Becoming Lady Darcy

by Sara Smallman

  In the top most room of the Wyatt Tower, Lizzy sat on her bed. She reached under the metal frame finding what she was looking for. A small, engraved wooden box. She carried it gently downstairs and placed it on the coffee table. It was small, insignificant; not really something that anyone would look for, but inside were bundles and bundles of letters, fastened with yellow ribbon, and sealed with the stamps of Mr and Mrs Darcy. She unpacked the contents carefully and laid them about before her.

  Running her finger over the seal of Fitzwilliam, she could feel that the stamp still firm and assured; the bull wearing his coronet with pride, the initials FGD intertwined underneath. The metal felt cold and heavy in her hand and the wooden handle smooth and worn. She wondered how many letters he must have written, how much of his life he had committed to the page, how many times he had dripped wax onto paper and pressed down hard to seal it. She traced her finger over the seal of her namesake, the twisted metal initials ‘ED’ underscored by an elaborately embossed feather; the wooden handle was lost to the ages, but the stamp itself still left a mark on her skin as she pressed it deeply against her palm.

  Lizzy had spent her teens reading the firmly regimented scrawl of Darcy, the curved dreamy marks of Elizabeth – all their love, all their disagreements, everything that had made their marriage work – and she had kept them safe and hidden. As she placed the letters back into the box carefully and hid it carefully in plain sight on the large oak bookcase in the front room, Lizzy knew that she was a very tiny offshoot at the end of the long branch that made up her illustrious family tree.

  1780

  In the late 1700’s, George Frederick Darcy had remodelled the north front of his Derbyshire estate for reasons only known to himself. He had employed the services of one of the Wyatt brothers who found some of the more Elizabethan aspects of the house not exactly pleasing to his eye. George, whose wife Anne was in town and due to give birth to their first child within the next few weeks, left the venerated architect in charge.

  Eight months later he returned to the county of his birth with his wife and son – a strong little boy called Fitzwilliam - to see that the bellcote which had once stood proudly atop the frontispiece had been removed and rebuilt on a small incline to the east of the house. George was now in possession of a three-story folly with a spire which Wyatt had named ‘The Lantern’. His wife laughed at how remarkably in fashion they were and how she was convinced that her sister would now commission something even grander to be built in the gardens of Rosings Park.

  One evening as the Darcys walked the short distance to their new garden feature, George presented his wife with the traditional gift given to each lady of the house following the successful delivery of her firstborn son. The necklace consisted of an intricate interlocking chain crafted by a local silversmith, and from it hung a pendant made of diamond and pearls. The pearls themselves were Darcy heirlooms having been in the family for at least three generations.

  Although no one was exactly sure, it was Pemberley lore that these pearls had once belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots. Nobody knew the truth, the facts of which had been lost to history a long time ago, but regardless of their origin, the Darcy Pearls were an important gift to give. After the birth of a Darcy heir, three of the gems were carefully removed from the tripled-stranded necklace, remounted in gold, and encased with diamonds, before being returned to the family vault for another generation; each pendant was unique to its owner and no two were the same, each husband having the final say in the design that would best suit his wife.

  Anne received her pendant with the greatest of pleasures, and they Darcys remained in the hollow folly at the top of the hill for the longest of times, until the lit beacons signalled to them that it was time to return home.

  A few years later, whilst running down the hill with her son on a sticky summer night, the necklace snapped, and the pendant fell to the ground bouncing on the stones and disappearing into the meadow. Fitzwilliam fumbled around on the ground until he found it, concealed in a clump of grass. He was always very good at finding things and he handed it to his mother proudly. She ruffled his hair, before tucking it into the pocket of her dress, and taking her son by the hand as they walked the remaining distance back to Pemberley. It was only when she placed the necklace back in her jewel box that Lady Anne noticed that one of the pearls was missing, and she planned to look again the following morning. The weather broke that evening, the storm over Derbyshire lashing the ground with thick, heavy rain; the earthy smell of cold water on the warm, dry soil filling the air. The ancient pearl was absorbed into the top soil, disappearing into the earth, falling through the cracks of time.

