Becoming Lady Darcy Read online

  She knew that Caroline Bingley would make a derisive comment about the dress, but it did not matter, for she would not be wearing it for the unappreciative glances of society ladies, but the admiring glances full of longing that her husband would direct across the table. Darcy loved her in bold colours, and red was his particular favourite. But the gown did not fit – not even slightly. Ellen pulled out the new dress that had arrived last week, a replacement for the one still bearing the indigo battle-wounds of preparing for ball, Darcy would have to settle for his wife in yellow this morning. But if time and guests permitted, she thought, he might be persuaded to take her out of it that afternoon.

  A few of the larger State Rooms were still closed off as Darcy’s elaborate restorations took place, so Elizabeth found herself taking a shortcut down through the servants’ staircase, saying hello to Betsy – one of the younger maids - before crossing the courtyard and entering again through the front door. As she traipsed across the house, Elizabeth acknowledged to herself that she had been walking a lot less now she lived on the estate. She could not simply march the five miles to Lambton through the endless rolling hills that surrounded her new home, and even though she and Darcy had walked the twelve miles to Kympton a few months back, she had to admit to herself that her lack of exercise, coupled with the vast array of new and delicious foods had probably contributed to her expanding waistline. Never to mind, she would wear the dress soon enough.

  Darcy found his wife’s father in the library that afternoon, sipping on coffee and eating Prince of Wales biscuits left over from the night before. He wondered if it would have been more pleasing to Mr Bennet to place his bed in the library for the duration of his stay as the gentleman was found in here more often than elsewhere, preferring to eschew the typical country pursuits for a comfortable afternoon spent with Marlowe or Keats.

  “Darcy,” said Mr Bennet, as he took a bite of his biscuit. “How are you feeling this morning? Sore feet?”

  The humour of the situation was not lost on the congenial host, who laughed gently to himself before pouring a cup of coffee and joining his father in law in front of the fire.

  “I have been informed by your most amused daughter that I may have filled your wife’s dance card toward the end of the evening.”

  “You most certainly did, and most appreciated it was,” Mr Bennet poured himself another cup of coffee from pot engraved with the intertwined initials of his daughter and her husband. “Why, the problematic issue of taking a wife who is decidedly younger than oneself, is that one often does not wish to dance, whilst one’s spouse does. This can cause a veritable cacophony of dramatics, where a gentleman is forced to choose between a display of nerves or a show of vexation. Indeed, Fitzwilliam, I find that often it is easier to escape the whole situation entirely and leave the dancing to the younger generation.”

  Mr Bennet raised his eyebrow at his son by marriage and smiled wryly. Darcy found that it was the exact same mannerism that Elizabeth displayed when she was teasing him, and it pleased him that his relationship with her father had reached a level of intimacy where this could be enjoyed. As much as Darcy had found Mr Bennet’s parenting skills lacking somewhat, he hoped that he would have the same easy-going bond with his own children when the time came, although any Darcy offspring would, unquestionably, be reared with a slightly firmer hand than the Bennet sisters had been.

  The Darcys and their visitors enjoyed a long and leisurely afternoon, with the gentlemen taking to the lake for fishing, whilst the ladies enjoyed a meander around the gardens before Elizabeth and Georgiana took out a phaeton and ponies for a jaunt around the grounds. Jane retired indoors, not wanting to risk the high-speed trip around the park, and her sour-faced sister, Caroline, joined her.

  Miss Bingley was preparing for her wedding, due to take place the following month. Her betrothed was a noble, if impoverished, Scottish laird, and she would be spending winter in Edinburgh before taking up residence in a remote highland castle. Caroline did feel apprehension regarding the move, she would be so far removed from all of her friends and relations, and whilst she would be elevated to the ranks of Scottish aristocracy and become Lady Caroline Dalhousie, she was not entirely convinced that she would be able to persuade Lord Dalhousie to relocate to London on a more permanent basis and was struggling with the thought that she would be confined within a very small society for lengthy periods of time.

  Either way, Christopher Dalhousie’s estate and title held much more prestige for Caroline than she would have ever attained by marrying miserable Fitzwilliam Darcy and being shackled to Derbyshire for the rest of her life. She had done well indeed, and the next time she found herself invited to Pemberley she would expect the proper deference due to her rank and the second-best bedroom.

  Elizabeth made her excuses at supper that evening and returned to her rooms early. She didn’t know if it was the exertions of the day, the heat of the summer night or the long hours that she had been keeping of late, but she felt exhausted and though it was bad form to leave her guests without the presence of their hostess, she knew it would be even worse if she fell asleep in the soup.

  As she walked through the house, Elizabeth gradually realised the reasons for her ills and thought herself hare-brained indeed. Back in her rooms, the yellow and gold suite that had once belonged to the Lady Anne herself, she unbuttoned her gown and stood to look at herself in the mirror. She noticed the change in her body, a rounding of her hip, a fullness of her bosom – how could she have been so blind, how could she have not realised!

