Longbourne was bustling with activity as Harry brought the Jaguar to a stop and flung the door open.
‘Did you really mean to go to the Pemberley today,’ Holly asked as she got out of the car, ‘or did you only suggest it to avoid bloodshed between me and your mother?’
‘Both.’ He closed the door. ‘Bit of advice – give Mum her due and let her advise you on the wedding stuff. You don’t have to take all of her suggestions, of course; but if you placate her by following one or two, she’ll be happy.’
‘I doubt that,’ Holly muttered, but thankfully Harry had already turned away and headed down the hill to the marina and didn’t hear her.
It was a blowy, breezy day, and the regatta bunting that crisscrossed the streets flapped in the wind as they made their way down the docks and past the forest of moored yachts to the Pemberley.
‘You go ahead,’ Holly told Harry as he turned to offer her a hand aboard. ‘I think I’ll just have a wander round.’
‘Okay. See you in a few minutes.’
She nodded and continued walking along the uneven boards of the pier. Sails unfurled and snapped; ropes creaked; waves washed against the pilings, and over it all was the distinctive scent of the sea – sharp, brisk, evoking a thousand summers filled with sand pails and sunshine and childishly determined hunts for seashells.
Holly smiled. Hannah would love it here. She couldn’t wait to bring her sister to Longbourne once she and Hugh were married, and show her the Pemberley, and take her for lunch at that chip shop at the end of Mackleby Street…
‘‘Ere, now, get on with you,’ a disgruntled man called out sharply. ‘Go outside and play for a bit.’
Holly looked up to see a ginger-haired boy of about seven or eight jump down from a sailing boat – a vintage vessel, judging from the beautiful teak decks and brass fittings – and turned to watch as he raced away down the dock, feet pounding.
‘He’s a handful, that one,’ the man said now to Holly, and grinned. ‘Good lad, but he gets underfoot sometimes.’
‘I can imagine. Most boys do.’ She smiled back at him. ‘That’s a gorgeous boat, by the way. Is it yours?’
He snorted. ‘Not likely! Wish it was, but the Rosings belongs to someone else.’
She blinked up at him. ‘The Rosings, did you say? Is that Lady de Byrne’s yacht?’
‘Aye. We’re polishing up the brass and making sure everything’s shipshape afore we take ‘er for a spin later.’
‘She’s beautiful.’ Holly was silent as she studied the classic lines of the sailboat, processing this latest bit of information. Like Hugh, his godmother was a constant source of surprise. ‘Is it entered to run in the race on Saturday?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Shame, too. I reckon the Rosings would outrun every one of these newer yachts and win the regatta as easy as swallowin’ an oyster. But her ladyship doesn’t want the bother.’ He winked. ‘But there’s always next year.’
‘Holly? There you are.’ Harry joined them, his face already turning slightly pink, and thrust out a hand to the man on the Rosings. ‘Hello, Mac. I see you’ve met Holly, Hugh’s fiancée.’
‘We haven’t introduced ourselves,’ she said, and held out her hand to Mac in turn. ‘But Mac’s been telling me all about this beautiful boat.’
‘She’s a beauty,’ Harry agreed. ‘I’ve asked Lady de Byrne more than once to sell it to me, but she refuses.’
Mac let out a short bark of laughter. ‘She’ll not part with this old boat, even if she hasn’t come aboard half a dozen times since her husband died. It were his,’ he explained to Holly, ‘and so she keeps it in good nick, in ‘is honour.’
‘I see.’ Holly was touched. ‘It must hold a lot of memories for her.’
The pounding of feet sounded once again on the dock as the boy raced back towards them.
‘Whoa, who’s this?’ Harry called out, and caught the boy by his arm. ‘Careful, there, or you’ll trip over a cleat and fall right in the water.’
‘I run all the time,’ the boy boasted, ‘and I’ve never once fallen in.’
‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’
‘I’m hungry,’ the boy said, and pulled away. ‘I want macaroni cheese.’
‘Get up ‘ere, then, and I’ll fix you lunch.’ Mac held out a hand and helped the boy aboard. He let out a sigh. ‘Never thought crewing a boat would include babysitting,’ he groused. ‘But needs must, as they say. Nice to see you, Harry, and nice to meet you, Miss Holly.’
