Becoming Lady Darcy

by Sara Smallman

  “Are you ready to go through now, Lady Elizabeth?”

  Wendy magically appeared, gesturing for her to follow her. Lizzy turned her phone off and signed it over to the security staff, who also wanded her before letting her pass through into the auditorium. The screen was playing a phenomenal drone-based advert for Pemberley itself, which was part of the Historical House Society’s promotional campaign to capitalise on the film. Directed to her seat, she could hardly take her eyes off the screen as amazing sweeping shots of the estate were shown on the screen, accompanied by a soaring, bespoke soundtrack. She never forgot how special her ancestral home was, but sometimes she needed reminding of how vast and varied the whole estate was.

  As she was finding her seat, marked ‘Lady Elizabeth Darcy’ she noticed the polished, highlighted impossibly tiny figure of Sarah Delancey moving down the aisle. She glanced down quickly at the seats either side of her own – on her left was ‘Harriet Darcy’ and on the right the seat next to her was marked with a sign – ‘Benn Williams’.

  “Lady Sarah,” she said, in her Lady Darcy accent. “Long time no see, how are you?”

  “Hello Lady Elizabeth,” Sarah said, as she squeezed past her. “Nice dress. Last season?”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Lady Delancey,” Imogen interrupted, “you know as well as I that Lizzy’s dress is bespoke.”

  “It’s definitely something.”

  “It’s definitely fabulous, and you’re simply jealous because your dress is clearly from Whistles,” Imogen had no intention of letting Sarah Delancey bully her sister.

  “It may be off the rack, but it’s the same one that the Duchess of Cambridge wore at Ascot, actually.”

  “Oh, it’s hideous and second-hand? I didn’t know that you had fallen on such hard times, Lady Delancey.”

  Sarah positioned herself in Benn’s seat, angled herself towards Lizzy.

  “Hard times? Oh yes, because I’m the one who has been sent packing up to Derbyshire for the duration, Imogen.”

  “At least our ancestral home is still a home where one can be sent for respite. I imagine it’s impossible for you to achieve any kind of rest or relaxation at… what do we call Lancingham Park now? Oh yes, Mr Fizz’s Fun World and Menagerie.”

  Both women stared at each other, like two warring lionesses on the savannah. Sarah’s face was as red as her dress.

  “Okay, let’s stop this,” Lizzy tried to stop this escalating before it all ended up on Twitter. “Sarah, you look beautiful as always, and I really love your dress.”

  “Benn thought so earlier this evening too. Although, I must admit he much preferred it when I wasn’t wearing a dress at all.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard what I said, Lady Darcy,” she stood and moved to her own seat, “keep your hands and text messages away from my boyfriend. There’s a good girl.”

  The lights began to lower as Matthew, Benn and Jenny appeared on the stage to introduce the film. Imogen leaned over and tapped her on the arm, she turned sharply.

  “What the fuck was that about?” Imogen mouthed, as Matthew announced the start of the film.

  “I have no idea,” she mouthed back, with a roll of her eyes and a bright smile

  As the film began, he quickly walked down the aisle, gently excusing himself past those already seated, Harriet and Imogen jokingly tutted loudly at him and he grinned at them both. Lizzy had to stand to let him past her metres of organza. He squeezed past her, avoiding her eye, he was so close that she could smell his aftershave, could smell the faint tinge of alcohol on his breath.

  Sitting in the seat next to her, he tried to avoid all bodily contact, as if she were a crazed fan that he didn’t want to encourage. At one point his finger had accidentally grazed hers, and she sensed that little spark again. It was small, but powerful, and she knew that he felt it too because he moved his hand away far too quickly.

  1940

  The young boy looked up at her with eyes as wide as saucers, he couldn’t have been much more than seven, dressed in his smart shorts and a cream hand-knitted jumper with a red stripe at the bottom, he scratched the back of his leg with the sharp buckle of his shoe and instead of relieving his itch, it had just caused a scratch which hurt more that the itch had itched. He had his hands in his pockets, holding tightly to a small, polished pebble that his mother had given to him off the beach that morning as the sun was rising. She had smelled like toasted almonds and cigarettes, and the faint scent of perfume infused in the comforting blue jumper that she had been wearing as she hugged him tightly in their house on Fleetwood Road.

