Mabel closed the book quickly, her hands holding the red bound novel tightly shut. She flicked back through the smooth paper pages to the front of the novel, then closed it again, then opened it again. She had been enjoying the story very much, and even though she was almost certain that she knew how the narrative would end, she wanted to see how the author arrived at the conclusion.
Elizabeth Darcy was getting ready for dinner when there was a loud knock and her door opened. Mabel was standing in the doorway, her curls half falling out of her ribbons and the green gown crumpled, an expression of confusion upon her face. For the most part, she was the epitome of Fitzwilliam Darcy in the form of a sixteen-year-old girl and was usually a fearsome thing to behold. But tonight, she was softer, understanding, looking at her mother with an almost dreamy expression.
Elizabeth wondered; if her daughter has been a child of Hertfordshire, she has no doubts at all that she would be found roaming the fields each and every day wandering back and forth to Meryton or running down the country lanes; but she was Miss Darcy, and the same restrictions which had confined Georgiana were also placed upon Mabel. She was very much a bird in a gilded cage, frantically trying to escape via any means necessary.
She threw herself onto the bed, causing the wood to creak, and Ellen to exit the room with undue haste and a knowing look to her mistress. Elizabeth remained perched at her dresser, continuing her toilette and eyeing the figure lying on the bed.
“Mama,” came the sigh. “I need to question you about a novel I came across today in the library.”
She removed the book from the pocket of her dress, before placing it on the embroidered coverlet. Elizabeth picked the leather-bound volume up and eyed the spine, she inadvertently raised an eyebrow and an amused smile crossed her lips.
“Why are you smiling?” Mabel folded her arms, looking at her mother questioningly, “this book is all about you! And Papa, of course,” her voice dropped to a whisper as if she had discovered a great secret, “and Aunt and Uncle Bingley.”
She had read all about how her father had tried to stop the marriage of her favourite Aunt, how he had arranged the marriage of her third favourite Aunt, and how he had loved her mother most ardently, so much in fact that he proposed twice. Elizabeth flicked through the pages of the book, swiftly reading a passage and looking amused as she did so.
“If you have read all of this novel,” her eyes questioning her, “tell me, Miss Mabel, which is your favourite part?”
“I like all of the parts, Mama.” She picked up the book and flicked through the pages, pulling at her hair, before finding the page she was looking for. “I think Elizabeth Bennet is the most wonderful character in all of English literature.”
“I find that I must agree with you on this point,” Elizabeth said as she finished pinning her hair. “My favourite part is when she tells Mr Darcy he is the last man on earth that she could ever possibly marry.”
Mabel deep sighed again, “ever be prevailed upon to marry, Mama.” She grabbed the book and turned the pages vigorously until she reached the correct chapter.
“Oh yes,” she smiled, “how very foolish of me.”
The dinner tonight was particularly important as her father planned to charm the owners of the neighbouring estates, determined to see the building of a railway line for locomotives across the edge of the Darcy lands, needing their consent for it to cross theirs too. Mama was determined to flatter the gentlemen with her wit and impress their wives with her vast array of decadent jewels. She studied her mother, watched as she slid the sapphires onto her to fingers, as she clasped the diamond bracelet around her wrist, as she placed the glinting emerald clip into her hair.
“Mama,” the younger woman prodded, “are you the Miss Bennet of this story?”
“What is your own opinion of this? Do you believe it to be true?”
“Aye. There are far too many similarities for it to be purely coincidental, and she talks like you do. She has your same manner.”
“My same impertinent manner,” she said wryly. “Remember we are not the first obstinate, headstrong girls to live at Pemberley.”
“We won’t be the last either.”
“Indeed! But you see, Mabel, if I were the Miss Bennet of the story, then it may be a very foolish thing indeed to have the story of one’s own courtship – hindered by pride and prejudice – lying about for their offspring to read, do you not agree?” Elizabeth rose to her feet, smoothing the soft satin of her gown, “that is, if I were the Miss Bennet of your story.”
She eyed her daughter mischievously before walking out into the bright gallery, the fashionable red walls illuminated by the oil lit chandeliers at each corner, the polished painted faces of their loved ones lining the corridor, the artefacts that her husband had brought back from the Holy Land carefully displayed in glass cabinets that sparkled in the light. Mabel held the book close to her heart and fell back on the bed in her mother’s chambers, fully believing herself to have been let into the confidence of a great secret.
The lights were low after dinner when she heard the distant sound of the piano being played less than adequately by her mother, followed by the sound of her father singing and then laughter, so much laughter. She softly stepped down the staircase, peeping into the drawing room, where her mother was sitting at the pianoforte; her father stood to one side turning the page as she fudged and slurred through the hard passages of the work, and he looked at her adoringly, a sparkle in his eyes as she laughed at his off-key singing and forgetting of the words.
Mabel slipped along past the edge of the staircase, and through into the library, placing the book back in its spot on the shelf, ensuring that it was perfectly aligned with the rest of her father’s collection. She then returned to the gilt room where her mother stopped playing and called her over with a warm smile, and her father beckoned her towards him, pulling her into the firmest of embraces.
