Mabel Darcy was forty-three years of age when her husband, Henry Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock, received two accidental shots to the head whilst out hunting with a party who had ridden up from town. She was thankful that they had been blessed with four beautiful children; the heir to the earldom, Richard, who had the Darcy countenance and the Bennet humour, and three other strong, healthy boys.
Henry had been Mabel’s friend since childhood, his gentle manner and their shared adoration of the poetry of Shelley and Byron gave them a common interest. Their parents had been of the conviction that an affection had formed between the two, and tentative plans had been put in place when they were both still in schooling that one day the families of Darcy and Fitzwilliam would unite. Mabel wasn’t convinced; Henry was a good friend, but she didn’t think he would ever be able to love her like the prince in her storybooks loved the princess.
When she was twenty-two, her younger brother Francis confided in her one windy, thundery December night as they both stayed up reading late in the library at Pemberley, the windows rattling against the roar hitting them from across the Peaks. He had looked at her, scared, unsure; she had never seen him like this before, he was always so certain, so arrogant in his opinions, that she knew it was something serious.
“What is the matter, please tell me…” she begged, as he cried on her shoulder.
In the end, she hadn’t been too shocked – she was a modern woman of the world after all, she thought - and she held her younger brother close. His soft brown waves burnished with hints of red curling behind his ears, his dark grey eyes almost molten as he held onto her, as a sailor would hold onto a mast in a storm.
“How can I overcome this, sister? How can I ever make it right with my own conscience?”
“Everything will be alright,” she soothed. “I understand.”
He pushed her away, “you will never understand!”
Never one to be intimidated by the rage of her brother she dragged him towards her and held him tightly.
“I do understand. I understand the seriousness of the sin you believe you are committing, but I am not of that belief and neither should you be.”
Mabel understood that love was love in whatever form it came in and she would do anything to make her brother happy, that she would always do anything to make him happy.
“Will it be alright,” she asked her Mama, who was brushing the lugs from her hair. The firm pull of the bristles made her feel very young again, even though at this time the following evening she would be Lady Fitzwilliam, and a wife.
She looked up at her mother’s reflection in the peer-glass, Elizabeth saw the look of fear and hesitation pass across her daughter’s face. She recognised it clearly as it was the same look that she had seen on her own reflection over twenty years ago on the night before her own wedding.
“Of course, even if you love someone it is normal to feel apprehensive,” she continued to brush the girl’s hair. “You do love Henry very much, don’t you Mabel?”
She wasn’t very sure on how she should answer this, not wanting to reveal to her mother the indifferent love that she felt for the man she was about to marry. This was not the romantic love that she had dreamed about when she had read ‘Pamela’ or ‘Emma’, there would be no George Knightley or Mr B waiting for her at the altar.
“I hold him in very high regard, Mama.”
Elizabeth placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders, addressing her through the mirror.
“If you are unsure about any of this, you do not have to press ahead. I will not think less of you if you decide not to marry Henry.”
Mabel turned on the stool, “I think I am simply apprehensive, Mama. It is a very big undertaking when one does not always fully comprehend the complexities of marriage.”
“You do not have to fully comprehend marriage to embark upon it. Did we provide a good example for you?”
“You and Papa are always wondrously in love, even when you disagree or fight, I know that you don’t really mean it…”
“I always mean it when I am cross with your father! The older he gets the more pompous he gets, and he needs someone to remind him of it every now and then.”
“You remind him of it very often I think, Mama. You are so very lucky that he loves you a great deal.”
“It’s not luck, Mabel,” she said, selecting a burnished orange gown from the selection being offered by Betsy. “Marriage is hard work, even for your father and me. There are sacrifices that we both make to ensure the happiness of the other. As you know, he hates the music of Mozart, whereas I could happily listen to it being played constantly, and I, well… I….”
“You don’t like how Papa thinks he is better at billiards than you.”
“Well, he isn’t better than me, but for the sake of a happy household sometimes it is beneficial to let him think he is.” She smiled, “your Father may have had an easier life with another lady from a better family, but I do not think he would have had a happier one.”
