A short time later, Lizzy made her way up the stairs with a tray containing two of Mr Bennet’s warm scones and a cup of tea balanced in her hands.
She went down the hall to her youngest sister’s bedroom door. ‘Charlotte? Open up. I thought you might be hungry, so I’ve brought tea, if you’re interested.’
There was no response.
‘Come on,’ Lizzy said with a trace of impatience. ‘This tray’s heavy.’
There was still no response.
She let out an exasperated breath and banged the tray down on the hallway’s half-moon table. ‘Charli,’ she snapped as she marched over and knocked on the door, ‘do quit sulking and open the door.’
But she was met once again with silence and her sister’s bedroom door remained firmly shut. Lizzy reached out and twisted the doorknob, not really expecting it to turn; but turn it did, and the door swung open.
‘Honestly,’ she grumbled as she retraced her steps to the hall table and picked up the tray, ‘what a pain in the arse you are sometimes, Charlotte…’
Lizzy broke off as she went inside her sister’s bedroom and took in the pale pink walls and clothing-strewn floor. The usual posters of boy bands and Premiere League stars papered the walls, and the ‘Princess’ and ‘Keep Calm I’m a Brat’ throw pillows were tossed, as always, on the bed; the only thing missing was… Charlotte.
‘Charli?’ Frowning, she set the tray aside on her sister’s desk – its surface was bare because she rarely used it – and proceeded further into the room. ‘Where are you?’
Which was a singularly stupid question to ask, she knew, as Charlotte was obviously not here and so couldn’t possibly answer. And an answer proved unnecessary as Lizzy caught sight of the breeze stirring the curtains at the far window.
And no wonder – the sash was pushed all the way up.
She went to the window seat and knelt on the cushion to peer outside. The branches of the old oak offered a final clue as to the mystery of Charlotte’s disappearance.
Her sister had obviously climbed through the window and scarpered down the branches of the tree to sneak out in defiance of their father, no doubt to go and see that film star, Ciaran Duncan.
‘Oh, Charli, you stupid girl,’ Lizzy said in dismay. ‘What have you done?’
***
‘Here we are.’ Sarah Darcy parked the vintage Aston Martin with surprising skill along the street that led to St Mark’s church. ‘The jumble sale is in the parish hall, just over there.’
‘Lovely,’ Holly said, a smile plastered on her face as she opened her door and swung her legs out of the car. ‘I can hardly wait.’
If she registered the tiny shade of sarcasm in Holly’s words, Hugh’s mother gave no sign. She slid her purse over one arm and glanced at her future daughter-in-law. ‘Come along, Miss James.’
Holly felt a pinprick of irritation. ‘If it’s not too much to ask, could you please not call me “Miss James”?’ she said as they began to walk towards the church. ‘My name is Holly.’
‘I’m perfectly aware what your name is.’ Lady Darcy smiled and nodded at several people passing in the other direction. ‘I prefer to remain on more formal terms for the moment, if you don’t mind.’
‘But – why?’ Holly asked, bewildered. ‘I’m engaged to your son, after all. We’re going to be married soon.’ Whether you like it or not, she added silently.
‘Yes, and I’m perfectly aware of that, as well.’ She stopped on the pavement and turned to face Holly. ‘Let me ask you a question, Miss James. How long have you known Hugh?’
Holly blinked. ‘Since last summer,’ she said after a moment. ‘Nearly a year.’
Lady Darcy nodded. ‘Nearly a year. That sounds like a reasonable amount of time to you, I daresay. To me, however, it sounds frightfully short.’
‘Hugh and I knew we loved each other very quickly.’ That wasn’t strictly true, of course; they’d disliked each other on sight, Holly because she thought him stuffy, and Hugh because he thought her shallower than a mud puddle. ‘Well, fairly quickly,’ she amended.
‘Miss James, please allow me to lay my cards on the table.’
But I don’t like cards, Holly thought. I hate bridge, I’m rubbish at rummy, and anyway, I don’t much like playing games…
‘You profess to be in love with Hugh.’
‘I don’t “profess”,’ Holly retorted. ‘I am in love with Hugh.’
‘Perhaps you are. That remains to be seen. But the fact is, if you marry my son, you’re not just marrying any man off the street.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘You’ll be the wife of a peer of the realm, with a title of your own, and all that entails. And – forgive me – but I don’t think you’re ready for that.’
Holly bristled. ‘It’s all a bit daunting, I’ll admit. But I’m not an idiot. I’m perfectly capable of learning the… aristocratic ropes, as it were.’
Hugh’s mother laughed. ‘My dear girl, you are amusing! You’ve no idea what you’re about to enter into, do you?’
‘Why don’t you tell me, then?’ she said, and crossed her arms loosely against her chest. ‘I’m sure you’re longing to set me straight.’
‘Very well. The responsibility for maintaining Cleremont now, and in future, will rest not only on Hugh’s shoulders, but yours. It’s a responsibility the Darcys have carried on for generations.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Being Lady Darcy isn’t only about sitting in the royal enclosure at Ascot, or shopping, or hosting shooting parties every autumn, you know. It’s about finding money to repair the roof, which costs untold thousands of pounds, or replacing the boiler, or paying artisan workers to repair the eighteenth-century plasterwork. It’s about making arrangements with film crews and tour groups and journalists and festival promoters. And, most importantly, it’s about preserving the family’s heritage for future generations.’