As she stood with the hero and heroine of her story, the daughter of Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet realised that, along with her brothers, she was the epilogue to a beautiful tale, one that was still being written.
Hugh
She followed him into the darkness.
“Where are we going?”
“Stop being impatient.”
“I’m only being impatient, because I’m cold!”
“Well, we’re here now,” he murmured. “Let me warm you up.”
He pulled her in for a kiss, softly at first and then firmer, with more potency. She let him wrap his arms around her, feeling the same tingles from when he had first kissed her that night on the rooftop of the Wyatt tower, when the stars had burned in the sky and they had given in to their summer-long flirtation.
Joyce knew that she might get burned by Hugh this time, but at least she would have tried, at least she would have known that what she felt years ago was justified.
“Are you warmer now?” He pushed her fringe away from her face so that he could see her blue eyes in the moonlight.
“Yes.”
For the first time in a long time, Joyce felt like she was home, as if she had found her missing jigsaw piece. She placed her hand on his cheek, running her thumb along his cheekbone.
“You look the same.”
A small smile caused his cheeks to dimple and she was taken immediately back to the hot July afternoon when, hot and sweating, he had recklessly dived into the pond and then pulled her in after him, her shoes sliding down the dry earth of the embankment. She had fallen into the water with a splash, tumbling, frowning, emerging gasping for breath, and he had enfolded her in the warm dampness of his arms, before kissing her slowly and passionately in the cool water.
“Shall we go inside,” he said taking her by the hand, “so you can perhaps see me without this flattering glow?”
They were standing outside of a lone cottage on the furthest reaches of the estate, below them the illuminated outline of Pemberley stood like a beacon in the blackness of the parkland.
Inside Paddock Cottage, the fire was already burning, the comforting smell of pine alight infused the room and the humble stone interior was gently lit with candles.
“I should tell you off for leaving candles burning unattended, you are at serious risk of damaging the property of the Historical House Society.”
He looked at her earnestly, looking like the boy she had admired so much, “do you like it?”
“The cottage…”
“You remember?”
“Of course, I do.”
She had been in this room a hundred times since then, but in this moment, it was as if she had stepped back in time.
“I never forgot.”
“Me neither.”
“When I came back from Cambridge, you were gone. I thought I had done something wrong, that you hated me…”
“Hated you? No, that wasn’t it.”
“Then what?”
“You were the Earl of Berkshire, you needed someone who would know how to be a Duchess. I knew that person wasn’t me.”
“I think I would have done a better job of matrimony if I had married someone like you.”
“You know that wouldn’t have worked. There were bigger expectations of the heir to Pemberley. You couldn’t have married me, you needed a society heiress with a private school education and a trust fund or a title.”
“I found one.”
“I know, your wife was lovely.”
“Did you meet her?”
“Only once, she came to Dunmarleigh when she was pregnant with Charles. She was very sweet.”
“She was, Lizzy reminds me of her a great deal. They have the same laugh. Patricia was always laughing, I often wonder what I did to make her so unhappy.”
“I don’t think it was anything you did. Some people simply become lost and there is nothing we can do to help them.”
Hugh sat down on the stone floor, staring into the fire.
“I truly believe that she did mean to do it, you know. I would never tell the children that, but I think it was intentional. That morning she was so happy, she phoned me at work to tell me that she had been painting with Lizzy. She told me she loved me, it would be the last thing she said to me. I wanted to believe she was getting better, but now I think she was happier because she knew it was nearly all over.”
Joyce reached out to him, her fingertips on his arm. She knew loss too, the immediate and devastating loss of a partner, a husband, a friend. It was something she tried not to think about, but the knock on the door just after midnight and the sad-looking couple of WPCs who let her know that Stephen wouldn’t be coming home; not just that night but ever, and the two sleeping, unknowing boys in their bunk beds who would go through their lives without a father. She knew what it was like to always wonder.
“We make choices in this life based on what we know right now,
we can’t possibly know what fate has in store for us.”
“But I do know what fate has in store for me,” he turned, looking at her, “fate brought me back to you, and I don’t want to bugger it up again.”
“Hugh…”
“I let you decide for us once, I won’t let you do it again.”
“What are you saying?”
“Joyce. I’m saying that I love you. I’ve always loved you, and if you’ll have me, I want to love you for a lot longer.”
“Well,” she said, “that sounds like a brilliant idea.”
Hugh grinned, pulling her towards him and kissing her until the candles extinguished one by one.
Sometimes love can become lost, can become hidden, can be love forsaken; but love always has a way of seeping into our bones, finding its way back to us, seeking us out and drawing us back into its orbit.