  Earlier that day forty-seven children had marched across St Pancras Station with a banner emblazoned with the crest of Earls Hall school. They had been handed two sticks of barley sugar for the adventure – it was always called an adventure – and it was only as the train was pulling away that they realised that their parents were crying as they waved goodbye.

  “Can you play cricket? Your jumper looks like one my son used to wear when he was at school.”

  He shook his head quickly, his hands nervous as he picked the skin around his fingers. The lady in the black suit spoke funny, he thought. She sounded like the woman off the wireless who introduced the songs his mother sang to when she thought nobody was about. He nervously looked around the room, hearing the ominous tick of the huge clock at the opposite end. The room was cold, even in September and he wished that the large fireplace was lit, although it was so big that he suspected the heat would be immense. His attention moved back to the lady in front of him, he had noticed her hair first; had never seen a lady with such yellow hair, curled on top of her head, her red lips pursed as she continued to question him.

  “Well, young man, as you do not play cricket, would you like to learn?”

  He nodded quickly, as she wrote his answer down on the precisely cut, official looking card; the kind that had been neatly printed the year before in preparation for this very event.

  “And what is your name” she smiled kindly. “I can’t very well call you 27486 for the duration, can I?”

  She said something under her breath to the round-faced lady sitting next to her, and he was fascinated by the scarf she was wearing, it was made from an animal he didn’t know and the cold dead eyes of whatever it was stared at him with unseeing eyes. He had never seen one of those in Southend, but then again, he had never seen a house this big back home in Essex either.

  “I’m Thomas Bingley, m’lady,” he said in a small voice.

  “Bingley, eh? Well, that’s a name I think we will remember,” she chuckled to her friend.

  He smiled wanly, not understanding the joke.

  “Right Master Bingley,” she said in a very official voice. “You can give your things to Miss Blake here and follow Peter to the parlour for some supper.”

  The round-faced lady with the ginger hair took his suitcase from him, but he was reluctant to give up his bear. She reached for it slowly, taking it from him gently.

  “Don’t worry, Thomas,” her voice was kind. “I’ll look after him for you until you get back from your supper.”

  The twelve children billeted to Pemberley were accompanied by their schoolmaster, a broad, handsome gentleman called Jonathan Sykes. He originally hailed from Preston but had moved to Southend to be with a woman he didn’t end up marrying. He had been seriously injured in the last war and was consequently excused from service the second time around, wearing a patch to cover the hole where his eye once was, the residual scars streaking across the right-hand side of his face like a roadmap.

  Millicent discovered that he was good at cricket and had studied at Brasenose College with her brother, George. They shared memories of their lost companion, wondering what he would be doing now. She told him about the death of Albert, and he shared the story of his own brother, Ernest, who had signed up at fifteen and broken their mother’s heart when he returned with only one leg. Mr Sykes and Lady Darcy became firm friends, talking about any
thing and everything as they worked the grounds, digging up the intricate sixteenth century flowerbeds to plant potatoes and carrots, and smoking like chimneys.

  Hitler’s bombs failed to materialise, and by the summer of 1940 most of the children had been summoned back home by their parents. Only two boisterous chattery girls, Laura and Charlotte Jones remained, along with Thomas Bingley. He was getting good at cricket now and could either be found in the grounds practising or in the library, absorbing as much information as he could, as he dusted the books as part of his daily chores, lining up the Pemberley bulls in a row.

  Mrs Reynolds, observing the Jones’ girls making the fire, scolded them for constantly chattering and not concentrating on their work. ‘If thou don’t shut thee rattle. I’ll belt thee tabs!’ she bellowed in the strong Derbyshire accent that she only ever used in front of them and never in front of Lady Millicent.

