England Has Three Syllables - Who Do You Think You Are?

Who Do You Think You Are, William Darcy?

Lizzy turned the yellowed, incredibly fragile pages with white-gloved hands. The curator had gone off to do something else, but she still felt like she had the older woman's sharp eyes on her, waiting for her to do something terribly wrong.

The novelty of being able to trace a family back through hundreds and hundreds of years had not yet worn off. With her own family she had reached a Jack Bennett who died in 1812 while incarcerated in Newgate Prison, and that was it. With Will's family, she had records stretching back in great detail to a point where F characters looked like S characters and the writers were probably hermit monks living on cliffs in Northumberland.

Still, she wondered if Sarah-Jane knew what she'd started when she'd uttered the immortal phrase: “Do A `Who Do You Think You Are?' on Will Darcy. It'll be great!”

***

“I don't like it,” she scowled most unpleasantly, looking out at the bleak landscape. The sky was heavy with clouds and the only light from the sun was a weak and feeble grey haze.

“I don't care if you like it,” he scoffed. “It's what the king presented to me. You are at your leisure to return to Normandy if you dislike it so much.”

She adjusted her veil unnecessarily and her scowl deepened.

“I'll remain by your side, thank you.” It was a point not worth quarrelling over: she was his wife and was as tied to him as if she'd been tethered to him with rope. It was all very well for him to tell her she could go back to Normandy, but to whom? Her sister and her husband were somewhere called Colchester and her brother was with the King in London.

“I have very great plans,” her husband continued. “A great house to rise from this barren, empty land!”

“I suppose it might be nice in the summer,” she finally managed to say. She did not believe it. He took her arm and led her back to the carriage as the rain began to fall.

It was nothing like home.

***

The fire raged for two days. The last remnants of the first, centuries-old Pemberlie were left to smoulder as Alfred Darcy gave it up for the hustle, bustle and many pleasures of the King's court in London.

***

“You really should rebuild,” the new Mrs Darcy told her new Darcy husband. “It would be nice to say we have an estate in the country and actually have one.”

She cast a rather disparaging glance at the poky gatehouse before fixing her steely glare onto the burned out great house some way in the distance.

“There hasn't been a house here for over fifty years, not since my grandfather's time.”

“Surely it's time to correct that?”

“Perhaps, Mrs Darcy. Perhaps.”

Stephen Darcy did not sound either convinced or enthused. It took the new Mrs Darcy a full month to persuade him to rebuild Pemberley, but when he did, it was bigger and grander than even she'd imagined. Her friends in London were jealous indeed.

***

“My grandfather built the house as it is now. I'm told that the beams in the kitchen are the only remnants of the original Norman building.” Charles Darcy waved a hand vaguely, and she had the very real impression that he didn't know where the kitchens actually were.

“Charlie, darling?” she asked. “I'd rather we just sat down and had something to eat. I've seen my share of grand houses, thank you.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, dear.” Charles rushed her into one of the many reception rooms he'd already walked her through. She sat down with some discomfort and shifted until she could find some ease.

“Are you well? Should I call for something? Food? No, drink, I think. You should-”

“Charlie,” she interrupted, far too tired to listen to his yammerings. “Just water.”

”I'm sorry you're so uncomfortable, dear. If only there was something I could do-”

“Charlie! You've already done quite a lot, thank you!”

He looked rather sad, and she took some pity on him.

“Charlie, I'm sorry. But I did say that travelling all this way would be awful for me now. We could've waited until the baby was born, or we should've come earlier.”

“Well, we needed to… you know. Set everything right.”

She went red and shifted in her chair again. To his credit, Charles dropped to his knees and took her hands in his.

“It's all correct now, dearest darling. I will never forgive myself for what I've put you through.”

“It wasn't your fault really. That meddlesome woman!”

“Everything will be all right now, my sweetest Meg.”

“Do you promise, Charlie?”

“Forever, I promise.”

***

The elderly housekeeper bustled through the empty hallways of Pemberley. Nobody was about, and nor should they be. They were all meant to be outside, waiting for Mr Darcy and his new wife. Almost a year to the day that old Mr Darcy had died, the younger one had sent word that he was married and would be returning to the house directly.

Mrs Clarkson rushed to be there when the carriage arrived, and found the maids gossiping in line.

“She's one of them Fitzwilliams, you know. Can you believe the likes of Mr Darcy taking up with one of them?”

“Marjorie!” Mrs Clarkson's voice was enough to silence the lot of them, and not a moment too soon, because Mr Darcy's carriage rattled into the courtyard.

Young Mr Darcy had aged in the last year. Mrs Clarkson didn't need to be told that George Darcy had adored and worshipped his father. Mr Darcy's hair now had hints of grey, which really shouldn't be expected in a fit man of thirty. Still, his smile was broad and genuine as he bounded out of the carriage.

“Mrs Clarkson! How excellent to be back home at Pemberley!”

“It's very good to have you home, Mr Darcy.”

“Mrs Clarkson, I should like to introduce you to my new wife.” He held his hand out and a delicate gloved hand took it. The rest of the woman followed as nature dictated.

The new mistress of the house looked like a very fine porcelain doll. She was very small, very slim and had lovely blue eyes.

“Mrs Clarkson,” Mrs Darcy even had a delicate voice. “It's so very nice to meet you, and to see Pemberley at last.”

Mrs Clarkson, and likely her entire staff, had doubted that one of the famously avaricious and social climbing Fitzwilliams could possibly have married Mr Darcy for love. Mrs Clarkson saw, though, that Mr Darcy looked happy for the first time in a year, and that Mrs Darcy fairly gazed at him as she was introduced to the staff.

*

Margaret Darcy looked up at her grandson with tired, heavy-lidded eyes. She could see that he was incredibly happy, and she managed to smile.

“Grandmother, I have splendid news!”

“You're married, of course.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs Clarkson told me.”

“I was going to write, but we decided to come straight here and tell you in person. I hope you understand. I wasn't ignoring you-”

“Yes dear, I know. May I meet her?”

“Of course!” George disappeared just long enough to retrieve his wife, who sat down beside Mrs Darcy's bed.

“Mrs Darcy, it's an honour to meet you at last. George speaks of you so often.”

The new Mrs Darcy seemed genuine enough, but Margaret Darcy's last great run-in with another society matron had been with a Fitzwilliam, and it had been over her son. Many years ago... Margaret waved George away, and he slipped quietly out of the room.

“It's quite lovely to meet you, Mrs Darcy,” Margaret told her. “You seem to have made George smile again. I'm so very glad for that.”

“He has made me smile again, Mrs Darcy.”

“Where were you married, dear?”

“At St Paul's Cathedral. My grandmother arranged it all.”

“I'm sure she did, dear.” Mrs Darcy's tone changed so obviously that the new Mrs Darcy frowned.

