It was lunchtime when, armed with a book, she escaped through the throng of people in the bright gallery and trudged down the north staircase emerging out into the warmth of the May sunshine. The courtyard was alive with people; children running about, HHS members queuing to have their cards scanned for entry, volunteers and staff and everyone bumping together in this great crowded hum of noise. She politely excused herself past a very large man with a very large dog, who was arguing, albeit fairly graciously, with Kate from the ticket office, and then quickly skirted around a loud, American couple who were asking if Colin Firth was about to emerge from the Lake in his wet white shirt. She heard one of the new ticket girls say lightheartedly, ‘only if he’s escaped from my handcuffs’, and it made her laugh, even if the Americans were unimpressed.
She had already seen the production crew setting up in the Library, only a small team today, and the HHS historian who had contacted Joyce about the Fitzwilliam connection, but she had yet to see him. She didn’t have to wait long. From her viewpoint next to the Orangery, she saw the Volvo pull up to the gates, watching with eager eyes as he was buzzed in.
Standing at the edge of the doorway to the library, she excused herself to the few members of crew who were pushing past her. There was only a small team, and the historian from the HHS archives in London, who had brought boxes of information with her. And then there he was, sitting in the bay window of the library, being gently made up by the lady with the red hair, who she now knew was his sister-in-law, Lucy.
He looked different to how she had remembered him looking – he had never really looked like he did on movie posters or on the TV, but his face seemed a little thinner, and he had grown his beard again. He was wearing a smart white shirt and blue jeans, but instead of looking casually well-off as usual, he was tired around the edges. She wanted to run over and hug him, to tell him that everything was alright now, that everything would be alright if they were together, but she couldn’t do it and she knew why. Because it would be hard, and scary, and perhaps this long time without any contact had been the universe telling them both that it was a bad idea. He glanced over in her direction and she bolted behind the door frame, trying to avoid Graeme who was walking down the stairs. Politely she tried to dodge out of the way, but it was too late.
“Miss Lizzy,” he boomed. “How are you this fine Pemberley morning?”
He stopped dead at the bottom of the staircase, right in front of the doorway to the library. Caught between a velvet rope and a throng of brownie guides on a visit with Brown Owl, there was nowhere to hide, and she stood there like a frightened deer waiting to be hit by a minivan.
“Hello Graeme,” she said graciously to the doorman she had known forever. “I’m wonderful, how are you?”
“All the better for seeing you, Miss Lizzy, are you here to relieve me or are you doing something more important?”
“I’m just…” she noticed that Benn was definitely looking over at her now, removing the napkin from under his chin and getting up from his seat, “…it’s…erm…”
Graeme was confused, “are you okay?”
Benn was walking towards her now, and she needed to get away. “Yes, but if you would just excuse me…”
The older man nodded consent amiably, before he was accosted by the brownie leader who was currently doling out information packs and pencils to the small hoard of smiling girls.
Lizzy moved through the crowd into the bright gallery where she then escaped down the side staircase, into the entrance hall and out the front door. The courtyard was full of people still, even in the warm hum of the late afternoon, and she moved through the crowd and back into the house the wrong way around.
Benn knew he would see her; there was a flash of dark hair, a red polka dot dress, and then she was gone. He felt his heart flip a little, but then the excitement was replaced by fear. Fear of the unknown, fear that she would reject him and send him on his merry way. A long time had passed and although he was sure she would understand, he wouldn’t blame her if she told him to get lost. He would try and lay his best hand on the table; he would have to hope that it was good enough.
“Are you ready for this, Mr Williams?”
“Call me Benn, please…” he said, with his characteristic charm.
This project had been so interesting, especially given the family connections that had emerged in her research. Felicity Kruger, the senior curator of the HHS archives, didn’t know if he was aware that he was a descendant of Fitzwilliam Darcy, but she did know that this was going to make amazing television, and if she got to spend the afternoon flirting with Benn Williams then all the better.
