would she do? Joyce thought to herself, as the stress of the last few months bubbled to the surface. There was a small knock on the door, she took a breath – inhaling deeply, before dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and then throwing it away quickly.
“Joyce, can I have a word?”
Lizzy Darcy stood at the doorway, dressed in muted tones, her hair scraped back into a tighter than usual bun, and Joyce had noticed that in the last few months she had been a lot flatter than usual. She had been going through the motions, but there had been nothing extra from her. Joyce had watched her walking up into the moorlands every lunchtime, returning a few hours later just before darkness fell. She wondered what was wrong and gestured for her to come in and take a seat.
“Would you like a drink?” Joyce got up from her desk and walked over to the kettle next to the fireplace.
Lizzy took a seat on one of the blue upholstered chairs that she knew used to live in the bright gallery. It was always a strange experience coming into Joyce’s office, which had once been Winston’s inner sanctuary – where he had prepped her for GCSE’s and her A-Levels; where she had found him one evening keeled over and suffering and unable to breathe, the place where the paramedics had rushed in and connected him to machines, where they had lifted him onto a stretcher and taken him away in the ambulance, a feeling of panic in her as she followed the blue lights, racing behind with Staughton in the ancient maroon Jaguar. It was also the room where she had listened to Uncle Jeremy’s partner from the firm read out the last will and testament of her beloved grandfather a few months later.
It was always strange to come back in here and see the room looking so different – filled with all the accoutrements required to run a massive estate – but so similar. The walls were still the same colour, the windows still letting in draughts and, if she closed her eyes, she could still smell sugared almonds and cigar smoke.
Becoming Lady Darcy Page 36