“My grandmother mentioned that she knew you many years ago, Mrs Darcy.”

“Yes, we knew each other. I would not call us friends.”

“Nor would she,” New Mrs Darcy smiled wryly, and Margaret liked that. “She didn't tell me what you fell out about.”

“I'm sure she didn't. You must understand that we didn't like each other enough to even fall out.”

“My grandmother... is not easy to get along with.”

“No.” Margaret could see that the new Mrs Darcy was burning with curiosity as to why Mrs Darcy and Dowager Countess Fitzwilliam despised each other. As all the parties aside from themselves were now dead, Margaret decided to tell the story.

“My dear, it involves, as these stories often do, marriage.”

“Really?”

“Yes. My son had no particular interest in marrying as a young man. He wasn't a rake, you understand. He was devoted to Pemberley and the estate. Everything we have, everything you now have is down to his hard work and diligent management. My husband died when he was forty-nine, and the shock of it sent my son John to London in search of a wife - just like George has done, I suppose... I went with him, because I could hardly bear to be here without my beloved Charlie. Our fortune made him the kind of target one would expect, and of all the people to set her cap to my boy, Lady Fitzwilliam, her husband hadn't been named an Earl just yet, was the most... confident. She did everything she could to force John to consider her daughter Maria.”

“What happened, Mrs Darcy?”

“John took one look at the society in London - the cattle market, he called it - and promptly went to stay with an old university friend in Bristol. Without a word to anyone, he married the friend's sister, Louisa. The first your grandmother knew of it was when the Darcys were announced at the theatre. She blamed me, of course, and accused me of conspiring. Then she accused Louisa, a very lovely young lady of absolutely impeccable virtue and manners, of being in an interesting condition.”

“What happened then?”

“It reflects no merit upon me, but I must admit that I swung a fist, which fortuitously found its way to Lady Fitzwilliam's chin.”

“No!”

“Yes, my dear. I'm also afraid that her popularity was such at the time that I became better liked as a result of my loss of temper.”

“I'm not surprised, Mrs Darcy.”

“Please, dear, call me Grandmother, or Margaret, or Meg or anything else. You're the latest Mrs Darcy, and I always made sure there was only one of us. Too many Mrs Darcys can spoil a great many broths.”

“I think I should like to call you Grandmother, if you would call me Anne.”

“I will, my dear. I will.”

“I should leave you now. You look tired.”

“I'm eighty-one years old. I'm always tired. Do stay, if you'd like to.”

“I would.”

“There is something else I will tell you, as I told Louisa when she first came to Pemberley. My son was conceived before I was married to his father. I no longer feel any shame for this, because I loved his father faithfully and deeply. I should also like to tell you particularly that the reason I was nearly not-married, was a young woman called Sarah Seymour, who accused my husband of unspeakable cruelty. I assumed I would not see him again and... You know why I told you this particularly?”

“Sarah Seymour? I have an aunt by that name.”

“I know you do.”

“I'm so awfully sorry, Grandmother-”

“The crime isn't yours, and so the apology is not yours. George does not know, although when he finally goes through the family papers he will no doubt make the connection, just as John himself did. I tell you so that you can help him when he does... but also to demonstrate to you that no wife is perfect, that no husband is perfect, but if there is enough compassion, anything can be overcome.”

“I understand, Grandmother.”

***

Lizzy yawned as she filled in another line of information. She wondered if Darcy knew that a Darcy ancestor of his had married a Fitzwilliam - just as his own father had done. She would need to investigate this twig of the Fitzwilliam tree, to find the link between two Anne Fitzwilliams. That would have to wait, because if she allowed herself to get distracted by tangents, she'd never finish.

***

Matilda climbed out of bed in order to watch the Florentine sun rise. In the cradle, Francesca was stirring, just a little. Emilio slept on, regardless of the breeze and the light.

She hadn't yet managed to write to her parents to tell them anything of what had happened since she arrived in Florence twenty months previously. How could she do so? How to explain that she believed marriage an outdated waste of time, completely at odds with her newfound socialist ideals? How to explain that she considered class to be the great disease of Europe? That property was theft?

Most of all, how the deuce was she to explain to them that they had a granddaughter, another Darcy, but that she had not married Emilio and never would?

For all her new-found political fire and oratorical brimstone, Matilda Darcy was still scared of what her father would say.

In the end, the decision was taken away from her.

*

The one-time Elizabeth Bentley had never been to Florence. She'd never had the wherewithal to consider it, but as Mrs Darcy it was as natural to travel across Europe on a whim as it was to breathe or to landscape the gardens of Pemberley. Florence was everything she'd expected of such a place, but Matilda's lodgings were not.

“This can't be it!” Behind her, William scoffed. His disbelief was her own, as they stared up at the nicely located but decrepit palazzo. William banged on the door, and after a few moments a swarthy-looking Italian opened the door.

“Si?”

“We're here to see Matilda Darcy. Does she-?” He was cut off as the Italian led them inside and up the stairs.

“Innamorata!” The Italian called up, and Elizabeth felt faint. Her daughter was surely not living here with this man? Her hope was quickly extinguished as her own daughter came out of a door.

The look on Matilda's face told Elizabeth all she needed to know. She knew from the moment that she saw Matilda that yes, she was living in this place with that man, and she even knew that a child had been born.

“Mama...”

“Matilda,” Elizabeth's voice came out cold and sharp. Matilda beckoned her into the sitting room. The crib by the window was the definite answer for Lizzy, and for William, who began a long, loud rant at his daughter.

Lizzy let it continue for a few minutes, trying to let her mind catch up with the information. She opened her mouth to stop the shouting, but Matilda cut in first.

“You may not speak to me so!” she yelled. “I have made my own choices for my own reasons, and it is done! You may not speak to me so, sir!”

The Italian came in and checked on the baby.

“Are we to at least be introduced?” Mr Darcy snarled. Matilda shrugged.

“Very well. Emilio, these are my parents, Mr and Mrs Darcy. This is Emilio.”

“Emilio What?” Mr Darcy had not yet managed to calm down even to be civil.

“Conte Emilio Da Mostino,” Emilio himself replied. Matilda rolled her eyes at him.

“You can't pick and choose when to be a count, Emilio! We either renounce the terrible yoke of the archaic aristocracy or we don't!”

“What is going on here?” Darcy bellowed. Matilda, somewhat to Elizabeth's surprise, was not ashamed, but defiant. She reached into the crib and held out the baby for the Darcys to see.

“This is my daughter, Francesca.”

“And is she your Count's daughter too?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Are you married?”

“No.” Not even a flicker of shame on Matilda's face, and Elizabeth was almost proud of her confidence. Almost.

“Then you are no daughter of mine,” Darcy said.

“Darcy!” Elizabeth heard her own voice, but didn't feel herself speaking. “Don't say such a thing!”