Twenty-Four
Nearly twelve months after the principal photography on ‘Pride and Prejudice’ had completed, Matthew Wickham contacted the CEO of Vanquish Pictures and let him know that the final cut was ready for approval. Even though he had accolades and awards, he was always unsure about having to submit the print to the studio – to letting himself be so openly judged by his peers; there was always an underlying insecurity there that he hid with a layer of bravado and noise, attempting to shield the ever-present nervousness that he wasn’t quite good enough. He needn’t have worried.
Benn Williams was perfect as Darcy, any concerns about his age completely unfounded, and Jenny Graves shone, sparkled and stole every scene she was in as Elizabeth. Pemberley itself looked magnificent – if this doesn’t increase visitor numbers for Joyce, then I don’t know what will, he thought – and as the rough credits ran Matthew smiled to himself, content that he had done the story and his childhood home justice. As he had worked with his editing team, Matthew had fallen in love with Pemberley all over again, seeing it through new eyes.
“Matthew!”
Linda hovered at the glass door of the corner office suite.
“Cara is on line one for you, are you taking the call?”
He sighed, leaning back in the plush leather chair, waving his hand and rolling his eyes towards Linda who nodded in agreement before returning to her desk in the cubicle outside. They had worked together for eight years and she could anticipate his needs, remind him to take his echinacea, book appointments with his dental hygienist, and bat away soon-to-be ex-wives with a simple click of the telephone switchboard. It was all done with the utmost professionalism, of course, and as a result Linda Sobreski was one of the highest paid assistants in Hollywood.
“What do you mean ‘he’s busy’? Don’t bullshit me, Linda, because having lunch at Sugarfish with Benn Williams and his latest conquest is not what I call busy.”
Linda stood firm, genuinely fatigued by the almost hourly rants.
“I apologise, Mrs Wickham, would you like to leave a message?”
There was a saccharine tone to her Brooklyn accent that she knew would cause Cara to get even more aggravated than she already was, and it was intentional. For all his demanding ways, fuelled in part by his ego, Linda was irrevocably and totally on Matthew’s side and would defend him to the death in any battle, especially when his foe was someone as obnoxiously condescending as Cara Wickham.
“Fuck you, Linda,” the voice shrieked in jarring, clipped British tones, before the slamming of the phone down harshly signalled the end of the call.
Linda smiled with the merest hint of smugness, anything she could do to make Cara Wickham’s day ever so slightly more unpleasant was worth it.
“What time is the flight to Heathrow?”
He flicked through a pile of post on his desk, the sun was warm despite it being nearly November and he was glad that he would be back in England to feel the change in the seasons. As much as he loved living in LA, the constant heat and unwavering joviality of the natives caused him to long for the content silence of the tube, or the pleasantness of unseasonal rainfall where you ended up soaked to the skin.
“Eight o’clock, but there were no transfers to Manchester, so I’ve booked a car to take you up to Pemberley,” Linda confirmed as she handed him a wedge of travel documents. “Tamsin’s tickets are in there too.”
She raised her eyebrows at him, he looked at her aghast with mock chagrin. Linda hadn’t seen Matthew happy in a long time, and whatever this girl was doing for him then she wanted her to keep on doing it. They would be away for a few months now; there was the promotional tour of the film that would be planned by the studio and Linda was looking to her vacation in Hawaii as she handed over the reins to her British counterpart. Matthew threw a few items in his bag, kissed Linda on the cheek and waved her farewell. It was going to be a long few weeks.
Lizzy watched as he hurried across the courtyard in the cold night air and tapped in the code which gave him access to the north staircase. Harriet was already waiting for him at the top of the staircase, eager to see her dad after the long separation. He bowled through the door of the apartment as he always did and plonked himself on the sofa, with Harriet following behind ca
rrying a bag of doughnuts that he had picked up from the motorway services.
She was always so amazed at how similar they were, the same mannerisms manifesting themselves so clearly now that she saw them both together, the way they both spoke with their mouths full – eager to eat and tell the world a story, how they crossed their legs in the same direction, or placed one arm behind the head and onto the opposite shoulder as they concentrated.
The television was on a low murmur, the lights lowered apart from the gentle glow of the reading lamp that hovered over the couch where she was sitting. He padded softly down the winding wooden staircase, his fingers grazing the rough finish of the wall as it curled into the living room. He had wandered down this staircase so many times; back when they had been children, sneaking up into the forbidden storage area and onto the roof, finding treasures and secrets, and then when they were teenagers; drinking and smoking, hanging over the balustrade laughing. And then on a dark, stormy night, when the wind was howling against the sash windows, rattling through the house like a freight train, he had knocked on her door, could hear Harriet through the wood, scared by the weather and the rumble of the thunder seething ominously across the peaks, and they had sat with her until she slept, before wrapping their arms around each other.
That had been the beginning of part two of their story, the tale that they had been writing since they were small. A story that had now ended.
“Do you wanna brew?”
She nodded, closing her book and following him into the kitchen. He boiled the kettle, warming the pot as she put two slices of bread in the toaster.
“Toast is always a brilliant idea,” he agreed, his arm gently grazing the base of her back as he reached into the fridge for the milk and passed her the butter.
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