  Over a hundred years later, a tall, fair-haired boy with a curl to the nape of his neck was digging in the soil, hiding in the grass from a girl with blue eyes who was desperately trying to find him. He rubbed the dirt off and tucked it into the pocket of his trousers for safekeeping, fully aware that he had found something rare and beautiful.

  Lady Imogen Darcy dazzles in diamonds at celeb-filled Porttos launch

  The reality tv star, 19, currently dating Adam Gould, 26, from reality pop band, Smash, has released her own clothing and lifestyle brand, Porttos. Lady Darcy wowed fans outside the event in a floor-length Stella McCartney gown and a sparkling Harry Winston diamond choker. The blue-blooded stunner, who is a direct descendent of Mr Darcy – played by Colin Firth in the BBC adaptation – oversaw the glittering launch at The Dorchester in London’s swanky Mayfair. Lady Imogen, daughter of the Duke of Derbyshire posted pictures of the party on her Instagram @ladyimogenoflondon, where she has over 5 million followers. She captioned ‘I am so excited for the new Duchess range launching TOMORROW on my website! I hope you are all as excited as I am.’ Porttos will be available in John Lewis stores nationwide from November.

  Three

  The late spring sunshine was beating through the tin roof of the sports hall. Harriet yawned widely, she was now three quarters of the way through the GCSE Maths paper and fully aware that she was failing wildly. She was glad that her mum had chosen to send her to Lambton High, a small average comprehensive school with middling exam results and a toadying headteacher, rather than the boarding school in Hertfordshire that her grandad had offered to pay for, although she always wondered what it would have been like to wear a straw boater and play lacrosse.

  “Pens down.”

  There was a collective sigh from her year group and the immediate scraping of chairs along the floor and she sighed with… relief, maybe? Or maybe just the thrill of escape. It was her last exam and now she was free, from school at least. Collecting her phone from the plastic tray held by a tight-mouthed invigilator she switched it on, taking a minute to wave to Summer, who rolled her eyes from across the room, tossed her blonde curls and gestured that she would meet her outside. The phone beeped four times:

  Mum

  Mum

  Mum

  Dad.

  Dad? She sent her mum a quick confirmation text and made a mental note to reply to her dad later, before walking down the school corridor and out into the amazing freshness of the May afternoon.

  Lambton’s newest coffee shop ‘Lydia Teapot’ looked out onto the main road through town, where a row of shops stood squished together vying for trade with their quirky signs and inviting windows. A collection of Darcy themed gift shops were neighbours with Fitzwilliam’s, Pembertea and Miss Bennet’s Emporium being the most popular. Harriet watched the latest coachload of visitors venturing in and out, gathering an ever-increasing collection of printed paper bags as they did so. Summer languished on the squishy sofa in small café, her legs thrown casually over Harriet’s, whilst Caitlyn sat opposite sucking on the unyielding straw of a decadently syrupy iced latte. Harriet munched on a brownie, enjoying each mouthful as she licked the chocolate off her fingers, much to Summer’s disgust.

  “My mum agrees with you anyway,” Summer admitted, her blonde curls spreading over the couch arm. “But she thinks it’s
messed up that you fancy your grandad.”

  Caitlin snorted. Harriet’s obsession with Mr Darcy was very strange, especially considering that they were related.

  “I don’t fancy him,” Harriet retorted adamantly. “I admire him!”

  “Admire his Regency bulge!” Summer blurted, looking at Caitlin as they burst into laughter.

  Harriet blushed; she didn’t have a crush on Mr Darcy, but she supposed it was a bit odd. Fitzwilliam Darcy was such an imposing figure at Pemberley that you couldn’t help being a little bit in awe of him, and that stupid portrait of Colin Firth in the hallway outside the flat, ‘for storage’ Joyce had said, but it had been there since she started high school. She supposed that it was a little weird that sometimes when she needed advice, she would air her thoughts and feelings to her imagined ancestor, standing on the top landing corridor and looking for answers in the handsome face, as he stood to attention in his oil-painted glory.

  “Anyway, my mum said that Matthew Macfadyen is the better Darcy, from the looks point of view at least,” Summer continued.