“Elizabeth, this is it! I have borne her insubordination, her rebellion and her ridiculous need to be boyish and independent all her life! I tolerated her desire to come here to Florence, against my own better judgement, which I now see I should've paid more heed to!”

“I am twenty-nine years old, Father! I am my own person, and when the revolution comes-”

“Quiet, Matilda!”

“I will not be quiet in my own home, Father. You may not dictate to me, or to anyone! I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Francesca, but it is done. You may accept it, or you may not. That is not my decision to make.”

“I cannot accept it,” her father said. Elizabeth felt faint.

“William...”

“No. It is my decision to make.”

“What about my decision? Must I cut off my daughter because you do?”

“I will not forbid you to correspond with her, Elizabeth, but understand that we will not see her again.”

“William!”

“As she says, it is done.”

“Matilda, please talk to him!”

“Mama, he has decided. Whether it's because of my politics or my daughter... I shall not apologise because I am not sorry!”

“Did we teach you nothing, Matilda?” she asked weakly. Matilda's defences fell, just a little.

“You taught me to think for myself, Mama. I have done so. Socialism is the only way forward for humanity. Landowners and industrialists-”

“It was a landowner that had you fed, clothed, educated and sent to this infernal city!” William shouted. Matilda paid him no heed.

“I'm sorry Mama, it seems both Father and I have made our choices.”

“What about my choices?” Elizabeth asked.

“The choice my father has given you... your letters will always be most welcome.”

William stormed down the stairs, and all Elizabeth could do was follow.

*

Lizzy had found the stash of letters between Elizabeth and Matilda in the Darcy family papers. Will seemed to believe that this particular Elizabeth had died in childbirth - but she'd lived to see her eighty-second birthday! One of her children, yet another George Darcy, had died at birth, so perhaps that was where the story came from.

She discovered that Elizabeth and Matilda never did meet again after that day in Florence, not even in the nine years after Elizabeth's husband died. The papers Lizzy tracked down in London, Pemberley and Florence showed that Matilda lived to ninety-two, as Darcy knew. What Lizzy also learned was that Matilda and Emilio never did marry, that he travelled to Sicily in 1853 and died of a fever while he was there. Her socialist leanings hadn't faded, but her verve had, and she developed into one of the most respected matrons of English society in Florence.

One remark in a letter of Elizabeth's had chilled Lizzy's heart: “I am afraid your father remains as immovable as ever. All he ever says when I bring up your name is this: `At least I have one daughter I can be proud of.' I fear that he shall not be persuaded, no matter what I say or do.”

Lizzy sighed sadly at the image of this other Elizabeth trying to keep her family together, and so she reached for information on this daughter who made Mr Darcy proud.

*

“Tessie, you really must be sensible. Your age and health do not lend themselves to another baby.” Elizabeth sighed. The one daughter she had left in the country had just told her that she was expecting a child again. Theresa Chamberlain patted her hair and stared her mother down.

“I'm only thirty-nine. That's nothing these days! The Queen is expecting again, after all, and she's only a year or so younger than I am.”

“Yes, but she is surrounded by the very best doctors in the Empire! What doctors are there in Liverpool?”

“You won't ever get over me moving to the North, will you?”

“No, dear, just as my mother never forgave me leaving the South.” Elizabeth chuckled fondly. Theresa was so affable that it was impossible to stay annoyed at her for long.

“You shan't need to worry about me, Mama. I'll be all right, really I will.”

“But why? You've got seven perfectly wonderful sons already.”

“Yes, I do.”

“So... will you really risk your life for a daughter? I wish my mother were here to have this conversation with you - all daughters and no sons for her. I suppose we are not destined to have sensible families.”

“You did!”

“Yes, and for what? Matilda is no longer known to us, George didn't see his third sunrise and... well, Richard is only full of news of how ill Monica is during her confinement. She's younger than you are.”

“Yes, Mama. I know. Please don't worry about me.”

“But I will.”

*

“It's really just awful, Tessie. She seemed to be improving and then on the third...” Elizabeth sobbed as delicately as she could. Theresa manoeuvred herself a little awkwardly to comfort her.

“What's to be done?”

“Your father has gone to Edinburgh to be with Richard and the children... and to arrange the funerals.”

“Funerals?”

“Surely I told you that... oh Tessie, the baby died too!” The tight, terrified look on Theresa's face reminded Elizabeth of why she hadn't already told her.

“I shall... I shall ask Henry and Tommy to go up to Edinburgh to attend.”

“That would be nice, dear. But... I just... I'm so awfully scared for you now. I'm sure it's foolish but I simply can't help it!”

“I shall be fine, Mama. I promise you.”

***

Perhaps the ill-fated Monica Darcy (previously of the Edinburgh Lyon-Booths) had been where Will thought Elizabeth had died in childbirth. Theresa Darcy lived beyond her final pregnancy, and according to the family Bible delivered a healthy little girl. She marked down the Chamberlain family, into which Theresa had married, as yet another tangent to investigate later.

As if all this wasn't enough, the surviving son of tragic Monica Darcy was hung for murder in 1875. Lizzy was in for a long night.

She couldn't wait for the twentieth century.

*

Chapter Two

“How's it going?” Will's voice crackled a little over the line. Lizzy yawned.

“It's going OK. Long, but OK. I hate to break it to you, but I've probably got to go to Spain, France, Germany, Italy, New York, and Cairo. Oh, and I need to find the records for a murder trial in Edinburgh. From 1875.”

“You found out about Alfred, then?”

“You knew?”

“Vaguely. I really... I only know the family history that Grandmere told me.”

“Speaking of that, Will... The far-famed Elizabeth Darcy? She didn't die in childbirth as you thought.”

There was a pause on the line.

“Really?”

“Really. She lived to eighty-two. The story you had about her daughter Matilda-”

“She wasn't some raving socialist?”

“Oh no, you had her story spot on. She was quite fascinating, you know. I'm going to Italy to find out what happened to her daughter.”

“Why in the world do you need to go to Cairo? I don't have any family there!”

“I'll tell you one day. I don't want to ruin all these surprises, do I?”

“Does your editor know how many air-miles you'll clock up in your quest?”

“Yes, of course. That's really the point. You may not think it's of any public interest, but I tell you, the public will be fascinated.”

“That's what I'm worried about.”

“Calm down, Will. At least I'm saving you from going on `Who Do You Think You Are?'”

“True. Where are you now?”

“I'm just leaving the PRO. I'm off to Edinburgh on the seven o'clock train. When are you back from Madrid?”

“Thursday. Where in the world will you be then?”

“God only knows. Hopefully in London, fast asleep.”

“Only until I'm back.”

“You wish.”

“Night, Lizzy.”

“Night, Will.” Lizzy hung up and made her way out of the gargantuan Public Records Office and down the street to the tube station. She'd need to get a move on if she was going to make King's Cross for seven.