Betsy started to pull and pin Mabel’s hair into a cascade of curls, piled on top of her head, decorating it with tiny pearled clips and a twist of lilacs. She watched as her mother glided about the room, picking up objects, studying them. Mabel forgot sometimes that this had not always been her mother’s home, that she had first entered the house as a visitor, viewing the splendour of it all as an outsider.
“Was it hard moving to Pemberley from Longbourn? It must have seemed huge compared to there, I so disliked it that one winter when we were all cramped together visiting Grandmama.”
“It was difficult, of course; but Pemberley has always been so very welcoming. It was the running of the household that was the hardest part, but your father ensured that I had lots of help.”
“I have positive nightmares about moving to Waddingham, I know I will be able to run a home, but…being a wife.”
“You will have your tour first, you will be able to get know Henry properly, and all of the other things will fall into place.”
The thought of being alone with Henry Fitzwilliam was the thing that was worrying Mabel the most. They were very good friends, possibly the best of friends, but imagining him kissing her in any other way than on the cheek, made her feel positively nauseous. She knew of the expectations of the marital bed; had prodded her two years wed cousin Charlotte for all the intimate details, which had been shared in letters and over deep conversations when she stayed at the house on Grosvenor Street, but the thought was truly horrifying. Especially so when she considered that she would have to do it more than once, that she would need to provide an heir; firstly, a boy to inherit the vast and ancient Fitzwilliam fortune, and then more children to ensure the continuation of the line.
As their lady’s maid, Betsy, fastened her grandmother’s jewels around her neck, all she could feel was the weight of the expectation and it made it hard to breathe.
“Mama, I don’t think I can go ahead with this.”
She threw herself into the warm, comforting embrace of her mother, holding onto her tightly in the bedroom that had been her sanctuary. There were tears falling down her face as she sobbed over and over that she didn’t want to do it. Elizabeth pulled her closer to her, feeling the sobs rattle through her body. She gestured to Betsy, who left the room immediately and returned quickly with the Master.
Darcy had granted Henry Fitzwilliam permission to marry his only daughter for two reasons. Firstly, as the oldest son of his two cousins, Richard and Anne, he was assured of his pedigree. Secondly, he was a single man in possession of a large fortune and in want of wife. He would, of course, always want his daughter to marry for love, but even with her substantial dowry, it would always be beneficial for Mabel to make a prudent marriage to a wealthy man. He walked into the room with a sour look on his face, it smelled like powder and lavender, the smell of women getting ready for the evening; Mabel was crying on the bed, Elizabeth holding her, looking at him with a questioning face, unsure what to do.
; What, he mouthed to her.
I don’t know, she mouthed back.
“What on earth is all this nonsense about, Mabel?”
The girl looked up at him slowly with a red, tearstained face. To him she was instantly transformed once more to the mewling babe in the cradle and his heart felt a pull of longing to comfort her. She walked steadily over to him and he enfolded her in his embrace. He glanced over at his wife, who shook her head gently, their marital shorthand telling him what he needed to know.
“Now, my dearest, what is the matter? Surely nothing can be so bad to cause such agitation.”
“Papa, I don’t…” she stumbled with the words, “I don’t think I should marry Henry. I do not love him like you love Mama.”
“Mabel, love grows with time. I understand your apprehension, marriage is a big undertaking for anyone, but Henry is nice and well-educated, you will be happy with him.”
“I know I will be happy with him. He is a good friend, and I like spending time with him; but I cannot see myself as his wife. I cannot imagine dancing with him in the way you dance with Mama or holding him tightly and looking at him in the same way that Aunt Jane looks at Uncle Charles. I cannot see that future for myself with Henry, and that frightens me. I do not love him like a woman loves a man.”
Darcy sat down on the bed, the embroidered coverlet sent over by one of the Bingley girls the summer before, knowing as they did Mabel’s complete ineptitude for needlework. He studied the girl standing before him, hardly believing that the small child, who he had taught how to ride on a small pony, was now a fully-fledged woman preparing to wed. She reminded him so much of Elizabeth, but there was also a soft remembrance of his mother in her that danced around the periphery of his memory.