They waved and turned to go. And as they walked in companionable silence back to the village, it occurred to Holly that Mac hadn’t told them the boy’s name.
***
‘So,’ Harry said when he and Holly were settled at a café overlooking the harbour a short time later, ‘you’re not planning to turn into one of those Bridezillas, are you?’
She traced a finger along the condensation on her bottle of orange squash and considered the question. ‘I don’t think so. Hugh wouldn’t like it; and I’m sure your mother would make mincemeat of me in no time if I dared to voice an opinion.’
Instead of laughing, as she’d expected, Harry frowned. ‘She’s not that bad, you know. Mum’s just…’
‘Protective. Right,’ Holly finished, and sighed. ‘I get it, I do. But I feel as if she’s not even giving me a chance. I’m condemned before I’ve even stood trial.’
‘She’ll come round eventually.’
She snorted. ‘It’s obvious even you don’t believe that. She detests me.’
‘She doesn’t. Honestly.’ He frowned, and hesitated. ‘Hugh… he was engaged once before, you know.’
Holly paused, bottle halfway to her lips, and lowered it back to the table. ‘What?’ She stared at him in confusion. ‘Hugh was engaged? That’s the first I’ve ever heard of it. When? Who was she?’
‘Her name was Jacinta. Jacinta Harlowe – with an “e”.’ He grimaced. ‘She’s a model, really gorgeous, and Hugh – well, he was well and truly smitten.’
‘I know exactly who she is,’ Holly said slowly. ‘She’s been on magazine covers, lots of them. But she and Hugh were… engaged? I can’t believe it!’
Ever since Jacinta’s appearance on the cover of Elle several years before, she had been in demand for editorial and catwalk work, doing shows in Milan, Paris and London. She was the latest spokesperson for Cherry Tarte cosmetics, and it was rumoured she’d become Karl Lagerfeld’s newest muse.
Holly couldn’t get her head around it. It didn’t make sense. Surely an engagement between a top fashion model like Jacinta and a well-heeled aristocrat like Hugh Darcy would’ve landed all over the news at some point?
More importantly, she wondered with a sinking sensation, why hadn’t Hugh ever told her about it?
‘How did they keep the engagement quiet?’ she asked Harry now. ‘Why wasn’t it plastered all over the tabloids?’
He leaned forward. ‘Jacinta had to sign a non-disclosure agreement, and a prenup. She wasn’t to speak of the engagement without facing costly legal consequences. Mum stressed the importance of discretion, and Jacinta said she understood. She said she’d sign anything because she was madly in love with Hugh.’
‘So, then… what happened? What went wrong?’
‘She dumped him at the rehearsal dinner.’ Harry scowled. ‘Said the thought of being the next Lady Darcy terrified her, and she didn’t want the responsibility – or the work – being his wife would entail. When Hugh went to talk to her the next day, to try and work things out, she’d scarpered… but she kept his ring.’
‘Oh, my God – poor Hugh,’ Holly exclaimed.
Harry nodded. ‘Yeah. It was a pink diamond, nearly eleven carats – gaudy as hell, but it cost my brother nearly a million pounds, and it was what she wanted. She picked it out herself.’
Holly looked at him in disbelief. ‘Do you mean to say you think she planned the whole thing? That she never intended to marry Hugh?’
‘I don’t know for certain, of course, but… yeah. I think that’s exactly what happened. The engagement ring wasn’t mentioned in the prenup, only the wedding ring. I think that’s why she angled for such an outrageously expensive Harry Winston number.’
She vaguely remembered seeing a photograph of the ring on the model’s finger; but she’d coyly refused to divulge her mystery fiancé’s identity.
‘Poor Hugh.’ Holly looked at him in dismay. ‘He must’ve been completely, utterly gutted.’
‘He was. It was only because of the non-disclosure agreement – and the discretion of the other people at the rehearsal dinner – that the whole thing didn’t go public.’
It explained so much. The shadow that sometimes darkened Hugh’s eyes… his silent moods… his reluctance to make a fuss of their impending wedding… it all, suddenly, made sense.