***

Alfred Darcy had everything going for him when he was born. He was the grandson of one of Britain's great figures, his father was a hugely successful lawyer and his mother was both gracious and beautiful.

His mother had died when he was thirteen, and he was away at a school friend's estate for part of the summer. The journey home to Edinburgh from Devon was undertaken by train, and he hated the whole experience. The terrible grief that his mother's (and brother's) death invoked haunted him throughout the coming years.

At least, that was his defence counsel's main argument when Alfred was stood in the dock, looking a hangman's noose in the eye.

*

Nearly Two Years Earlier

Edinburgh society had fallen hard in love with Eustacia Capet. Exotically beautiful (her mother was from Russia, her father a Frenchman resident in London) and incredibly sophisticated, Miss Capet had arrived in Edinburgh at the age of nineteen, following her father's career around the country (he was an artist almost permanently in search of a patron).

The women of Edinburgh commented archly that, although she was very beautiful, Miss Capet was also vain and empty-headed. She knew a great deal about art, but almost nothing about anything else, which made conversation either one-sided or short.

The men of Edinburgh had not noticed those shortcomings unless they were fortunate enough to already be in love with someone else and able to see with clear eyes.

There were few men in Edinburgh both rich enough and handsome enough to capture her attention. She was well-used to being pampered, pursued and adored, and it had made her incredibly choosy.

Alfred Darcy was rich enough by miles and handsome enough by furlongs.

“Miss Capet, might I refill your glass?” Lady Fitzclarence's Christmas party was hugely popular, incredibly elite and excellently provisioned.

“Thank you, Mr Darcy.”

Alfred made sure it didn't take long to fetch more punch, but even so, by the time he returned to Miss Capet, she had a number of other admirers circling.

“Thank you, Mr Darcy. You're very kind.”

“You're very beautiful.”

Miss Capet smiled, but Alfred knew very well that she'd heard the line many, many times before. There was only one way to really distinguish himself.

“Would you care to take a walk around terrace, Miss Capet?”

She paused for just long enough to appear to consider the moral implication, then followed him quite willingly.

“Miss Capet, we've known each other some four months now, and I feel privileged that I might call myself your friend.”

“Of course, Mr Darcy.”

“I should also... that is to say, I would consider it a very great honour if I might be able to call you something more than that.”

“I don't quite know what you mean, Mr Darcy.” She knew, he knew she knew, but he allowed her the conceit.

“I should very much like to marry you, Miss Capet.”

“Oh.” Now, he suspected from the look on her face that by proposing marriage, he was not in such elite company as he might have imagined.

“This is quite sudden, sir.”

“Yes, I know. If I've spoken out of turn, I should like to apologise.”

“You need not apologise, Mr Darcy. Might I be allowed the night to consider?”

“Of course, Miss Capet!”

*

The answer came to him the next morning, at which point he informed his father that he would be married. Richard Darcy was not impressed.

“To that Capet girl? You hardly know her. We don't know her family.”

“She's really very lovely, Father. I should like to invite Miss Capet and her father to dinner, so you might get to know them for yourself.”

“If I must.” Richard Darcy had been reserved since his wife died, but in his increasing years he was becoming ever-more hermit-like. So Alfred took his father's reluctance as being less to do with Eustacia Capet and more to do with himself.

Two evenings later, the Capets arrived and were greeted by Alfred's sister Jemima, who had acted as Richard's hostess since she was old enough. Dinner was nicely served but conversation was stilted - Mr Capet was as conversationally challenged as Eustacia's.

Still, something must have gone well because the next morning, Alfred went to get a special licence so they could be married before Christmas.

*

Alfred and Eustacia Darcy were given an Edinburgh town house by Mr Darcy, and their first year of marriage was blessed. Alfred worked hard as a barrister, which meant that their opportunities for meaningful conversation were minimal.

For her birthday in February, just after their first anniversary, Alfred presented Eustacia with an art teacher of her own.

“Alfie! You're too thoughtful!”

“Not at all. It's time you were allowed your own artistic outlet.”

Eustacia leapt at her husband to hug him.

*

Alfred stifled a yawn as he trudged up the steps of his house. It was almost midnight, but he was only now arriving home from the office. The house was quiet, as he expected it to be, and so he just took his overcoat off and continued trudging up stairs - this time to his bedroom.

The light was still on in Eustacia's room, and so once he'd neatened himself up a bit (sixteen hours in an office had taken its toll) he went down the hallway and knocked on the door.

He could hear her moving around, and there was a cry, or a moan or something of that sort, so for the first time in their marriage, Alfred Darcy did not wait for his wife to ask him into her room.

His wife Eustacia was there, as was her art master, Clement Benjamin. Alfred felt frozen to the spot. Should he shout, scream or just clear his throat? Many of his friends had mistresses, and a couple of them even openly accepted their wives' infidelity. Alfred was a Darcy, and Darcys didn't do That Sort Of Thing.

“Mrs Darcy.” Alfred's voice was hard. She noticed him now, and hadn't the grace to be ashamed.

“Alfred darling, you're so late!”

Had she been ashamed or sorry, he might not have done what he did.

Alfred Darcy stepped into the room and held his hands out to her. Eustacia mistook this for a welcoming gesture. It was only as his hands tightened around her neck that she realised that this was the night she was going to die.

*

“Exhibit A, a French-made brass candlestick.” The jury all peered at the candlestick, and made notes.

“Was this candlestick in your possession on the night of 19th March this year?”

Alfred nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Was it in your wife's bedroom on the night of the 19th March this year?”

“Yes. It's one of a pair.”

“Where in the room was the candlestick placed?”

“On the dressing table, where she'd left it.” Alfred wished that the floor would swallow him up, not through fear of the consequences, but through having to wash this thoroughly dirty laundry in public.

“She?”

“My wife.”

“How did the candlestick come to be on the floor when the police examined the scene?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“No, I don't.”

“Don't know or don't remember?”

“I don't know because I don't remember the night after leaving my office.”

“So you say, sir. Would you say that this candlestick, properly applied, could kill a man?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“The prosecution alleges that you used this candlestick and bludgeoned the victim Clement Benjamin until he was dead.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Mr Darcy, the prosecution alleges that you first strangled your wife, then bludgeoned her lover to death with a candlestick. What do you say in your defence?”

“I... I simply don't remember anything of that night. I've suffered blackouts of a sort since my mother died.”

He'd lied since beginning his testimony, but this was the only lie he wished he hadn't told. Bringing his mother into the whole thing was just one thing too far. The only thing that comforted him was, perversely, the knowledge that the jury didn't believe him. Alfred had resigned himself to his fate: he would be hung. His neck would break, just as Eustacia's had.

It seemed fair enough.

Alfred was right - he was found guilty and sentenced to hang. Hang he did, on a horribly cold day in December 1875. By wicked irony, it was the day before his wedding anniversary.