“And how do you feel about discovering that you are, in fact, a five-time great grandson of Fitzwilliam Darcy…?” Felicity pressed, as they sat at the large round table in the library with all of her discoveries presented before him.
“Well, obviously it’s a little overwhelming…”
Benn had not expected this. He had thought the ‘The Story of My Life’ would flag up something vaguely interesting, they wouldn’t have asked him to do it if it didn’t, but this was absolutely mad. No wonder the production team had been so eager to film at Pemberley – it made complete sense now. He could see from the carefully plotted family tree that he was related to Fitzwilliam, and through that related to Lizzy. He was a Darcy, of sorts. He looked around the library, focusing on the small golden bulls glinting in the sunlight, and he wondered how many of them were still missing, replaced by the imposters.
“Do you need a minute, Benn?”
The director called over from behind the camera. Pulled out of his daydream, Benn smiled flirtatiously at Felicity who was looking at him expectantly.
“So,’ he said never taking his eyes off her, “what you’re saying is that of all this I could have been Master?”
It was cheesy, he knew that, but this was television and he had watched enough episodes of this programme to know what he needed to say. Felicity’s laugh fluttered across the table towards him, and she blushed slightly, the colour of her cheeks rising to a gentle pink which matched her cardigan.
“Well not quite,” she said, knowingly. “Your great great grandad – Albert Fitzwilliam – was the grandson of Fitzwilliam Darcy through his mother, Mabel. So not only are you related to our lovely Darcy family here, but you are also a distant cousin of Dennys Fitzwilliam, the current Earl of Matlock.”
“Not bad for a boy from Bury, is it?”
He searched the paper in front of him, following the curve of the family tree down to his own name and those of his daughters underneath it. Looking across he could see Lady Elizabeth Darcy marked across on the paper, all small parts of the same family.
“Were you not aware of this at all before you started filming the iconic role?”
Felicity’s serious face was quite amusing; she had a pointed nose and drawn on eyebrows, her tightened smile highlighted by a pearly pink lipstick. She was looking at him intently, he would need to answer her.
“I mean, Mr Darcy’s descendent playing Mr Darcy is quite special,” she pressed
“Yes, yes of course it is, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen this.” He was genuinely surprised. “My grandad once told me about staying with a cousin in Derbyshire, but I never really expected him to have stayed here at Pemberley.”
“We looked through the Pemberley Archives and here we have a picture of Leonard Fitzwilliam, he’s probably about nineteen here, with Lady Millicent Darcy.”
Felicity pushed over a faded black and white photograph of a young Leonard standing with an older, but still glamorous Millicent – all smiling as they played croquet on the front lawn, the towering grandeur of Pemberley standing behind them; still the same, still as constant.
“Right, take five everyone.” Christian shuffled his papers seriously, before jumping up from his chair and walking around looking important. “Guys, can you set up for the interview? Check the light balance in there too. There’s a lot of g
old, a lot of sunshine and I don’t want any lens flare. I’m not JJ fucking Abrams! Get a few fillers of the lake too – Leanne can you add a note for the V/O writers to stick a line about Colin Firth popping out of it?”
Benn looked at Felicity questioningly.
“Saloon?”
“We have another set of shots and a little bit with Harriet Darcy. She’s the daughter of Lady Elizabeth. Don’t you know her already? I’m sure Matthew Wickham is her dad.”
“Harriet?”
“We asked for Lady Elizabeth, but they couldn’t schedule her in. She’s very busy apparently. Harriet is just as good though, really nice girl.”
“Yeah, I know Harriet.”
“Oh, so you do know the family?” Felicity glanced over the edge of her reading glasses. “Shouldn’t take too long.”
Benn Williams had walked into the saloon, flirting and chatting with the lady from the HHS, who was obviously smitten with him. Harriet thought he looked older, a bit more worn around the edges; he was a bit fatter than she remembered from when filming had ended, but she knew how much he loved desserts, so she wasn’t surprised. Harriet didn’t like his beard, and she didn’t like the way his eyes were tinged with sadness. He looked strange in his normal clothes; even when he had been at the flat almost every night it felt like one of those days at school where teachers wore their normal clothes, and she didn’t know if she would ever get used to seeing him without a cravat and sideburns.