“If you do not wish it, then you do not have to proceed with the marriage, or you can extend your courtship for a few more months if you prefer. But Henry is a good man and he although he might not be outwardly demonstrative, I think he loves you and holds you in very high regard.”
“I think I’m simply overwhelmed with it all, Papa.”
“Marriage is overwhelming,” her mother whispered. “I was petrified.”
“Petrified of me?” Darcy had never known this.
“No, scared of becoming Mrs Darcy of Derbyshire. We place so many pressures on ourselves I think as women. I assure you that all those fears disappeared when I saw your father at the altar. I knew that even though there were challenges—"
“There were many challenges,” Darcy interrupted, his wife throwing him a disparaging look and continuing.
“– that I would be able to overcome these because he was by my side. Everything was much easier knowing that I had companion in life who would put my needs and wants above his own,” Elizabeth took her husband’s hand. “Although he only listens when he wants to and will eat all that we have of anything sweet if we let him. This is how you got so portly, darling.”
Mabel smiled at this, and her mother sensed that there was a little bit of lightness now.
“You have to remember,” he said sincerely, “that Pemberley will always be your home; even though you will be the Mistress of a much grander house -”
“And it is much, much grander than here,” Elizabeth smiled, “although obviously not as wonderful.”
Darcy looked at his daughter with a serious expression on his face, “Mabel, you can always come home if you need to.”
She nodded gently, brushed the curl back behind her ear, the huge Fitzwilliam sapphire glinting on her finger.
“I’m sorry,” her face was brighter, “I feel much better now. I am sorry for… all of this, and now I have delayed us all getting ready for our guests.”
“Not at all, my beautiful button.” Darcy kissed his daughter on her forehead, before leaving her to complete her preparations with her mother, glancing at his wife for confirmation that he could leave everything in her capable hands now.
“Your father is very gracious, Miss Mabel, for I am at least half hour behind in my toilette.”
“Mama, I know I shouldn’t, but I still wonder about…”
“I know you do, and I understand what you gave up,” Elizabeth was softer now. “I think I understand this decision you have made, even I do not fully comprehend your reasons for it.”
Mabel sighed gently, “I have accepted that Percy Wyndham is lost to me, that no amount of pining for him will alter that fact.”
“Henry is a very handsome, very clever gentleman; he might not be a Captain Wentworth, but you have to remember that all of those heroes in your books were written by women and the reality is that men are not always as demonstrative in their affections, or as eloquent in their admissions of love. Miss Austen was always very good at coating everything in a deeply romantic veneer, she embellished your father to a great extent, but I suppose I am to blame as it was all based on my own recollection of events.”
“She did write him very well indeed. I can see why women fall in love with Mr Darcy, he is so very honourable,” she agreed. “Now all I need to do is be as happy as you are.”
“Happiness is not always immediate, Mabel. Sometimes happiness sneaks up on us from around a corner.”
“I am ever hopeful, Mama.”
The celebration dinner went ahead on time and as planned and there was much feasting and merriment as Pemberley celebrated the impending nuptials. She laughed joyously as the Darcy and Fitzwilliam parents took to the polished wooden floor of the ballroom. Her father had always told her that to be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love, but she had failed to see how they had ever fallen in love dancing the rigid, complicated dances of their youth. Looking at them now she knew that Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy were the epitome of the romantic love that she would always long for, the love she had found and lost, the love that she would never have again.
Fitzwilliam Darcy walked her down the aisle as proud as could be, a smile etched across his face for the whole day. As his only daughter, Mabel held a special place in his heart and in the dark days after her birth when his dearest Elizabeth was beyond his reach, the little sparkle in the baby’s eyes kept him optimistic for the future. The delicate, blonde gentleman with the blue eyes that glittered like jewels and the tight little mouth that pursed like a rosebud, stood at the end of the aisle, looking nervously around as she floated towards him in a light pink gown, with frills to the arms which she found overly fussy. Meanwhile she could see Francis standing there, smiling at her, grateful that she was keeping his secret safe, protecting his life by sacrificing her own.