‘No. It’s about the fact that you don’t like me,’ Holly said evenly, ‘and that you’d much rather Hugh married Elizabeth Bennet than me, isn’t it?’
Lady Darcy drew herself up. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, and moved to brush past Holly. ‘Time is getting on.’
‘Well, he isn’t marrying Lizzy. He didn’t ask her to marry him, he asked me… because he loves me, and I love him. And there’s nothing you can do about it,’ Holly added with equal parts childishness and satisfaction.
‘You don’t love him, Miss James.’ Sarah Darcy spoke with quiet conviction. ‘Oh, you think you do. But it isn’t Hugh you love, it’s the idea of Hugh – the title, the glamour…’ She paused. ‘And, of course, the money.’
Holly sucked in a breath of mingled outrage and shock. Had Hugh’s mother really just accused her of being a gold digger? A – a fortune hunter?
‘You’ve been engaged twice before,’ Lady Darcy went on. When she saw Holly’s startled glance, she pressed her lips together. ‘To that chef, Jamie Gordon, and to that… film star.’ She invested the last two words with loathing. ‘I know all about your regrettable romantic past, you see.’
‘You – you’ve had me investigated?’ Holly demanded, her eyes wide. ‘You had no right!’
‘On the contrary, I have every right to know all there is to know about the girl who professes to love my son.’ She sniffed. ‘And I find you singularly lacking, I’m afraid.’
Hot tears rose up and burnt Holly’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she choked out, her voice unsteady. ‘Truly. Because the fact is – you’re wrong. I do love your son, very much.’ She brushed at her eyes with the back of a slightly unsteady hand. The ugly mix of emotions she felt at the moment – anger, despair and humiliation being the sharpest – made articulating her thoughts impossible. ‘I don’t… I can’t even…’
With that, Holly turned abruptly away and left Hugh’s mother standing alone on the pavement.
‘Miss James!’ Lady Darcy called after her. ‘Wait just a moment – where are you going? How will you get back to Cleremont? The jumble sale…’
‘I hate jumble sales.’ She didn’t turn around, but flung the words over her shoulder. ‘And I’ll find my own way back.’
Holly, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, thrust her way though the crowds in an effort to put as much distance between herself and Lady Darcy as she could possibly manage.
***
For some time Holly walked, and wept, and brushed past people with a mumbled ‘Sorry, excuse me, sorry’, until she realised she’d been walking for twenty minutes and was quite lost.
Not that Litchfield was very large, as villages went; but it was unknown to her, and so she found her footsteps faltering.
She was halfway down a side street – Persimmon Road – bordered on either side with neat brick townhouses, the kind that housed doctors’ offices and law practices, and planted with neat rows of persimmon trees.
Holly came to a stop. Where on earth was she? And more importantly, how was she to get back to Cleremont with no ride on offer?
Surely no local bus lines would go that far out of town. A cab would cost a fortune, and she hadn’t much money in her purse, only a couple of quid. Of course she could always hire a taxi and ask the driver to wait when they arrived, and ask Hugh to pay him.
But then she’d have to explain to him why she’d come back home in a taxi, and not with his mother.
Holly frowned and turned around to retrace her steps. Perhaps there was some sort of daily tour group departing to Cleremont that she might join, with one of those tacky tour buses she could ride in…
Holly heard a clunk and looked up just in time to see a car door, dark shiny green and belonging to a sleek Jaguar XKE, flung open before her. She gasped and ploughed straight into it before she could stop herself, lost her balance on one rope-soled, wedged heel, and toppled sideways onto the pavement.
‘Oh, shit! Oh, my God! Bloody hell – are you all right?’
A face loomed over her, partly obscured by the sun behind it. A man, Holly realised in a daze.
‘I – I’m fine,’ she managed, and moved to straighten her dress and sit up. But the movement left her with a dizzy, strange feeling, and she sank back onto the pavement.
‘You’re not fine,’ he accused. ‘You’re…’ he broke off. ‘Holly?’
She lifted her head slightly and shaded her eyes against the sun. ‘Harry?’
Holly squinted. Now that he’d moved back slightly, she could see the gingery hair, the swollen purple eye, and the concerned expression on his face.
‘You’re crying,’ he said. Alarm coloured his voice. ‘What’s happened? Are you badly hurt? Shall I call 999?’ He reached in a back pocket for his mobile phone.
‘No, I’m fine, really.’ She sat up then, gingerly, aware of the warmth of his hand resting on the small of her back, and brushed off her skirts. ‘I took a tumble over your car door, that’s all.’ She glared at him. ‘You really should watch what you’re doing before you fling it open like that.’
‘Sorry.’ He gave her a sheepish smile. ‘But I never saw you there.’ His smile was replaced with a frown. ‘Why are you crying, then, if you’re not hurt?’
It was a fair question. Was it one she could answer honestly?
‘You needn’t tell me if you don’t want to,’ he added. ‘None of my business.’
That decided her. ‘If you promise to give me a ride back to Cleremont, I’ll tell you all about it.’