“What do you wonder, Lady Sophia?”
“I wonder if all men are like that gathering of swaggering rakes down there.”
Silas Wickham leaned past his mistress to peer down onto the courtyard, there was but six inch between them. He could hear each indignant breath she took.
“I cannot claim that we are all exempt from occasional displays of bravado, m’lady, but if you don’t mind me speaking out of turn…”
“You can always speak the absolute truth to me, you know that.”
“Lord Fitzroy has a good voice to beg bacon, but I very much doubt he has it in him to slaughter a pig.”
He leaned over, closer than propriety allowed, placing her father’s second-best wig on its stand. She edged under his arm, smiling back at him as she passed through the dressing room and onto the north staircase. Sophia knew that there was a game in progress, but she had decided that she was going to change the rules, and they could all learn to play by them. Or they would lose.
Fifteen
The summer moon was high in the sky, the brightness glazing the countryside with its soft hues, illuminating the structure of Pemberley against the darkness of the Derbyshire moorland, and on top of the Wyatt tower, two figures were looking up at the stars above.
“Look,” he pointed up at the sky, “that’s Ursa Major.”
“Where?”
She moved her head an inch closer, fully aware that there was now only a hairline between them. He leaned his arm over, directing her eye to the sky, and she saw the stars pitted in the darkness.
“There, can you see it?”
He didn’t know how they had ended up climbing on top of the tower roof, navigating the creaky spiral staircase and lying behind the iconic Pemberley portico, but he was glad he was here sharing this night with her.
“How do I know that it is Ursa Major and you’re not just making it up?”
“You’ll just have to trust me,” he declared, as they sat on a scratchy blanket drinking coffee from mugs. He pierced a soft, chocolate covered pastry with a fork, passing it over to her. She took it from him with a small smile.
“I used to come up here when I was younger,” she began, nibbling on the profiterole in a very unladylike manner. “My grandad had this amazing telescope which was a million years old and we always thought we could get it focused and see galaxies, but we never did and ended up dragging it back downstairs. I think it was broken, but he never believed me.”
“Your grandad sounds cool.”
“He could be a lot of fun. I miss him a lot on nights like this.”
Benn saw a little wave of sadness wash over her, then it was gone, and the brightness returned, the crest of sunshine on the horizon. She must be so used to putting a brave face on everything that it was second nature now, he thought.
“Now let me get this right, your grandad was Winston…and, Harriet told me that your great-granny was Millicent Darcy. That’s amazing! I remember girls at uni wearing badges with her face on.”
“Yes, I had one of those badges,” she took a mouthful of coffee.
He munched a profiterole. “Is it true that they want to build a statue of her?”
Lizzy nodded. “Yes! Although when they do, I imagine that some junior news editor will headline it ‘Votes for Mr Darcy’ alongside a picture of Colin Firth!”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“All of the time! Winston used to get really cross about it, but my dad thinks it’s hilarious. I’m pretty sure that Millicent would find the idea of it all completely ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s only a famous suffragette because of who her father was, and that kind of defeated the point.”
She crunched on another biscuit, pulled her cardigan around her shoulders a little bit closer.
“She sounds like a remarkable woman.”
“I think she probably was, I never knew her. Apparently though, she made the best cheese pie. My grandad used to rave on about it all of the time. You can buy it in the tearoom, or there is a recipe for it in one of the cookbooks in the bookshop.”
“Maybe you could make it for me, perhaps.”
“Perhaps, as long as you’re not allergic to cheese, that is...”
She bit into another profiterole, the contents escaping to her lip.
“I’m not allergic to cheese.” He leaned over and wiped the cream off with the smooth firmness of his thumb. “I love cheese.”
It was a slow, intimate act. He felt a little shiver run through him, certain she felt it too.
“Am I on a pie-based promise now, Lady Darcy?”
“Maybe.”
She was teasing him, trying to pretend that goosebumps hasn’t appeared on her arm.
“I’d like that,”
She felt the soft pressure of his hand on hers, saw him look away as if it were simply a happy accident. It was a level of intimacy that she wasn’t sure she was comfortable with, because friendship and flirting was fine, but this? This was something different. She wanted to move her hand, but there was something quite wonderful about the coolness of his palm on her skin.
“You would?”
“Why would you think I wouldn’t?”
“Because you’re you. You’re Benn Williams, international man of movies, and I’m just…”
“You’re Lady Elizabeth Darcy. You’re you,” he emphasised, “why would I not want to?”
“Don’t say things like that to me, Benn.”
“You’re glorious,” he half-whispered, not sure if he wanted her to hear, he looked into her eyes wondering if he would ever be able to accurately describe the way traces of moonlight were flecked across their silvery warmth. “I could get lost in your eyes.”
If she had questioned the electric twitches surging through her veins before then she was left with absolutely no doubt now.
“My pondwater eyes?”
“Stop it,” he said firmly, “none of that shit with me. You know I think you’re incredible.”
“I’m not incredible.”