  Summer’s mum, Moira Sinclair, loved her daughter being friends with Harriet, always inviting Lady Elizabeth round for gin and cake under the pretence of organising things for the girls, and then posting it on Facebook. Aunt Sybil thought of her as the worst type of social climber; rather like the Delanceys, who she also vehemently disliked, telling her great-niece her opinions on the subject frequently.

  “My mum likes Matthew Rhys,” Caitlin chipped in, “she likes how shouty he is.”

  “Well,” Harriet began, and her friends both groaned.

  “No, we don’t need to hear about historical inaccuracies again! Matthew Rhys is a brilliant Darcy, but the argument is between Firth and Macfadyen,” said Caitlyn firmly.

  “You can’t discount Firth because he’s old now,” Summer said, “he wasn’t old then, and they did actually film it at Pemberley, and not bloody Chatsworth.”

  Harriet nodded in agreement and took the Frappuccino off Summer, slurping a large icy mouthful, “my Grandad Duke gets really cross about it, and my mum thinks Winston spins in his grave every time we watch the 2005 version.”

  “I like Chatsworth,” Caitlin stated a little unsurely, and found herself immediately glared at by the other two. “What?” She cried defensively, “they have a really good shop… and, y’know…”

  “Traitor!” Harriet said in a sinister tone.

  Summer leaned over to thwack Caitlin with a magazine.

  “You deserve that!”

  The rivalry between the two great families of Derbyshire had been ongoing for centuries, when previous Dukes had become embroiled in a dispute over the red deer herd, and it had been the ultimate betrayal when Chatsworth had been chosen twice over Pemberley itself to portray the great Darcy estate.

  “Shush,” Harriet said firmly, “okay, so we’re going with Firth then?”

  “Shouldn’t we wait and see what Benn Williams is like before we make any final decisions?”

  Caitlyn thought that out of all the actors she liked him the best, especially seeing as they could probably meet him in real life.

  “Ugh,” Summer shuddered. “He’s old enough to be your dad, Cat, don’t be so grim.”

  Summer had already decided that Colin Firth’s wet-shirted Darcy was going to win, she just needed to convince everyone else that it was their idea.

  “So, Harry, we’ve decided on Firth yeah? My mum keeps going on and on about it so she can order the cake toppers off Etsy or whatever.”

  “Wait!” Caitlyn exclaimed, as if she had been stuck with a pin, “what about the Zombies Darcy? He counts too!”

  “Bugger off!” Summer shrieked. “Even I know that Zombies Darcy doesn’t count, regardless of how good with a sword he is.”

  She said goodbye to Summer and Caitlyn with a multitude of hugs, even though they would be snapchatting all the way home and meeting in town the following morning, and climbed into the car, passing her mum the skinny latte that acted as payment for the journey home. There was no bus stop outside Pemberley, and Harriet found that she had to rely on either her mum’s good nature or guilty conscience for a lift home, or else it was a long trek up the driveway.

  Lizzy pulled up outside the main gate punching in the entry code. The car was emblazoned with ‘Pemberley Estates’ and the shiny gold crest of the Darcy family. She had managed to coerce Donald, the grumbly groundskeeper who lived at the main gatehouse into letting her borrow it on the proviso that she left it tidy. Her own ancient Mini had been slowly deteriorating over the past few months and she was getting tired of it deciding to strand her halfway down the main drive when the engine would fail and refuse to sputter back to life. She had found herself in trouble during the weekend of Mr Darcy’s Regency Christmas when the car, loaded with Christmas shopping, had stopped dead at the ticketing kiosk, holding up the three coaches and stream of visitors, who were desperate to see local actors re-enact scenes from Pride and Prejudice, whilst eating millefruit biscuits recreated from a recipe that had been found in the archives.

  The car shimmied and dipped over each bump in the mile-long road, as they passed over the bridge and jolted over the cattle grid, before settling onto the long, grand sweep of the drive. The flag was flying on top of the Cage, signalling it was open, and a few straggling visitors were slowly making their way down from the hunting lodge, the bright colours of their jackets and wellies popping against the subdued spring hues of the ancient deer park.

  “How did it go?”

  “Maths, innit,” Harriet sighed. “It just has to be a C.”

  “It just has to be a C?”

  One eyebrow was raised; Harriet groaned, she wasn’t in the mood for one of her mum’s lectures about grades.

