‘I’m back,’ Lizzy called out as she sailed through the front door of Litchfield Manor, shutting it behind her.
There was no reply.
‘Emma? Charlotte? Is anyone home?’ Still receiving no answer, she paused by the half-moon table in the front hall and picked up the morning’s post, riffling absently through it. Bills and more bills, she noted, including one from Charlotte’s sixth-form college, as well as the latest issues of Town & Country (Emma), the Church Times (Daddy), and the Literary Review (hers).
Lizzy sighed and set the post aside. Of her family – and, more importantly, of lunch – there was no sign. She knew her father at least was home, however, as she’d seen his bicycle propped against the garden shed outside.
She wandered into the kitchen, her favourite room in the house, with its cheery yellow paint and Welsh cupboard crowded with blue-and-white-patterned china, and saw a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses on the counter.
The pitcher was half-empty, and the glasses contained only melting ice and a bit of watery pale-yellow liquid. A jar of maraschino cherries sat next to the pitcher. She fetched a clean glass and some ice, threw in a couple of cherries, and filled it with lemonade.
Glass in hand, she wandered down the hall and out the back door.
She found Emma and her father on the terrace overlooking what passed for a garden, its profusion of wild roses and blackthorn bushes bounded by a low, stone wall. An oak, older than Litchfield Manor itself, shaded one side of the house and part of the terrace from the midday sun.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Lizzy announced, and dropped into a chair across from them. Unfortunately, her seat bore the full brunt of the sun. She wished she’d thought to grab one of the sunhats hanging on pegs by the back door. Oh, well…
Emma barely looked up from her book. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she enquired, although it was plain from her focus on the page that she didn’t really care.
‘I’ve just come back from Cleremont. Harry invited me over to watch the filming of the last scene of Pride and Prejudice.’
‘The last scene?’ Emma deigned to lift her head and look at her younger sister in surprise. ‘Do you mean to say the film crew are finished already? I thought they were meant to stay on until at least July.’
‘They are. But they filmed the last scene just now. They don’t film things in sequence, you know.’ She said the last bit just a trace smugly, proud of her inside knowledge.
‘Lady Darcy despises production companies. All of them,’ Emma said, and returned to her book. ‘She told me so.’
‘I don’t imagine she despises the money they bring to Cleremont,’ Mr Bennet observed mildly from behind his newspaper.
‘Harry isn’t bothered.’ Lizzy took a sip of lemonade and savoured the tart-sweet taste. ‘He likes watching them film.’
‘He likes flirting with the actresses,’ Emma said, and sniffed. ‘They’re like a flock of gaudy butterflies flitting around. Someone like Harry can hardly resist.’
‘What do you mean, “someone like Harry”?’ Lizzy demanded, and set her glass down to frown at her sister.
‘I mean that he’s an incorrigible flirt, of course,’ she retorted. ‘It’s no secret. And don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.’
Lizzy knew the entire female population of South Devon fancied Harry Darcy – and not only for his charm and rakish good looks.
While it was true that, unlike his elder brother, he wouldn’t inherit Cleremont, he’d eventually come into a fortune – and the combination of his handsome face along with a healthy bank balance made him catnip to the ladies of Litchfield and Longbourne.
‘Isn’t that actress, Cara Winslow, playing Elizabeth Bennet?’ their father asked.
Lizzy nodded. ‘Yes, and she’s very pretty.’ She made no mention of her demanding behaviour on set. ‘It sounds like a cliché, but her skin really is like porcelain. Although,’ she mused, ‘the make-up lady put rather a lot of foundation on her left cheek. I think she might’ve had a blemish or something.’
‘I imagine those cameras are unforgiving,’ Mr Bennet murmured.
Emma set her book aside and stood. ‘Well, with all of this chatter, it’s quite impossible to read. I might as well go and start lunch. I’m making egg and cress sandwiches and a fruit salad if anyone’s interested.’
‘Shall I come along and help?’ Lizzy asked.
‘No, the salad’s already done. Besides, I can manage the rest quite well on my own.’
And with that, Emma took up her book and left.
Lizzy dropped into the chair she’d vacated. ‘Why is Em always so moody? I can’t put a foot right with her lately.’
Mr Bennet folded his newspaper and put it aside. ‘It’s all to do with her breakup with Jeremy. To use another cliché – it took the wind out of her sails. It hit your sister hard, I’m afraid, and rightly so. So you must try and find a bit of understanding and compassion for her situation.’
With a sigh, Lizzy slumped back in her chair. Emma and Jeremy North had planned to be married last summer. The wedding gown, the flowers, the music, even the sit-down dinner menu for their guests – all had been chosen (mostly by Emma), arranged, and paid for. Mr Bennet was to come out of retirement and officiate at the wedding in the village church.