“Yes, you are.”
She looked down at his hand on hers, trying to find something to say, anything, because moments like this did not happen to her. This was like a scene from a Hollywood film.
“You have big hands.”
She looked down, hers seemed tiny compared to his.
“Not too different,” he pressed his palm against hers, his fingertips like electricity. “I have quite small hands, really.”
“They are much bigger than my dumpling hands.”
Sitting on the floor with fingertips touching, neither wanting to move them.
“Good pilgrim,” he did his best Olivier impression, “you do wrong your hand too much…”
She looked up at him, a smile of recognition at the line.
“…which mannerly devotion shows in this,” she was showing off now, the passage she learned for GCSE Drama falling out of her, “for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch—”
“And palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss.”
She quickly pulled her hand away, aware that he was watching her intently.
“I didn’t think you did Shakespeare.”
“I was always the Nurse,” he reached for his coffee mug, “but it doesn’t mean that I didn’t know the lines. I bet you were a great Juliet.”
“I was never Juliet, I have always been the comedic relief and never the leading lady.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
The park was pitch black now, the moon distant in the inky sky. Looking out from the rooftop she could see the faint outline of Manchester twinkling on the horizon, like moonlight hitting the ocean. He moved closer, but it was hesitant, cautious. He had fallen into this with his eyes wide open, with no expectation, and over the last few weeks he had slowly felt himself tumbling into something that he knew could be bigger than them both. But he held himself back.
“Do you feel it too, or am I going crazy?”<
br />
“Feel what?”
She knew exactly what he meant.
“I don’t have friends like you, Lizzy. I thought that’s all this was. But this isn’t just friendship, is it?”
She sat down on the balustrade, could feel the rough stone under her finger tips, the gentle cool rush of a summer breeze dancing around her shoulders. This wasn’t just friendship, but how could this ever have any chance of going anywhere?
“Can you remember what you said to me on one of your first nights here? You probably don’t remember, but I remember… I asked you if you knew what it was like to love someone so much -”
“ - that I would want them to be happy even if they weren’t with me. I remember that.”
Of course, he remembered that.
“Yes, and you told me that was how you loved Madeleine. Love like that can’t disappear overnight, however much you’re convincing yourself otherwise.”
“You think this is all an act?”
“What else is it?”
“It’s not acting, Lizzy. I’m not that good.”
“It can’t be love though,’ she reasoned, ‘please don’t try and pretend it is.”
He didn’t know how she wanted him to answer that question, because he thought it could possibly be love, or something a lot like it. If it wasn’t love, then it was serious like.
“It could be,” he said, taking her hand.
He shyly moved towards her, slowly, unsure, until she could feel the heat of his breath against her face. She was breathing in the smell of his woody, masculine cologne and the smell that was inherently him. It stayed on her clothes, her skin, lingered around her flat long after her had gone. His stubble grazed her top lip, but she pulled away quickly, not wanting to start something that she knew she couldn’t finish.
“What’s wrong?”
His eyes searched hers, found them confused, she shook her head gently and pulled away.
“Nothing is wrong.”
She started to place the coffee cups on the tray, wanting to distract her heart from what her head was saying.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not ready for this. Neither are you.”
Swallowing hard, she buried everything deep within her because she wanted to wrap her arms around him and feel the firm push of his kiss, wanted the heat and the weight of him against her on the roof under the stars over Pemberley, but she couldn’t do this. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“Are you so scared of this?”
“No.”
“Well, I can’t think of any other explanation for this…”
She stopped him sharply, because she did have an explanation.
“When I like someone, it burns within me like a fire, a furious fire. But I’m not prepared to light a match for someone who is clearly still burning a candle somewhere else. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not like that.”
He wanted her to understand that what he felt for her was different and new. He didn’t know what it was, couldn’t explain it, but he wanted to find out.
“It’s exactly like that.”
He knew that she had her legal head on now, noted the change in tone, the preparation for an argument, the points all lining up in her head as they did when they had heated discussions in the flat, but this wasn’t as if they were arguing about something trivial. This was something that could be serious, but he felt it slipping through his fingers, could feel her closing herself away again, retreating under her armour.
“You don’t even want to give me a chance, do you?”
She sighed, because deep down she wanted to take this chance and run with it. But she was a Darcy, it wasn’t how she was made.
“The trouble with fires is that without care and attention, they burn out. This is all fine now, when you’re here at Pemberley, but it’s like a holiday romance… don’t set me on fire and then leave me with ashes, please.”
“Why do you think I would leave you in ashes?”
“Have you ever had a relationship where you haven’t been left with the remnants of that furious fire?”
“Well no, but,” he spluttered.
“Me neither,” she said sharply, but then in a small reluctant voice, “we have this. Too many friendships get ruined with a kiss, and I’ve done that before. I know how it works out in the end.”
“With Matthew?” He saw her nod, and then he was angry. “This is you telling me that you don’t feel anything for me then? That I’m not what you want? Lizzy, I’m not like that.”