***

Lizzy found reading the court reports on Alfred Darcy hard going - some of the less reputable newspapers of the time had leapt upon the case - rich society man kills beautiful wife and lover was as big a story then as it would be in the 21st century. He had killed his wife with his bare hands while the damage done to the art teacher was such that the detectives found his blood right across the room.

Edinburgh was in some ways far removed from London and Pemberley, and the murder made only ripples in a city with more than its own share of murders.

In the end, Lizzy discovered that Richard Darcy's line died out - Jemima remained with her father until his death in 1901, when she was fifty and long past marriage offers. She sold all of the family's assets in Edinburgh and the infamous history of Darcys in the city was ended when she went to live out the rest of her life (another forty-one years) at Pemberley.

What got to her the most was that at no point did Alfred Darcy ever seem sorry for what he'd done.

She dialled Will's number and, as she knew she would, got voicemail. Checking the time, she calculated that he'd be on a field in Madrid right about now.

“Hi Will, I hope you won. I'm on my way back to London. If I could head up to Pemberley sometime soon for the archives, that would be just great - but it's up to you. I'm at the newspaper archives tomorrow but I'll be around whenever you get back. Love you!”

She leaned back in her seat as the train swayed and rocked her into a sense of calm. Lizzy would get over Alfred Darcy's terrible life and nasty end, but for now she would just wait for the train to take her back home.

***

At Pemberley, the information Lizzy had gathered from all sorts of archives began to really take shape into a story. Pemberley's previous masters and mistresses had been meticulous record-keepers and hadn't thrown away any correspondence of any importance.

It was at Pemberley that the lives of the heirs and masters of Pemberley were best told.

***

William Darcy loved Pemberley. He loved Pemberley as his father Ben had, as his grandfather William had, and likely all the way back to the first Darcy at Pemberley.

He liked it best in the winter, when the weather kept everyone at home, and allowed him to enjoy Pemberley without too many interruptions. When snow covered the lawns, the meadows and trees, William really thought he might be in heaven already.

“Father! Father!”

William turned around, startled out of his thoughts by an excited voice behind him. He saw his eldest son James bounding towards him across the snow-covered lawn. In the distance, his daughter Diana and younger son Stephen were following as quickly as Stephen's seven-year-old legs could carry him.

“James, slow down!” William's warning was too late - James skidded a little and crashed into his father.

“Sorry,” James mumbled, looking down at his feet. William couldn't bear to scold him on such a perfect day, and so just ruffled his hair.

“Whatever had you cross the lawn like a steam train, James?”

“The lake! The lake is frozen, and it's probably OK to skate on now!”

“Did Mr Edwards check it?”

“Yes, and he says the ice is really thick and I can skate on it if I get your permission. Can I have your permission, please, can I?”

“I shall speak to Mr Edwards. In the meantime, you might ask Mrs Wells for your skates.”

This was as good as a yes to James, so he ran into the house to seek the housekeeper.

*

“Careful now, Diana!” Mrs Darcy had come out to the lake to join the skating party. James had had plenty of skating practice at a chum's house last winter, and Diana wasn't as experienced. Still, she was a fearless and determined girl of seventeen, and did her best. Stephen had chosen to begin building a snowman (it would be his sixth of the season) instead of skating.

Mrs Wells had arranged for coffee to be brought to the Darcys, and William sipped at his as he watched James, Diana and James' tutor Edwards skate around the lake.

“Come and join us, Father!” James hollered.

“Don't shout so, James!” his mother called.

“I shall think about it,” William told him, but he had no intention of skating - he'd never been very good at it.

It all happened very quickly. James was there, skating along perfectly fine, then in the blink of an eye (so it felt) was gone.

“James? James!” Mrs Darcy shrieked, and her knees buckled. A hole had appeared in the ice at the centre of the lake, where James had previously been.

“Diana, get off the ice!” William yelled, and Diana began skidding and sliding in her panic. “Stephen, run and get help from the house!”

Stephen, looking terrified, obeyed. Then, with a loud cracking noise, Mr Edwards, in his quest to retrieve James, fell through the newly-enlarged hole.

Mr Darcy barely paused another moment before he stepped onto the ice himself. He gingerly edged towards the hole, knowing that he needed to act as quickly as he could.

“James! Try and find the surface, boy!” he yelled. The ice felt thick and solid beneath his feet, but found it increasingly unstable as he inched nearer the hole.

“Be careful, William!” Alice screamed, sucking in hysterical breaths. In the distance, he saw men running from the house with a ladder, and he had to decide whether to risk himself further, or wait for them to arrive.

He chose something almost between the two. He lay down on his front and edged closer to the hole that way. His hands found the jagged edge of the ice and he pulled himself towards it. The water was painfully cold, but he plunged an arm into it, trying to feel for James, or Mr Edwards, or anything at all.

At some point, help arrived and the ladder was slid across the ice. Mr Travers, the gardener, pulled himself along it.

“You should get off the ice, Mr Darcy,” he said. William ached as he went along with the suggestion, and he watched as Mr Travers inched himself into the water.

“It's perishing,” the gardener muttered, but he immersed himself without fear.

William went to his wife, and they waited for an uncertain but terrible amount of time. Mr Travers had disappeared under the ice, and there was not even a sound. Mrs Wells arrived at the lake with blankets - Stephen tagged along behind her, and Diana pulled him into a hug, wherein he burst into tears.

Mr Travers surfaced, gasping for air. One of the footmen had positioned himself on the ladder, and grabbed his shoulders. Mr Travers had found James.

“Grab him, lad!” Mr Travers barked at the footman before he disappeared under the water for Mr Edwards.

The footman dragged James' body off the ice.

“Let me to him!” William demanded, and he saw what he already knew. James, only thirteen years old, was ice cold and dead. Behind him but hardly noticed, Mr Travers was pulled out of the lake, pulling Mr Edwards behind him.

*

The men of Pemberley had spontaneously gone and broken up the ice on the lake until none was left. William was grateful for it - he hadn't been able to even think of that hole in the ice.

Mr Edwards' body had been sent back to his family in Bristol, but William had sent money for funeral costs with it. James' funeral was a tiny affair conducted as soon as possible. Alice Darcy hadn't been able to face attending her own son's funeral - she hadn't come out of her room since it happened.

Stephen had clung to his father's hand for the entire funeral. When it was over, he looked up at William and said:

“I'm your heir now, aren't I?”

“Yes, I suppose you are.”

“I'll do my very best, I promise.”

William wanted to weep, but he refused to allow it.

“Yes, son, I know you will.”

***

After reading a newspaper clipping about James Darcy, Lizzy had got straight into her car and driven around to St. Peter's. Reverend Sims had opened up the church for her and allowed her to roam through the church in search of James.

He was buried under one of the south-facing windows, his inscription just a little worn away over the last 114 years. Lizzy had no thought of research or family trees, only of a little boy. How must Stephen have felt to suddenly have the weight of his family's future on his little shoulders?