  The news of The Blitz reached Pemberley in dribs and drabs, for the most part they were sheltered away in the grounds and it was only occasionally that they heard the faint drone of bombers overhead making their way to Manchester or Liverpool. Then the casualties started, and the three Pemberley evacuees were moved to the Wyatt Tower, where Mrs Reynolds stood guard over their small rooms at the top of the house, the beds in the long gallery filled by the wounded young men who were shipped in from the battlefields of France to the makeshift military hospital at Pemberley with alarming regularity.

  Thomas often found Lady Darcy in her study – the compact panelled room that adjoined her bedroom - she was often tired after so much organising and planning, and he would sneak down to the kitchen to bring her tea and a biscuit, quietly knocking on the door before he entered. Sometimes she would ask him to join her and they would put a record on the gramophone, dancing around the small room as she lit a cigarette whilst pulling him into a twirl.

  Her hair wasn’t as yellow now, he noticed, and small flecks of silver were pushed back behind her ears, but she still wore red lipstick and smelled like his mother.

  Twenty-Six

  His girlfriend had left early, plagued by the noise and the raucous dancing, blaming a headache for her early departure, but he knew it was because he had been distracted and vague, not paying enough attention to inane conversations she was dragging him into. He had always known that Sarah Delancey had purposely reappeared in his life, that there was nothing coincidental or destined about meeting her in the Tesco in Clapham. She had never shopped in Tesco before, didn’t really venture south of the river if she could help it, but he was lonely, aching with a longing that he couldn’t quite explain. Sarah might not have filled the gaping void within him, but she was helping him forget it existed.

  He knew that Lizzy was going to be at the Premiere. Harriet would never have let her not attend, and they were all in attendance, the three Darcy women, laughing and sparkling and charming everyone. He was happy to see that Imogen was back to herself, had noticed how grown up Harriet was.

  The after-party, on the roof terrace of a trendy hotel in Shoreditch, was hot and busy, with a constant push and pull of people talking and congratulating themselves. The music – an eclectic mix of 60s psychedelia, 80’s cheese and 00’s anthems – was loud and thumping, the room vibrating with the bass. Harriet and Imogen were dancing wildly, enjoying themselves ridiculously, and he watched Lizzy grin as her sister pulled a very famous and serious actor onto the floor during The Time Warp. He wished she had been there with him, so he could laugh with her, dance with her, but all hope of that had gone now. Because, he had moved on. He had a girlfriend.

  Walking out onto the roof terrace, he pushed through from the warmth and heat of the party into the cooling rush of the winter air. If it had been summer, the balcony would have been heaving with people; but it was December and the cold was drifting in, turning the air icy. There she was, smoking a cigarette, diamonds twinkling in her hair and sparkly shoes on her feet. He suddenly felt a strange longing to see the bee shoes which made her wiggle when she walked, hips swaying from side to side like the animated temptress from a 1950s cartoon. He hadn’t expected her to be there, was sure he had seen her a few moments ago in the middle of the back-patting throng standing at the bar, when Matthew had waved at him, Tamsin hanging off his arm looking devilishly glamorous in emerald green. Surely this meant something, surely if he believed in such nonsense this would be a sign.

  “Lizzy,” he said, the words stuck in his throat. “I meant to tell you before, you look beautiful.”

  Dropping the illicit cigarette on the floor, she stubbed it out with super-high heels and a twist of the ankle. Wearing skinny jeans now and a dark blue wrap dotted with tiny silver stars, he thought she looked like an edgy millennial Princess Diana.

  “All a grand façade of contouring and Spanx, I’m afraid. You know I don’t look like this in real life.”

  “You look better in real life.”

  “Thank you, you are always wildly generous with your compliments.”

  She did look beautiful, but he wanted her fresh-faced and mad haired; curled up next to him on the sofa in pyjamas with llamas on them, feeding him cheesecake, teasing his acting methods.

  “Are you not cold?” he asked softly. He could see the little hairs on her arms, standing to attention like a regiment of foot soldiers.

  “Absolutely freezing, and I look like the prow of a ship.” Her eyebrow arched and, a soft smile crossed her lips.