“I’m not saying that you are. I’m just saying that, for now, until we know what we want, then we should be friends. Best friends”
“This is more than that! I don’t want you as a best friend!”
“Why not? What would be so different?”
“It’s not what I want! It’s not what you want!”
“Don’t tell me what I want! Don’t be so fucking arrogant!”
“Oh, so I’m arrogant now as well as not being good enough?”
“Did I ever say that you weren’t good enough?”
“I can read between the lines, Lizzy.”
She paused for what felt like a lifetime, saw him fizzing with frustration and felt herself soften.
“I would rather have you as my friend forever, and always have this, rather than jump into something that neither of us is ready for, and lose you. There is no need for us to rush. I wish you could see that this isn’t a rejection.”
“It sure as hell feels like one!”
“If that’s what you want to take away from this then I don’t know what else I can say.”
He knew that he was acting like a child, knew that even though he wanted to be more than her friend, if friendship was all she could offer right now then he was happy to accept it. He just wanted her in his life because her presence made it that much more tolerable, but as he moved to say something, she turned to walk down the spiral staircase and he realised that it was the end of the conversation. The wooden door to flat clunked gently in the frame and he crept out of Pemberley slowly. When Benn had followed her up the spiral staircase to the roof, he was certain that it would have been the beginning of something, had never expected that it would be the end instead. Walking to his car he looked up at the stars, still sparkling above him, and felt like a fucking idiot.
1816
The baby did not cry. Darcy saw the small body covered over in the white sheet and the look of fear and anguish on his wife’s face, Dr Jeffries shouted for him to be removed from the room, but he refused to go. Ellen was trying to push him away, but he had heard a cry. A small cry. Was he going mad?
He turned around to see Dr Jeffries holding another small body; that of a pink shrieking baby, writhing and kicking and very much alive. Ellen looked at him, the relief revealing itself on her face as she swaddled the tot in cotton and muslin.
“It’s a girl,” she said, handing the precious newborn to her father.
Darcy looked down at his daughter. She had his wife’s eyes and his dark hair, and he was immediately and overwhelmingly in love with her. He took her over to his wife and presented the baby. Elizabeth, shaking with cold, exhausted and in pain, turned away and buried her head in the pillow.
Elizabeth looked around at the grandeur of her room, the printed paper on the walls, the wool rugs, the gilt dresser, the canopy – stitched with gold and silver thread - that stretched all the way to the ceiling. But all she could see everywhere she looked was the small body, wrapped up in a sheet as if to be thrown away. She had heard Dr Jeffries asking a maid to dispose of the bloodied sheet and she had howled, a low frantic moan, pulling at the covers, begging to see him, hoping and wishing that her love alone would be enough to bring him back to life.
Reluctantly they allowed it, despite Darcy’s objections, and brought him to her wrapped in a pale blue blanket. He had the longest eyelashes she had ever seen, the same long tapered fingers shared by his oldest brother, and the Darcy chin. He was perfe
ct. Stroking his face, so soft and so cold, she held him close to try and warm him up. She sat there for a long time, softly whispering lullabies and kissing the top of his head until they came and took him away.
“Where are you taking him? I demand you tell me now, have you forgotten who your Mistress is??”
She pulled at the arm of the footman who had been tasked with removing the body of the child.
“Where is Mr Darcy?” She screamed so loudly that he winced, “Peter, where is your Master??”
Darcy was in the Chapel. He only prayed when he felt absolutely powerless. He heard the screams, the shouts, but there was nothing left in him today. No fight. He fell to his knees and asked God, whoever or whatever that was, to help him make everything better, because if Fitzwilliam Darcy couldn’t do that then he didn’t even know what he was good for anymore.
“You are doing the right thing here, Mr Darcy, sir,” Mrs Reynolds busied herself making him tea as he sat in her parlour. “It has been very fortunate to not lose both children.”
Darcy acknowledged this with a wan nod of the head.
“I think about dearest Princess Charlotte; how terrible for Leopold to have lost her and the baby.”
“It can happen to anyone, even the Prince Regent’s daughter; we are none of us safe when our time has been decided.”
“That is a well-spoken truth, Mrs Reynolds,” he agreed, “but I cannot bring myself to understand why this happened to us.”
He glanced up at the older woman, not wanting her to see his face properly, not wanting her to see look at him in case a sympathetic glance made him collapse entirely. He was barely holding this all together, crushed by the weight of a world that he had placed upon his own shoulders.
She handed him a bowl full of soup from her own tray; he had not been eating properly, was not as tidy as usual. His face was not cleanly shaven, and he looked empty, she thought. In usual circumstance, Mrs Reynolds would never deign to speak to the gentleman she had known since boyhood in such a manner, but this was not a usual circumstance, it was a strange and uneasy time, and she had to resist the urge to gather up the man in her arms and comfort him as she had once done the child in the nursery.
Becoming Lady Darcy Page 24