‘No wonder Lady Darcy doesn’t trust me,’ Holly said. ‘One can hardly blame her.’ She lifted her face to Harry’s. ‘But I’m not Jacinta! I’d never treat Hugh so badly. Surely he knows I wouldn’t do such a thing.’ She held out her hand and stared at the modest, three-carat engagement ring on her finger. ‘I’m hurt – no, scratch that, I’m furious! – that he didn’t trust me enough to tell me any of this.’
‘Don’t blame him.’ Harry reached out and took her hand in his. ‘He was humiliated, Holly. Destroyed. You know how important appearances are to my brother… to be jilted like that, in front of his friends and family, just hours before they were set to be married – he shut down. Left. Packed his bags and went off somewhere, alone. We none of us ever speak of it.’
‘Like it never happened,’ Holly said slowly.
‘Right.’
She squeezed his hand and drew away. ‘That’s awful, truly. I can’t imagine what he must’ve gone through. Only…’
‘Only what?’
‘I just… I feel like I don’t know him at all.’ She drew her brows together in perplexity. ‘So many things he’s never mentioned – that he likes to sail; that he ended your sister’s relationship with Ciaran arbitrarily; that he went to Derbyshire with your father today; that he was engaged to be married to someone else – he’s never told me any of it. Why? Why can’t he trust me enough to…’ She felt her throat thicken. ‘To let me in?’
Harry reached in his back pocket and withdrew a tissue – sadly crumpled – and handed it over. ‘He’s a private person. Ever since I can remember, he’s kept things to himself. He’s my brother and yet I sometimes feel I scarcely know him.’
She dabbed at the tears leaking from her eyes and blew her nose. ‘It’s frustrating. I love him, Harry, I do – but it’s hard to come to terms with loving someone who isn’t quite who you thought they were. I feel as if…’ – she glanced down at the narrow strip of beach below them – ‘as if I’m standing on sand, and the sand keeps shifting under my feet, and I can’t keep my balance.’
‘Listen to me, Hols.’ He leaned forward once again and locked his eyes with hers. ‘Hugh may not be the most forthcoming man, and he’s bollocks in social situations – he’d rather read The Rule of Law or Bleak House than make small talk, I think – but he’s the best man you’ll ever find. He’s honest, and loyal, and he’d never knowingly hurt you.’ His hand closed over hers. ‘He loves you. I see it whenever he looks at you.’
‘Then he should trust me.’
‘Talk to him.’ He let go of her hand and sat back. ‘When he gets back home, talk to him about all of it. Confront him, and clear the air.’
‘If he won’t open up to me on his own,’ Holly agreed slowly, and gave Harry a watery smile, ‘then I’ll just have to make him talk to me.’
He thrust his chair back with an answering smile and stood. ‘Who needs a Relate counsellor when you’ve got me? Now,’ he added as they left the café, ‘I see an ice cream van just over there. Fancy a cone?’
‘I’d love one.’
And as she took Harry’s outstretched hand and followed him down the hill to the Mr Whippy truck, Holly couldn’t help but wish that Hugh were half as uncomplicated and easy to be with as his brother.
***
When Lizzy and Emma returned to Litchfield Manor that afternoon, Mr Bennet was busily chopping cucumber, tomato and mint at the kitchen counter with great enthusiasm.
‘What on earth are you doing, Daddy?’ Emma enquired as her glanced flicked around the kitchen in disapproval. ‘Besides making an unholy mess.’
‘I’m making tabbouleh for our picnic on Saturday.’
‘What picnic?’ Lizzy asked. ‘Are we having a picnic?’
‘No,’ Mr Bennet said, scraping finely diced mint into a bowl, ‘we are not. But Miss Hornsby and I most definitely are. I took your advice, girls, and I’ve invited Araminta to the regatta – and to share a picnic with me on Saturday afternoon.’
Emma and Lizzy exchanged glances. ‘That’s lovely,’ Lizzy ventured cautiously. ‘So it’s a… date?’