This was close to her own Darcy - Stephen was his great-grandfather, after all. Darcy's father was twenty was Stephen died - the Beatles were world-famous then! This was not exactly ancient history she was dealing with anymore.

“Lizzy?”

The shock made her jump. Will came into the church, brow furrowed.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“You don't look it.”

“Thanks.”

“I just... it doesn't matter.”

“James Darcy. My father told me about him. My great-grandfather never let himself forget about him... during his lifetime, if the lake ever froze over, the ice would be broken up. If they had to do it every morning, it would be done.”

“Did you know your great-grandfather got married at the age of nineteen?”

“No, I didn't.”

“He wrote to his father about it. Let's go back to the house and I'll show you.”

They did so, and Lizzy handed Will the letter - it was the first moment in all her research that Will had actually been involved.

***

“My son is married!”

Mr Darcy rushed through the quiet halls of Pemberley in search of someone to pass these very great tidings to. He finally found his daughter Libby in the music room, playing her harp as she did at every possible opportunity.

“Libby, Libby dear!”

She stopped playing, and for a moment, she looked worried. Good news was far less common in Pemberley than bad.

“Stephen is married!”

“Married? Why? To whom?”

“The French girl we were introduced to last year by the Earl of Rushmead! Marianne something...” William scanned the letter again. “Marianne du Lac.”

“Oh, I remember her. She was very kind to me.”

Libby resumed playing - she was playing an arrangement of Men of Harlech she'd devised herself for Timothy Mayo's Bon Voyage party.

“That reminds me, Libby,” William said. “Would you make sure that Little Diana has everything she needs?”

“Mrs Wells has taken care of everything, and has engaged a nanny for the duration. Miss Ross is an excellent governess but she doesn't have much experience with very small children.”

“You're a very good girl, Libby. The tune sounds excellent.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

He smiled at her and left her to her practice. As he wandered back to his study, the letter in his hand felt as if it were warming him up. Since James' accident twelve years ago, death had stalked him without let up - Alice died in 1899 during an influenza outbreak and he had felt almost glad for her, she who had never managed to recover from her son's death. Diana had seemed to fare well - married to an adventurer knight at eighteen, a son two years later... and then death giving birth to Little Diana only three years ago.

Libby's reaction to his bursting into the music room was understandable - there had been so little to be happy about for so long.

*

Little Diana's father's business was the past. He roamed the world looking for remnants of the ancient world, and she stayed with her grandfather and Aunt Libby.

However, Little Diana was bored of Pemberley. It was dull, quiet, safe and uninteresting. Her father had promised she would be allowed along on his expeditions one day, but she had never managed to find out when that day might be.

She was now ten years old and sought adventures of her own in the wilds of Pemberley. There, in the woods and around the lakes and streams, she was the queen of her own domain. She was answerable to no-one, she bowed and knelt to no-one. She was master of her world. When she played, the rock of Derbyshire gave way to the shifting sands of Africa, or the humid jungles of the far East. Wherever it was that Sir Timothy Mayo went, his daughter followed, even if she never left her Grandfather's house.

Currently, she imagined herself to be a pirate queen on the Spanish Main, and the lake was her Caribbean.

“Diana! Diana dear, it's time to come inside now!” Aunt Libby's kind, melodious voice carried across the water and stopped Diana in mid-sword thrust. In that moment, she left behind the sparkling blue Caribbean and returned to Pemberley. It only took her a minute or two to run back to the house, where Aunt Libby was waiting.

“Wash your hands and face before dinner, little one,” Aunt Libby told her. We have guests this evening.”

The guests turned out to be her uncle Stephen and his wife Marianne, the new vicar Reverend Turner and his wife Mabel, and a young man from the south of England called Francis Hale. Little Diana noticed that Aunt Libby kept looking over at him.

“I think it's refreshing to have children at the dinner table,” Mrs Turner said, and Diana thought she didn't quite mean it. “As long as they can behave properly, of course.”

Diana was a Darcy as well as a Mayo, and knew perfectly well how to behave at table, thank you very much. She still wanted to flick potato at the snotty lady, though.

“Well, Mrs Turner,” said William, “I never kept any of my children away from the family table, and I never had cause to regret it.”

“Except that time Stephen knocked over the lamp and set fire to the lace tablecloth!” Libby teased, and Stephen smiled over at her fondly. Mr Darcy laughed.

“Yes, of course. Still, it was awfully funny.”

“Mother didn't think so,” Stephen added, and the three Darcys fell quiet. Libby was the first to recover her politeness.

“Little Diana has always sat at the table with us,” she said. “When she's with us here, of course.”

“At home with Daddy and Aubrey, I always sit next to Daddy,” Little Diana said. “That way he can tell me about his adventures!”

Everyone at the table smiled at Diana - the Darcys smiled fondly, the Reverend kindly, Francis Hale warmly. Mrs Turner was the only person not to smile. Indeed, the look on her face suggested that children really should be seen and not heard.

“Where is Sir Timothy now?” she asked William, ignoring Little Diana completely.

“Somewhere in Argentina. Not so much an expedition as a diplomatic exercise,” William replied.

“When I'm old enough, I'm going to travel with Daddy... all over the world!” Little Diana declared.

“We have ourselves a little adventurer,” Stephen said. “Just like her mother, of course.”

“Diana accompanied Timothy on his journeys as often as she could,” Libby explained to the guests.

“I think a wife's place is at home,” Mrs Turner sniffed.

“Diana believed a wife's place was at her husband's side,” William retorted, his pleasant smile a little strained. Mrs Turner would not (or could not) answer this, and for a moment or so, all that could be heard in the dining room was the quiet clink-clink of cutlery against plates.

*

“Good morning, Mr Travers!” Diana bounded out of the house as soon as she could. The head gardener smiled fondly at her.

“Good morning, Little Miss Diana,” he replied. “What adventures will be it be today?”

“I don't know yet. I think the Caribbean again. Or the desert. What do you think?”

“It's your adventure, Miss, but on such a bright day as this I'd rather be by the sea than stuck in the sand.”

“Yes, me too! Thank you, Mr Travers!”

Diana smiled and curtseyed at him, then ran off towards the corner of Pemberley strictly reserved for the Caribbean.

*

“Off on your adventures, Little Miss Diana?”

Diana stopped stacking her luggage to turn to Mr Travers.

“At last, Mr Travers, at last!”

“Sixteen is a fair age to start seeing the world, I reckon.”

“It feels like I've been waiting forever.”

“Yes, but the wait will have been worth it. And you'll dodge the dire Derbyshire weather.”

“I'm certainly glad of that!” she paused and looked at the pick-axe in the gardener's hand. “Are you going to the lake?”

“Yes, Miss. It'll be hard work with so many of the estate men off to war.”