The night before the wedding, Jeremy came to Litchfield Manor and, after spending time with Emma behind the closed doors of the library, emerged with a grim face, and left.
Emma followed, her own face equally grim, and informed them that the wedding was cancelled. Mr North had changed his mind. Then she retreated to her room and did not come out for a week.
It fell to Lizzy and her father to call everyone on Emma’s list to explain that the wedding was cancelled. The caterers were called, the organist, the florist, and the photographer.
The profusion of elegantly wrapped wedding gifts piled on the dining room table had to be removed and returned. Mr Bennet took delivery of the wedding cake that morning (it being too late to cancel) and whisked it away to a local hospital before Emma might see it.
It had been a horrible, trying time.
‘I have plenty of compassion. But right now, I’m tired of being understanding,’ Lizzy grumbled. ‘I was in a good mood when I came home, and now it’s ruined. Why must we always jolly Emma up? It’s been almost a year. She needs to move on.’
‘There isn’t a timetable for these things, Elizabeth,’ her father reproached her. He smiled. ‘I know it isn’t your strong suit, but you must try and be patient.’
Lizzy leaned forward. ‘Bother being patient. She’s miserable, and wants everyone else around her to be miserable, too. Well,’ she added as she got up, ‘I refuse to coddle my sister any longer. I’m done being nice to Emma. She isn’t the only person who’s ever had her heart broken, after all.’
And she got up and stalked back into the house.
***
Hugh adjusted his tie and regarded himself critically in the mirror. ‘Will I do?’ he asked as he turned to Holly.
She smiled, her gaze taking in his dinner jacket and his dark, uncertain gaze, and slid her arms around his neck. ‘You’ll do, Mr Darcy.’ She kissed him and, after a few, blissful moments, sighed against his lips. ‘Let’s stay here and you can ravish me. We’ll start on your bed, then we’ll move to the rug, and then that nice, cushioned window seat over there…’
‘You sound like a choreographer.’
‘Come on, Hugh,’ she coaxed. ‘Let’s skip dinner with your family and stay here. We’ll tell them we’re tired after the trip down from London.’ She began to nibble his earlobe.
‘Stop it, Holly,’ he warned, only half joking as he pulled away, ‘or we’ll be late to dinner.’
‘And we can’t have that, can we?’
If he noticed the trace of irritation in her voice, he gave no sign. ‘I’m sure my mother’s had the servants pull out all the stops for you tonight.’
‘I’m sure,’ Holly agreed, and toyed with his lapel. ‘Twelve courses, finger bowls and ice sculptures, no doubt. Only…’
He caught her hand in his and regarded her with a questioning expression. ‘Only what?’
‘Why can’t we share a room?’ she asked. ‘It’s barbaric that you’re here in the east wing, and I’m stuck in the west.’
He kissed her on the cheek and turned back to the mirror to adjust his tie once again. ‘It’s a matter of propriety, I suppose, and keeping my mother happy, that’s all. I don’t think my father cares a jot what we get up to.’ He raised his brow at her reflection behind him in the mirror. ‘And it’s not like you can’t sneak out and slip into my room in the middle of the night, you know.’
‘Ha! Like I’d ever find my way from there to here, and in the dark,’ she grumbled. ‘I’d end up in the scullery, or something.’
‘Then I’d go and find you.’
Holly came up behind him and slid her arms around his waist. ‘Your mother hates me,’ she sighed, and rested her chin on his shoulder. ‘She put me in the west wing deliberately, to keep us apart. And she still calls me “Miss James”.’
‘These things take time. Wait until I make the announcement that we’re engaged; then she’ll warm up to you. Besides…’ He paused and turned around to take her back into his arms. ‘It might do us good to be separated for the duration of our visit.’ He leaned closer and nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear. ‘When we do finally manage to get together, it’ll make things that much more exciting. Incendiary, even.’
‘Hmmph.’ Holly wasn’t convinced. ‘Fifty Shades of Longing, you mean?’
He rested his forehead against hers. ‘Exactly,’ he murmured. ‘Although I don’t know if I can stand the wait.’
‘I know I can’t.’ The scent of his aftershave – something rare and expensive by Creed, no doubt – was making her long to tear his clothes off, right now.
‘I love you, Holly,’ Darcy said, his eyes serious on hers. ‘I want my family to fall in love with you, too. And they will do.’
‘Come on, then,’ Holly sighed, resigned to their imposed celibacy and the long evening ahead. ‘It’s time we went downstairs and joined the others.’
***
The dining room table at Cleremont was so long that it could’ve easily doubled as an airplane runway, Holly reflected as she took a seat in the eighteenth-century chair Hugh held out for her.