The filming had been really interesting, and she had learned a lot about Mabel Darcy. She had always wondered what had happened to the larger than life, romping girl who had bounded down the stairs, of course, she knew the facts – written down in books and on the internet – but she didn’t know the stories, and that was all everyone ended up being in the end.
“I can’t believe you never told me your real name was Bennet Fitzwilliam,” she grinned at him, as they were positioned on the red velvet sofa, microphones being carefully removed by a production assistant with an ever-present frown.
“You would have taken the piss.”
“Of course I would! We’re family now, Bennet, you can expect a huge amount of pisstaking.” She smiled, but he didn’t smile back, not in the same way anyhow. “Does my mum know you’re here today?”
“Not sure,” he shrugged. “I guess she does.”
“Would you like to come up for tea?”
He focused his attention to the papers on the table in front of them. But she saw the shift of something across his face, almost as if he was scared to say something out loud.
“Come and see us, later on when all this is done.”
“I don’t think I have the time, Harriet. I’m sorry.”
“You’re here to sign books for HHS staff and film this, so unless you have something outstandingly good planned for your evening at the Armitage, then I’m sure you can let me cook you some tea,” Harriet did not like it when people interfered with her plans. “You can see my mum too, and you can go and flirt on the roof, or whatever it is you do”
Benn couldn’t think of anything he would rather do than sit on the roof of Pemberley with Lizzy Darcy, laughing and joking and discussing all of the books he still hadn’t read.
“Do you think she would be happy to see me?”
There was a moment and Harriet Darcy saw Benn Williams with the sad look behind his eyes and the mournful mouth, how even though he was flirty and charming with Felicity, she could tell that he was decidedly un-Benn-like.
“I know she would.”
“Okay. Then yes, but only if you think it’s a good idea.”
“I do.”
Harriet knew that her mum thought that being a Darcy always meant choosing responsibility over anything else. Harriet didn’t, because she knew that being a Darcy meant choosing love over everything else, every single chance you could. She could see time and time again throughout history where her ancestors had done just that, and she could see no reason why they should all stop doing it now.
“Okay,” Christian jumped down from his chair. “We’ve finished here, Benn are you alright to jump in the van with us to Waddingham?”
“Where’s that?”
“Wakefield,” Christian was busy concentrating on a wedge of papers on his clipboard. “It’s the Fitzwilliam family home. It’s where Mabel Darcy lived.” He looked up at Benn, handing him a sheet with information on. “Did you know her husband was gay? He’s like your grandad or something, isn’t he? You’re lucky to be here at all!”
This was not part of the plan, he hadn’t planned to jump in anything and go to Waddingham, but he supposed it would be interesting to meet the Earl of Matlock and get shown around his ancestral home.
Felicity chirped in, eager to get his agreement to the trip.
“Dennys Fitzwilliam said that he can meet us there – we can introduce you.” She noticed his reluctance, “It won’t take long, just a few shots. Maximum three hours, I promise.”
He nodded his consent before walking over to the window where Lucy had reappeared after the filming had finished. She was looking radiant as ever, and he could see the faint outline of the bump containing his new nephew, who was due to arrive after Christmas.
“Off to Yorkshire then?” She wiped the make-up from his face, “best thing to come out o’Yorkshire is the road! That’s what your mum always says anyway!”
It was a running joke in the family of how proud Lynn was of her Lancastrian heritage.
“Best not tell her that we might all be from Yorkshire then, eh?”
“She’ll disown us all!”
It didn’t take three hours. The traffic on the M62 ground to a halt just before Leeds. the Earl of Matlock left the house around six thirty unable to wait any longer, by eight they were being diverted off the motorway and onto an A road somewhere near Huddersfield. He should have known that nothing in life was ever straightforward. Pemberley was in darkness by the time he unfolded himself from the cramped conditions of the production bus; up on top of the house he could see the lights from the flat blazing away and he wished more than anything that he lived there so he would be home by now.