“Would you like some help?”

Mr Travers laughed.

“It would be more than my job's worth, Miss Diana!”

“Yes, I suppose it would.” She felt foolish, and embarrassed.

“Thank you for offering, just the same. Where are you off first?”

“Father is taking me to America, far from war and... all that.” She didn't say what she nearly did - Mr Travers' own son had been killed at the Battle of Loos.

“Quite right,” Mr Travers said. “When the war is over, you'll have other chances.”

“That's what my father said. Really, Mr Travers, I'm not leaving for hours yet. May I help you?”

“You don't need to, Miss Diana.”

“Yes but-”

She stopped. Her Uncle Stephen was coming out of the house, equipment similar to Mr Travers' in his hands.

“Shall we, Mr Travers?” he asked.

“As you like, sir.”

“Best get a shift on, Diana,” Uncle Stephen told her. “Your father's finishing up his breakfast.”

*

Grandfather William was not in the best of health, but came downstairs to bid farewell to Diana.

“Stay safe, Little Diana,” he murmured as he hugged her closely.

“I shall try,” she promised. He then shook Sir Timothy's hand.

“Aubrey assures me that he will be down here for Christmas,” Sir Timothy told him. “Whether his studies allow it or not.”

“We'll be back before you know it,” Diana promised, but she knew it wasn't quite true.”

***

“Diana Mayo is the reason I'm off to Cairo in a fortnight. I think you've got living relatives in Africa that you don't know about.”

“In Cairo?”

“I don't know about Cairo itself, but there's a place called Biskra that showed up in a lot of Diana's letters... I shall say no more.”

“You're a tease, Lizzy.”

“You'll find everything out when I'm finished and not a moment before. I've already said too much.”

“Did you know that you've been working on this ridiculous idea for four months now?”

“Yes, I did know that. It'll probably be another four months before I finish, but you'll have something that money cannot possibly buy... a real, genuine history.”

***
Part Three

Stephen Darcy was surprised at what he found in Biskra. Something about it had led him to think that the place would be like the Middle Ages, but the air-strip was tarmac and the buildings he could see looked like anything one would find in Casablanca or Cairo. The car that picked him up was a Rolls-Royce, but he'd expected that - he'd helped Diana arrange for it to be shipped here more than ten years ago.

The young man who greeted him was tall and commanding - Stephen had never met him before, but he knew this to be Ahmed, Diana's son. He was incredibly handsome, Stephen noted, and assumed he must have women swarming to him. Ahmed bowed deeply to him.

“Uncle Stephen,” he said, his voice smooth and deep. Stephen was glad not to have brought Monica with him - his daughter would be in love with this young man before they even got to their destination. “It is a great pleasure to meet you at last.”

“And you, young man, and you!”

“I will drive you to the Oasis. My parents are eager to see you.”

Stephen was equally eager - he had not seen Diana or her husband in many years - not since their visit to England before the war. The car journey took some time, but Ahmed was pleasant company and had many tidbits of information about the area.

The Oasis was Diana Mayo's home, and had been for nearly thirty years. The Oasis was much older than that, and its true Arabic name was unpronounceable to Stephen. He supposed it was at least three hundred years old, but could easily be twice that. His shoes made a pleasant clicking sound against the tiled steps up to the house.

Ahmed opened the massive wooden door and led him into the house.

“Uncle Stephen!” Diana came rushing towards him. “It's been such a very long time!”

Diana hugged him warmly, and he felt as if many years had melted away. Her husband approached, rather than rushed, and greeted him almost as warmly. Now stood side by side, it struck Stephen that Ahmed and his son Ahmed looked uncannily alike.

“Welcome to our home,” he told Stephen. “Make it your own.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you have a pleasant trip here?”

“Tiring, but pleasant enough. I'm glad not to have brought my daughter - she'd have balked at the crossing from Marseille.”

He chose not to mention how, knowing Monica, she would also make a fool of herself in one way or another over the younger Ahmed. He was glad to not have said anything about this when he was introduced to Yasmin, Ahmed's wife. She was easily more beautiful than Diana but not nearly so forthright. She also seemed a little ill at ease with him.

“Mr Darcy,” she bobbed in a slight curtsey, and he smiled warmly at her.

“It's lovely to meet you, Yasmin. I'm sorry I wasn't able to attend your wedding, but...” he left that unfinished - nobody needed to be reminded of the war.

“It was a very nice day,” Diana said. “Rushed, but pleasant.”

In any other situation, a rushed wedding was cause for scandal, but Stephen knew the rush was because of the war. It had taken its toll on the Hassans here in Biskra as much, if not more, as the Darcys in England. The British Army had used Biskra as a staging area for their push through North Africa, and it had not made things easy for Sheik Ahmed.

Worse than that, Diana's brother and only surviving relative closer than Stephen himself, had been shot dead trying to escape from the infamous Colditz Castle prisoner of war camp. No wonder she chose to refer to the war with a euphemism like `rushed'.

Still, happier things were quickly introduced, as he met Diana's grandchildren. Wasim was a smiling six year old boy who shook his hand with grace while Tasnim was a sharp-eyed girl of four.

*

Stephen's visit had been illuminating - he saw the rather difficult realities of living in the desert, but he also saw how happy Diana had been. She would not have been content staying in a place like Pemberley. The tale of how she came to be married to Ahmed was rather worrying, but he supposed things were done differently here.

“Don't look at me like that, Uncle Stephen.”

“Like what, Little Diana?”

“Like you think I've... surrendered or something.”

“I... I don't think that.”

“You must understand that things are done differently here,” she told him quite calmly. “However, you should also know that I have not given up so many of my `modern' ideas as it might seem. I have found other ways of expressing them. I am my husband's equal, Uncle Stephen, and he knows it.”

“It's not my business, Diana.”

“I used to be worried about meeting people from `my world', as I thought of it. I assumed they'd all think I was subjugated or downtrodden. I thought I would be shamed by being here with an Arab.”

She paused and shook her hair rather regally.

“I am not subjugated and I am not downtrodden. I am not ashamed and I never shall be.”

“That's commendable, Diana.”

He assumed this conversation was over, but she sighed.

“I worry more about Yasmin. The circumstances surrounding the marriage between my son and Yasmin were not... uncomplicated. I worry about her sometimes.”

“Not uncomplicated?”

“She was kept something of a slave by her father. When he discovered she was being courted by Ahmed, he took Ahmed prisoner. Ahmed was very badly beaten, and when he was rescued, he took it out on her. He's never forgiven himself, you know... but they manage to be happy most of the time. I do worry about her, though. She doesn't have my...”

“Obstinacy?”

“Ahmed calls it my fire, but obstinacy is as good a label.”

“You say all this as if you think I can do something about it, Little Diana.”

“Yes. Invite them, Ahmed and Yasmin I mean, to England. Yasmin has not seen much of the world, and Ahmed must do before he takes on his duties here. Let them see another way of living.”