  “Yes, Mum! I only need a C for AS Levels, you know this.”

  She sighed loudly and focused her attention on the constantly flashing phone in her hand, before turning the radio station over even though it was the middle of Women’s Hour.

  “Oh, Dad said to tell you that he’s home this weekend.”

  Harriet noticed the change in her mum’s mood immediately and, somewhat wisely, changed the radio station back to Women’s Hour. They pulled up at the north front gate, parking the car in Donald’s signposted space where he would collect it later. Walking silently together under the gateway and around the circular outer courtyard, Harriet nudged herself into Lizzy’s shoulder and the two Darcy ladies hurried inside for a Netflix binge, a microwave biryani and copious amounts of chocolate cake.

  1811

  It was a fine evening when Mrs Bennet was informed by her eldest daughter that she was to become a grandmother. This news had been all she had hoped for in the months since she had seen her two oldest daughters married. Secretly, she did not think it would be too much longer before Lizzy would be making her own announcement and she looked forward to the days when she could pronounce the birth of the heir of Pemberley to the captive audience of ladies in Meryton. She was so fortunate to have two daughters so fortuitously wed and Lydia… well, Lydia would be alright, she would make her own way as she always had. The mistress of Longbourn fell back into the warm bed in the turquoise bedroom and congratulated herself on a job well done.

  Jane Bingley was first to rise that morning. It had been the same every day for the last few months, up with the crow and vomiting into her chamber pot. She felt guilty, as the poor maid who had taken it away to empty it each morning also visibly retched. The young girl was no older then her sister, Lydia, and yet their lives would have been markedly different. Mrs Wickham was now happily ensconced with a regiment in Newcastle, where she was able to flirt with officers and make a fool of herself with little embarrassment or negative reflection on her family. There was inevitably requests for money, but the older Bennet girls had obliged their younger sister – who was unable to manage a budget or her husband – with occasional gifts from their own purses. The Wickhams were not welcome at Pemberley and, despite th
e protestations of both Lydia and her mother, an invite to the ball had not been forthcoming.

  Charles Bingley knew that his wife was bearing the brunt of this pregnancy in her amicable way, but for the most part she was putting on a brave show of it. For the last few months, she had been sicker than he expected, and he hoped that the nausea would soon abate so that she could enjoy her bloom. Jane caught glimpse of his worried face as she turned around on the bed and then settled back into the warmth of the sheets, gently kissing his brow to allay any worries. He returned her embrace, and the Bingleys settled back into their slumber, aware that the residents of Pemberley would probably not be rising until noon.

  Mrs Reynolds was always a flurry of nerves in the week leading up to the Lady Anne’s Ball; it was a massive undertaking, even for an experienced woman such as herself, and that morning she congratulated herself with a small glass of port from Staughton’s cupboard and prepared to thank her staff for a job well done. Mrs Darcy had looked beautiful and acted with all the grace and decorum of a lady with twice her breeding. Of course, the Darcy’s housekeeper had been aware months before the official engagement announcement that her master had a predilection for this Hertfordshire Miss, her impromptu visit a few summers earlier had sparked something in Fitzwilliam Darcy that Mrs Reynolds had not seen before, and she had wondered how long it would take before Elizabeth Bennet returned to Pemberley as his wife. Now as the evening of the Lady Anne’s Ball had passed without setback or drama, Mrs Reynolds helped herself to a leftover biscuit and rested her feet for a while whilst her kitchen staff busied themselves with preparing breakfast for the waking guests.

  Elizabeth was frustrated. Her dress fit most ill, even with lacing, it looked wrong. She was annoyed as the daring crimson morning dress that she had chosen for the post-ball lunch had been her absolute favourite item this season, and she had been looking forward to wearing it since the first appointment with her dressmaker in town. Money was no-longer an object for Elizabeth, as the mistress of Pemberley it was expected that she would have the best gowns in the finest fabrics, but ever the country gentleman’s daughter, she had stuck close to her budget and used fabric that she had found in her new home, hidden away in the crates and trunks that Darcy had brought back from the continent after his Grand Tour. The sheer, shimmery fabric, interwoven with a thin, delicate gold thread in patterns of diamonds and flowers, was spectacular.