  There was a quiet knock on the door, before it opened, and her husband appeared with a slice of pie.

  “Darcy,” she said warmly, before taking the plate from him. “Did we spend so much on the ball that we no-longer have servants?”

  “Well, if the lady of the house refrained from promising pineapples to all and sundry then maybe I could have asked a servant to bring you refreshment.” He pulled her towards him, “although I must admit that visiting your rooms does have additional benefits.”

  Darcy kissed his wife gently on her neck, breathing in the smell of her. She smelled like soap, and warmth, and home.

  “Here, take a bite of your pie – it’s very good, in fact I might even go back to our guests and have some more.”

  She laughed at his teasing, and then obliged his request, taking a seat on the chair next to her dressing table. Dressed in her chemise and robe, and with her hair unpinned, she looked positively radiant. He felt a rush of sudden desire for her.

  “My dearest,” she started, keeping him at arm’s length. “I have something to tell you.”

  Her face was serious, and a wave of nauseous anxiety passed over him.

  “Lizzy?”

  She stood up and walked towards him slowly, her gaze never wavering.

  “Elizabeth, what is wrong?”

  “We may need to make different plans for these next few months hence.”

  She took his hand in her own, and kissed it, before gently placing it on her slightly rounded belly.

  The slow build-up had been worth the exquisite pay-off – Darcy’s face was incredulous, and as he processed the words, the realisation of the news spread all over his face, resting on his lips in the biggest smile. He pulled his wife into his arms and kissed her all over her face, before holding her in front of him, looking down at her belly again, and embracing her.

  This was the most amazing news that Fitzwilliam Darcy had ever received in his entire life. He was going to be a father. Daddy. Papa. Yes, he would be Papa. He was going to be all these things to this little miracle of life that they had created between them. The Darcys held each other for a long time that evening, talking, kissing and laughing until the sun emerged over the horizon of the Cage once more.

  Four

  Lizzy walked into the party taking place in her backyard, she was wearing a black top, bright red cardigan and an amazing printed vintage skirt. With her mother’s Darcy Pearls pendant adorning her
neck and her hair tied up with a relatively fashionable printed scarf, she felt that she would be able to hold her own in this party full of off-duty starlets and B-list actors.

  She wasn’t exactly sure who had managed to convince Joyce to hang fairy lights from the gallery windows on each side, but she was glad they had, as it had resulted an electric constellation lighting up the sky above the courtyard. The whole house felt alive with people, and she loved it when Pemberley was like this. It made her think of Cecily Darcy’s infamous Edwardian house parties and how vibrant the house would have been filled with people, music pouring out of every window and every room ablaze with illumination.

  Her brother Charlie was already here, braying in the corner with his terrible public-school hoo-ha and a group of his friends from the City, who were all double-barrelled Tories; Aunty Julia, who had been in and out of rehab so many times that everyone had lost count, was chatting animatedly to a stocky member of crew, and the current Duchess, her stepmum Carol, who was being feted by the assistant producer, Phil, and loving every minute of it. He called her ‘Your Grace’ at every possible opportunity and she giggled with flirtatious glee.

  Maggie was on duty tonight, answering questions about the house to some random members of the Press who had been invited for advance publicity, Lizzy waved to her and she waved back subtly, whilst explaining something to an excited Japanese journalist. Tottering across the checkerboard tiles of the courtyard in a pair of super-high heels that she had indulgently ordered the night before, she made her way to the bar, which was hidden away in the cloisters. If she had to deal with her stepmother, she would need copious amounts of the free alcohol on offer.

  Benn Williams skulked in the corner, drinking his San Pellegrino and looking nothing like Mr Darcy. He had recently grown a beard for a three-week run of ‘Our Country’s Good’ at the West Yorkshire Playhouse, where he had been wracked with nerves each night and required two shots of vodka before he could even step foot onstage. He hadn’t shaved it off yet as he discovered it gave him a certain level of anonymity that he found comforting. It was, he thought, quite method of him to be playing Mr Darcy and standing around looking disagreeable at a party and, even though this wasn’t any part of his preparation technique, it was the reason he would tell any journalists if they asked.

  He would rather have been watching television in the comfort of his hotel room than spending another minute making conversation with over-familiar crew members who he vaguely remembered or pretending to be interested in the vague stories being told by the twenty-year-old actresses, who he was acutely aware should be playing his daughters rather than his love interests. Walking over to the buffet, he hoped for a cheese scone or a bit of cake but was handed a small plate with chicken and some cucumber. ‘We can’t have a flabby Darcy’, he had been told, and the studio had shipped black boxes full of pre-prepared meals, and an aggressive personal trainer to his hotel to hone his ‘dad-bod’ into something more androgynously sexy in breeches.

  “You should try a cheese scone,” came a small voice.

  He saw a face he didn’t immediately recognise.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said in a stately manner, whilst thinking that this Darcy thing was going to be easier than he thought.

  “The cheese scones? They are really good.”