She glimpsed more tall windows, more claw-footed chairs and sideboards, more enormous (and no doubt priceless) paintings hung on walls that were painted a deep Chinese red.
‘Do the film crew stay here in the house while they’re filming?’ she asked, and reached out for her water glass.
‘Oh, dear me, no.’ Sarah let out a shocked little laugh. ‘They stay in trailers behind the estate office, or at the local hotel. They aren’t allowed to move so much as a stick of furniture when they film here, not without permission. And certainly, no eating,’ she added with a shudder. ‘Too many antiquities, you understand.’
She smiled at Holly in polite condescension, making it plain that she didn’t expect someone as middle class as the James girl to understand, at all.
‘Do you remember the Sheraton table?’ Lord Darcy said to his wife. He glanced at Holly. ‘Several years ago, when they were here at Cleremont filming Tess of the d’Urbervilles, a costume assistant decided to iron a maid’s apron… and used an eighteenth-century gaming table built by Thomas Sheraton to do it. The surface was ruined.’
‘No, Richard,’ his wife corrected, ‘you’re mistaken. I’m sure it was Far from the Madding Crowd, and you’re thinking of the demi-lune Hepplewhite card table.’
He folded his napkin across his lap with deliberate motions. ‘I’m not mistaken. I may be getting on a bit but I’m hardly senile. It was Tess and it was the bloody Sheraton.’
A frosty silence descended on the table. Holly glanced across at Hugh in mild alarm.
‘I’d like to make an announcement, if I may,’ Hugh said quickly, and reached out for his glass of wine.
‘Oh, yes, your announcement,’ Harry said, and leaned forward in anticipation. ‘Wait, don’t tell us! You’ve decided you don’t want the title when Dad pops his clogs after all, and instead plan to hunt big game. And so you’ve come home to announce that you’re giving Cleremont over to me and you’re leaving for Africa,’ he joked. ‘With Holly, of course.’
‘Harry, really,’ his mother reproved. ‘This isn’t the time or the place for your little jokes.’
‘Sorry, but I’ve no plans for big game hunting in my future.’ Hugh smiled at Holly, seated next to him, and lifted his glass. ‘I’ve already landed the most spectacular prize any man could possibly want,’ he added.
Holly could have pointed out that perhaps referring to her as a ‘prize’ in this day and age was a bit – well, sexist – but she remained silent as Hugh went on with his announcement.
‘I met Holly last summer while I was working at Dashwood and James – the department stores her father, Alastair, owns,’ he added. He glanced at Holly with a wry smile. ‘It wasn’t exactly love at first sight, was it, darling?’
‘No,’ she agreed, and smiled back at him. ‘At first I thought Hugh was a bit stuffy. Not to mention incredibly opinionated. I was engaged – briefly – to Ciaran Duncan, the film star. Hugh tried to warn me away from him,’ she added, and took a fortifying sip of wine. ‘More than once, in fact. But of course I didn’t listen, until it was nearly too late.’
‘Oh. How extraordinary,’ his mother remarked, and flicked a glance at Holly, then back at her eldest son. ‘You never mentioned that Miss James was engaged.’
‘She isn’t, any more,’ Hugh said. ‘At least,’ he added quietly, ‘not to Ciaran.’
‘And thank God for that,’ Holly muttered, and suppressed a shudder. She couldn’t forget how the handsome actor had tried to blackmail her into marrying him, all so he could get his hands on her father’s money. Tosser.
‘Still – as you said, Miss James, Ciaran’s a film star, and quite a famous one,’ Lady Darcy observed. Her smile was patronising. ‘I’m surprised you let him go. You do know he’s here, filming at Cleremont, do you not?’ she added. ‘Perhaps you two can renew your acquaintance.’
‘Ciaran and I are over,’ Holly said, her words polite but firm. ‘Finished. Through.’
‘It’s all in the past,’ Hugh agreed. ‘Love prevailed, and now…’ He paused. ‘I’d like to raise a toast to my fiancée and bride-to-be, Holly James.’
There was a moment of surprised silence.
Then, ‘Here, here,’ Lord Darcy exclaimed, and lifted his glass.
‘Here, here,’ Harry echoed, and grinned. ‘Congratulations, you two! Well done, you sly dog,’ he added as he glanced at his brother. ‘I thought you’d be a bachelor well into your dotage. Didn’t think you’d ever get married.’
Holly realised that Lady Darcy had said nothing. She glanced at Hugh’s mother, seated at the head of the table beside her husband, and her smile faltered.
Sarah’s hand gripped the stem of her wine glass with white-tipped knuckles…
…and her expression could only be called grim.