He paused to consider. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘Would you like me to make some chicken salad?’ Emma offered, and reached for an apron from the pegs by the door. ‘I’ll just put some chicken on the boil…’
‘Thank you, no.’ His words were pleasant but firm. ‘I’ve got this. Why don’t you both run along and – and go shopping? Take your sister along. She’s been on at me about a buying a new swimsuit for days now.’
‘I could do with a new swimsuit myself,’ Lizzy agreed. ‘But I’m skint.’
‘So am I.’ Emma untied her apron and returned it to its peg. ‘We could window shop, I suppose.’
‘Here.’ Mr Bennet laid his knife down and reached into his back pocket to withdraw his wallet. ‘Take my credit card and buy yourselves one new swimsuit each – nothing too revealing, mind, and nothing too expensive. And then treat yourselves to dinner – at a chip shop or café, that is,’ he pointed out, ‘not a fine French restaurant.’
‘Daddy,’ Emma said as she took the card from him and frowned, ‘are you trying to get rid of us?’
Again, he stopped to consider the question. ‘Yes. Yes, to be honest, I suppose I am.’ He turned back to his chopping with a smile. ‘Run along, then, girls. Oh – and do have fun.’
***
‘What about this one?’
Charli held up a bright orange bikini for her sisters’ consideration.
‘No,’ Emma said firmly. ‘It shows far more than it covers up. Daddy’ll have an absolute seizure. Then he’ll make you take it straight back.’
‘But I like it.’ Charlotte pouted and clutched the hanger with its bright scraps of fabric to her chest. ‘I can wear my old suit when we leave the house, and change into this once we’re on Ciaran’s yacht.’
‘You won’t do any such thing.’ Emma raked through the racks until she unearthed a two-piece suit with a skirt. ‘What about this?’
‘You can’t be serious.’ Charlotte eyed the suit, then her sister, in horror. ‘God – it looks like something Lady de Byrne would’ve worn… in the 1940s.’
‘It’s retro,’ Lizzy said, and giggled.
‘It’s hideous.’
After rounding up the least objectionable suits of the lot and trying them on, Charlotte finally settled on a red racerback suit, sleek and stylish but modest enough to pass even their father’s eagle-eyed inspection. Emma decided on a two-piece with a sarong wrap.
‘That leaves you, Lizzy,’ Emma said. ‘What strikes your fancy?’
‘Honestly? None of these.’ She frowned and chose a couple of the least objectionable suits she could find and draped them over her arm. ‘Besides, unlike Charli, I’m not remotely interested in impressing Ciaran.’
Charli snorted. ‘Maybe not, but I bet it’d be a different story if we were going aboard the Pemberley, not the Meryton.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means,’ Charlotte said with exaggerated patience, as if she were addressing an idiot, ‘that I’m sure you’d buy a new suit – and a sexy one, at that – if Hugh Darcy were aboard during our cruise.’
Lizzy felt a flush rise on her cheeks. ‘Hugh Darcy is engaged to Holly.’
‘So? Don’t tell me you’re not a tiny bit jealous, that you wouldn’t like to come between the two of them. You’d elbow Holly out of the way in a flash to marry Hugh and become the next Lady Darcy. I know you would.’
‘I ought to slap you.’ Lizzy’s voice shook with anger. ‘Where do you get these ridiculous ideas? You waste far too much of your time – and rot what few brain cells you have – reading tabloids and trashy magazines.’
‘I may not be as smart as you, Elizabeth Bennet – I may not read the bloody Oxford Review – but I have eyes. I see the way you eye Darcy up, I see the way you practically jump into his arms whenever he’s near…’
‘Shut up, Charli,’ Lizzy warned her. The other customers in the dress shop were beginning to murmur and cast glances their way. She lowered her voice. ‘This isn’t the time, or the place.’
‘I’ve heard you, crying in your room late at night when you thought everyone else was asleep.’ Charlotte shook Emma’s hand off her arm. ‘Your poor little heart is broken because Hugh Darcy didn’t ask you to marry him – he asked Holly James instead. Boo, hoo.’
‘You hateful, horrible brat!’ Lizzy cried. ‘Shut up, do you hear me? Shut up!’
She flung the swimsuits in her arms at Charlotte with a violent rattle of hangers, and ran, sobbing, past her startled sisters and the other customers, and pelted out of the shop.