  As if to prove a point, she picked up the savoury, sliced it in half, smeared it with chutney and placed half back on his plate. He looked at it, with a look that he knew was dripping with disdain, then slowly removed it and placed it back on the table.

  “I can’t eat that.”

  He didn’t mean for it to sound like he said it with a sneer, but that’s how it came out and whilst he immediately regretted it, he knew full well that the sneer was now across his face. She had a quizzical expression on her face, as if she couldn’t quite understand what his problem was.

  “Harriet,” another voice chastised. “Leave Mr Williams alone, he’s probably not allowed any carbs for the next three months!”

  He glanced over to see a face he instantly recognised, Lady Elizabeth Darcy, dressed as what he assumed was some kind of homeless Frida Kahlo tribute – the aristocracy were always a bit barmy, born with silver spoons in the mouths and sticks up their arses. He recognised the girl now as little Harriet, Matthew’s daughter – he hadn’t seen her for a while, the last time was about three years ago, if he could remember correctly. His memory was getting worse.

  “Harriet! Of course, I remember you now. You were on set with your dad for Wuthering Heights.”

  “Yes! That was me.”

  Her face lit up and he swore she did a little dance at the recognition.

  “Yes,” he grinned, returning the smile. “Did we take some selfies?”

  “Yes! Yes, we did… and then I tagged you in them and you commented on my Instagram!”

  “That’s right,” he agreed “I remember.”

  He didn’t want to tell her that he had a social media person who posted and tweeted on everything on his behalf, and that he didn’t even know the login for his Instagram account, let alone how to comment on anything.

  “I knew you would! I’m working on set tomorrow, so I will see you then, Benn.”

  Harriet shot her mother a look tinged with smugness, and then walked off towards a gaggle of girls who he guessed were her friends. They all grouped together before turning around in unison to look at him, giggling before walking off under the main gate to the forecourt.

  “I am sorry about that. I’m Lizzy, by the way,” she said, holding out her hand, which he shook reluctantly.

  “Yes,” he said. “I know who you are.”

  “I did ask her to leave you alone, but she was helping out the catering team in the house this morning and feels somewhat personally responsible for the cheesiness of the scones.”

  The first thing she noticed was his height – much taller than she though he would have been, and broad, but in a way that she could imagine him picking her up and carrying her over a threshold, not that she wanted him to carry her over a threshold, it was an observation, nothing more.

  He smelled of a familiar cologne that she couldn’t quite place, and freshly washed clothes, and there was a hint of minty freshness about him. His sideburns were puffy and blonder than she thought they would be, and his beard was not a good look, even though she could tell he had really tried with it. She pondered asking him for a picture to show Deb but decided that it would be very uncool. He sipped his water and she drank her ‘Mr Collins’ – a cocktail thought up by the production team and consisting of rhubarb gin, lime and soda – through a straw.

  Benn could feel her looking at him as they stood in an awkward silence, and he tried to avoid accidentally catching her eye by looking out into the crowd. He gazed out onto the small gathering grouped around the courtyard; over by the bar, languishing handsomely, stood Franklin Hughes, an incredibly posh and well-spoken actor who had only recently graduated from RADA and would be taking the role of Bingley – they had screen-tested together well and the rehearsals in London had helped him to build up a rapport with the man who was fifteen years his junior. He noticed that Matthew Wickham was sitting on the steps that led up to the front door of the house, chatting to Harriet and her three friends who were too excited to listen to anything he had to say; their eyes darting around the courtyard searching for anyone even slightly more exciting. This was his fifth time working with Matthew in some capacity or another, but the first time that he felt like an outsider.

  “The actress playing Jane is really good, I saw her in a play in London a few years ago.”

  “Nancy? Yes, I worked with her on Shellstone.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tamsin over there,” he gestured towards the tiny blonde actress. “They just killed her off on Casualty.”

  “The one on the escalator? Ugh, that terrified me!”

  “Me too.”

  He felt himself soften a little bit, felt the tension in his whole body relax.
Since watching it the thought of the incredibly long escalator at Angel tube station had made his stomach turn a little and he avoided it as much as possible.

  They watched the group of Bennets who were dancing and doing shots wearing tight jeans paired with big hair, swaying along to the music and calling out whenever someone they vaguely recognised walked past.

  “You were right,” he said, finally deciding on what to say. “I’m on a carb ban until my trousers fit.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I think that you would look rather dapper in a pair of breeches just as you are.” She took a massive bite of the chutneyed and abandoned cheese scone, “and I can tell that you are very jealous of me and my scone right now,” pieces of the pastry tumbling from her hand and falling to the paving stones.

  He gave her a once-over whilst sipping on his Pellegrino.

  “I think most people could benefit from a carb ban every once in a while, don’t you? Cleansing.”

  She pretended to ignore the sly dig but pulled down the back of her dress self-consciously anyway. There was another moment of awkward silence, as they both watched the party cranking to life, the laughter and giggles of strangers intimately thrown together for a concentrated period of time.

  “Do you enjoy working on period dramas?” She asked, as she sucked up the last remnants of gin through the end of the pink straw.