Despite their unusual arrangement, Mabel and Henry had loved each other very much. She found something ultimately fulfilling in being married to your best friend, and she had never had to worry about Henry taking a mistress or not confiding in her. They were equal in every way and she knew that she had been envied by other women in their set, especially Florence Cadwallader, a lady constantly fretful of her own husband’s infidelity, who complained heartily about her lot when she took tea on the terrace of the house at Wakefield. Mabel gazed out over the endless, rolling pastures that surrounded Waddingham. If only they knew the sacrifice a woman had to make for such a security, she thought as she sipped her tea.
In the still room, the stone room hung with fragrant bunches of wildflowers and filled with the scent of rosemary, Mabel kissed Henry’s cold face and said her goodbyes. She couldn’t bear to imagine the pain that would have ripped through his body as his spine snapped into pieces, or the trauma of the jarring wound to his skull that had meant that even though she could identify him, it was obvious that half of his head was missing. Bowdler had not wanted the mistress to see her husband like this, had wanted to shield the lady from the gruesome sight, but she had insisted, cleaning the body by herself as her last duty to a beloved husband.
The butler at Waddingham had known Henry Fitzwilliam since he had been in the cradle, had glimpsed his peculiarities and his queerness when he had returned home from school,
had witnessed the particular intimacy with the Darcy boy first hand, and then there had been others. He felt worst for the Missus, he wondered if she was aware that her husband was…well… like he was. Bowdler also knew that this was no accident; that the shots with which the Earl had been hit were too precise, too calculated. Sitting in the pantry in the bowels of the house, he took a small shot of whisky from the stores, fully aware that his master had been killed in cold blood by the group of men currently drinking his brandy and sleeping under his roof.
She returned to the house to let her children know their father was dead. Richard, their eldest son and not quite thirteen and now the Earl of Matlock was petrified. It seemed as if he might drown under the burden of responsibility, and she held him tightly in her arms until the sobs echoed away, leaving him looking young and frightened even in sleep.
In the hallway of the grand house that she called home, the stain of her husband’s blood on her gown, the brittle coldness of the night crackling on her skin, Mabel fell to her knees as the grief and the loss and the pain poured out of her, powerless to keep it all contained. She cried for her husband, for her brother James who was lost to the ocean, and for her dearest Mama and Papa. She cried until there was nothing left but noise and anger at a world that had left her so alone. She stayed there until the sun began to rise.
Then she stood up.
Twenty-Eight
The long gallery was humming with people and noise and the soft click-clack of boots and shoes on the wooden floor. It was a warm day and visitors had flocked inside, escaping into the breezy coolness of the building and the new Wartime at Pemberley exhibition. In the bay window, a woman was busy scolding her toddler, using a gentle but firm voice, as he threw himself on the floor, an older couple meandered up the stairs gently holding hands as they chatted softly, a couple of teenagers in walking boots and t-shirts looking serious and reading everything, a middle-aged woman and her daughter speaking in hushed tones.
Now displayed in large cabinets and on oversized display boards, the collection of photos and artefacts, found hidden in a cupboard down in the bowels of the house were giving visitors insight into how life at Pemberley continued during both World Wars. Boxed up and categorised, detailed and documented in her great-grandmother’s spindly, firm handwriting, were journals, diaries, pictures, records, and hundreds of glossy black and white photographs on thick paper. Lizzy’s favourite was the picture of Millicent and Jonathan, standing in the Dutch Gardens, busy planting broad beans and onions – him resting his boot on a spade, whilst she grinned up at him wearing dungarees with her hair tied up in a scarf. But it was the picture of the first wave of evacuees – Pemberley Easter Hunt 1940 – that she found the most poignant; wondering how many of those little faces, grinning at the camera holding Easter baskets with their knobbly knees visible, survived the bombardment that they returned to.
Becoming Lady Darcy Page 44