  “Lizzy,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to apologise for,” she frowned.

  “I do.”

  She gestured for him to move closer, stand with her under the lamp that was doling out mediocre heat. He was acutely aware of the soft golden hue of her skin, the faint smell of ginger biscuits and regret

  “You don’t need to apologise to me, Benn.”

  They stood there, both staring straight ahead, the shot of whisky he had necked earlier was wearing off now and he suddenly felt vulnerable.

  “I think I need help.”

  “You should ask your girlfriend.”

  The last word made him wince.

  “You’re right,” he said, after what seemed like a lifetime had passed. “Maybe I should.”

  He turned and started to walk away, and she felt that she couldn’t let him leave without saying something.

  “Benn,” she said, louder than she thought.

  “Yes?” His heart was beating in his chest, pounding away.

  “You were brilliant.”

  “Thanks.”

  He obliged her with a very Regency bow and left. As the door closed behind him, the noise of the party escaping, she wished that she had said something more.

  The car journey back hadn’t given him enough time to process his thoughts, but he knew what he needed to do. All he could think about was Lizzy, stood there in diamonds and silk, trembling with cold; beautiful, silly, caring, soft, warm Elizabeth, who had haunted his dreams for the past year, whose face he had seen glimpses of in every woman he had dated. Elizabeth who he had disappointed, who he had hurt irreparably without realising. As he walked inside, with a nod from the doorman and the soft shuffle of his oxfords on the tiled floors, he knew that he couldn’t go straight upstairs, couldn’t face Sarah and her questions and her rage. He headed towards the sanctuary of the bar.

  She was waiting for him, impatiently texting – he could feel the pulsating vibrate of the phone in his pocket - and she would be getting gradually more annoyed. It would result in an argument, where they would shout and argue, and she would throw things before softly turning to him and kissing him roughly as they fell onto the bed and had cool, technical make-up sex which he wouldn’t enjoy, but which seemed to placate her enough to make her more pleasant the following day.

  Sarah could be nice, she could sparkle, and sometimes she made him laugh. They still had the same friends from Cambridge, a similar social circle, but he didn’t want to introduce her to his children, and even in the past he had never
introduced her to his mum. It was only a small feeling he had, but when he was with her, he felt as if she saw him as a trophy to be displayed rather than a person to be loved. There was something about it that left a bitter taste in his mouth every time she kissed him in public, or when he noticed how tightly she held onto his arm in front of photographers.

  He ordered a whisky, the familiar mahogany smoothness of it dripping down his throat like nectar and before he knew it, he was ordering another. He heard the voice in his head, warning him against it, and he ignored it. Doubles now; another, another. The world was blurring slightly, and he moved to the slippery comfort of a booth. Soft jazz was playing in the background and, unknowingly, he obnoxiously clapped as the pianist finished his rendition of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’. People were looking at him now, small ripples of recognition, and he posed for a selfie with a flock of leggy hens, chatted about the cricket with a group of City boys, told an inappropriate joke to a couple on a date who awkwardly laughed until he wandered off, hiding again in the splendid sanctuary of the Bar at the Dorchester. He needed fresh air now, and maybe a cigarette. Maybe two cigarettes. And a kebab.

  But first, there was something he needed to do.

  It was 2am when she found him slumped in a pile at the staff entrance, his jacket was tucked under his head, his trousers undone. There was drool down his chin and he stank of booze, cigarettes and chilli sauce; by his side was a half-eaten muddle of chicken and salad, partly wrapped in paper, the contents spilling out onto the concrete. A few waiters stepped over him as they clocked off for the night, a receptionist was taking a picture when she got there. She paid her £50 to delete it. The concierge had let her know where he was, had known that she had been looking for him, and arranged for a discreet car to collect them from the rear of the hotel.

  “It’s only because I respect the memory of the late Duke, Lady Darcy,” he said in plummy tones, “we can’t have this type of behaviour here.”

  “I understand, Nigel, and I deeply appreciate your care and attention. I will make sure that my father is aware of your service.”