He had been away for so long , but he had thought about walking up the curling staircase, feeling his hands against the chalky plaster, and sitting down on the couch next to Lizzy, wrapping his arms around her. He wondered if would be too late now to knock on her door, wondered if she would be happy to see him. He stood there, looking up at the Tower, trying to get up the nerve; but confidence got the better of him and he changed his mind, turning on his heel and back towards the car.
Lizzy rose from her seat in the stone porch, where she had been waiting, the chain of the pineapple necklace she had treasured for the last few months tangled in her fingers. As he walked away, she watched him intently, hoping that he would look back.
He didn’t.
1867
Mabel Fitzwilliam recovered from the death of her husband in a manner most ill befitting of ladies of her generation. Whilst she wore black for twelve months as required, she was determined to do something worthwhile with her life, something that would make a difference. It had been enough for her father that she had made a good match, but her mother had always wanted more for the girl who had lived.
She packed up her youngest children and left the house at Waddingham which was fast becoming a catacomb of grief, a shrine to a lost life. She visited Egypt, America, the Holy Lands, collecting artefacts and treasures, venturing further than most women in an age where a woman could be Queen in her own right, but where women were still deemed as the possessions of their husbands. She documented everything in the detailed and extensive travel journals that she would eventually become famous for, blazing a trail across the globe in a manner befitting the only daughter of Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet.
At the age of fifty-three, she returned to England and the house in Derbyshire as the guest of her nephew, Fitzwilliam. He introduced his fabled aunt - the great Lady Explorer, h
er skin the colour of walnuts, the smell of oud and rose oil surrounding her - to his new bride. The lady came from a Norfolk family, he said, perhaps she knew of them; the Wyndhams. The newest Duchess explained how her mother had died when she was eight, how her father had never remarried, despite being still relatively young. Clementine, wanting to ingratiate herself to her newest and most famous relative opened her locket to show a tiny painted miniature of her father, wondering if there was some prior acquaintance. Mabel shook her head gently as she sipped her tea.
After dinner she retired to the library, the room still smelled like her father; she was pleased to see his bulls all standing to attention, his chair still by the fireplace. She ran her finger along the row of books on the middle shelf, all still present and correct, and pulled out the atlas that she had brought home nearly thirty years ago.
Flipping through the pages, she traced her finger over the calculations that had been made in the margin, of the route that her dearest Papa had travelled, his handwriting still there, still present, his indelible mark on the world.
There was a letter, hidden between the pages, her father’s large, wax seal still intact. It was addressed to her mother. She had expected to find some solace in the words, but all she found was the evidence of the ardent and unending love that she had admired for her whole life, and whilst she was comforted by the firm handwriting of her dearest Papa, it simply made her regret some of her earlier decisions.
Dabbing her tears from the paper, she folded the letter firmly and placed it back in between the pages of the atlas. Her mother had died three years before her father, passing away quietly in her own bed in the room that overlooked the lake. It had been quick, and for that she had been grateful, holding her mother’s hand as she slipped into the next world. Comforting her father as he sobbed as if his life was over. Fitzwilliam had been interred next to Elizabeth in the church at Lambton, together for eternity, their final resting place marked with a simple dedication.
It had been nearly ten years since her father crashed out of the world, seven years since her brother Fitz had died suddenly, and unexpectedly in the night. Francis took the matter in hand and provided guidance to the young boy who was now in charge of the vast Darcy estates and business interests. Walking down the bright gallery, she was certain that she could still hear the echo of her father, his voice clear and strong, as his watch ticked away in her pocket, and sitting in the window seat, she was certain her mother’s effervescent laugh was ringing across the courtyard. Mabel read ‘Pride and Prejudice’ often, and it amused her to know that the rector’s daughter who had stayed at Pemberley one summer had immortalised her parents forever in the pages of a novel.
Becoming Lady Darcy Page 46