“It's very different in London now, Diana. The war... Most of it's like one large bomb crater.”

“Did Villa Elizabeth survive unscathed?”

“It wasn't damaged by bombing, but the railings were cut out for the war effort. And some of the panelling too. It'll all be put right sooner or later but there are shortages all over. I'd thought to at least have seen the end of rationing by now but... no such luck.”

“Still, if you'd be happy to-”

“They are always welcome with me. I just hope they don't have high expectations of London at present.”

*

Yasmin Hassan took to London like a duck to water. Eight years living with Diana had given her excellent English skills, and although rather overawed by the tall buildings, cars, noise and bustle at first, she discovered a great love for London.

Within days of arriving, Yasmin took herself off on adventures across the town - she would leave in the morning and return in the evening with tales of St Paul's and the City, or of Hyde Park, or of the walk along the Embankment. One day she had a lunch packed and went to Hampton Court. She adored shopping and had a knack of finding interesting things in shops that appeared not to have much at all.

Ahmed fared less well. Stephen came to realise that he was greatly attached to the sands and heat of North Africa and anything else was less, to him. Arthur had taken Ahmed to their club, but the other members had not looked kindly on the introduction of a foreigner.

Ahmed enjoyed Pemberley much more. It was not Biskra, but the rolling green hills were just close enough to the rolling dunes of his home to feel comfortable. He played with little George as he'd play with his own son (still at the Oasis with his grandparents) and they became thick as thieves.

When it came time for Yasmin and Ahmed to leave, George clung to Cousin Ahmed.

“Will you write to me?” he asked, and Ahmed laughed at the terrified look on the little boy's face.

“Of course I will, if you reply.”

“Oh, I will, I will!”

*

Lizzy was led into a very fine sitting room in the very grand apartment by a liveried young man.

“Sit please,” he asked, and she did. He left by another door, and Lizzy was left to look around at the room. It was decorated in the Arabian style she'd expected but was somehow more modern than she was expecting.

It was funny, but even liberal, open-minded Lizzy was secretly surprised that Arabs didn't live in tents and travel around on camels.

She was even more surprised, although she hoped it didn't show, when the lady that entered was dressed in a sharp pin-stripe suit, the only clue to her Arabic life the headscarf that covered her hair.

“Lizzy Bennet, it's a pleasure to meet you!” she said in a very smooth accented voice. “I am Tasnim Hassan.”

This was the lady Lizzy had spoken to on the phone - the reason she'd come to Cairo. Lizzy knew from her research that Tasnim was Ahmed and Yasmin's daughter, she was sixty-two years old and was born in the Oasis.

“It's lovely to meet you at last.”

“Would you like tea or something?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

Tasnim spoke to someone on the internal phone and then turned back to Lizzy.

“I have gone through our archives and found some things you will probably find interesting.”

At this point, Tasnim opened the folder on the table, and handed Lizzy a sheaf of letters.

“Dear Cousin Ahmed,

I hope you had an easy journey home. It was very nice to meet you and your wife Yasmin, and I am very glad to know you. Pemberley seems rather boring now you have both left-”

Lizzy went onto the next letter.

“Dear Cousin Ahmed,

Thank you for your very kind letter. It is, as you correctly guessed, very sombre here at Pemberley. My Aunt Monica was buried with her husband and son Daniel in New York, so in some ways it feels strange and unreal - as if the terrible thing had not happened at all.

I am at school at the moment, as my father did not want me to leave my education `just to mourn'... but I must confess that I am very sad indeed. My father was not close to his sister, but I always found her to be beautiful and kind to me. He says that brothers and nephews see a different side of a person.

I think it saddest that the little boy died - he was only three years old, you see. I don't think God can be a very kind God to do that sort of thing. I know you have a different God to mine - is yours as cruel?-”

Lizzy stopped reading - she couldn't read such a letter with someone watching over her. Tasnim seemed to understand.

“I have made copies of all the letters sent by George Darcy to my father, so you may take them away and match them to the letters my father sent to George.”

“Did you ever meet Mr Darcy?”

“Only once - I accompanied my father to his wedding in London. My mother was too ill to travel.” Tasnim paused for a long moment, and Lizzy wondered what she was remembering. “Anyway, I have compiled all the family history for us, including this tree.”

She handed Lizzy a very beautifully illustrated family tree.

“Cadiz? Cadiz?” she asked, seeing where the first Sheik Ahmed had been born. Tasnim smiled.

“That is our great family secret. My grandfather was brought up by Sheik Ben Hassan, was named Ahmed by him... but he was not an Arab himself.”

“How did he come to be adopted by a sheik?”

“His family was attacked by bandits... the little boy survived but his parents did not. As the attack happened within the sheik's jurisdiction he took the responsibility on himself. My grandfather was brought up an Arab, studied in Paris, married an English aristocrat. He was a very great, very complicated man.”

“Your father...” Lizzy read, but found no death date. “Is he still alive?”

“Yes, he is. Old but not weary just yet. He is out at the Oasis. My mother died a few years ago, as you can see. I don't think he will ever get over that.”

“I have an idea formulating in my head, Tasnim,” Lizzy said. “The details are still very vague, but... if your father is up to travelling, do you suppose he'd come to England?”

“I would have to ask him. Nothing in his health would prevent it.”

Lizzy grinned. “Thank you.”

“Now,” Tasnim rose to her feet. “We shall go to Biskra.”

“Is it far?”

“Not in a helicopter.”

Tasnim's casual manner was a clue as to just how rich this strand of the family was - Lizzy rather thought Darcy would seem a pauper in comparison.

*

After Cairo and Biskra (a curious town - half ancient, half modern) Lizzy travelled to Spain. In Cadiz she found little trace of Ahmed Ben Hassan's original family, but with so little detail to go on, this wasn't surprising. From there, she travelled to Talavera and the other towns from the Peninsular War in search of another much older strand of Darcy's family.

She had reason to believe that one of Elizabeth Darcy's sisters had married one of the great heroes of the Peninsular War. The problem was, all the information she'd found in France about Kitty Bentley was about her married life.

*

Somewhere in the Home Counties, 1819

Mrs Bentley was not pleased when word reached her (as it always did) that Kitty was being wooed by a man a number of years older, twice widowed and once most shockingly divorced. He had, her sister Mrs Phelps informed her, three children already, with the two now-dead wives. He'd fought in the Peninsula War, although Mrs Phelps had no memory for those details.

With her eldest daughters so well-married, Mrs Bentley had raised her hopes for Kitty beyond mere regimentals. She was most vexed, most!

“He shall come for Sunday lunch after the service!” she declared the moment Kitty's suitor was mentioned at the dinner table that evening. Kitty didn't argue and so Mrs Bentley waited for Sunday with some measure of excitement and a great deal of curiosity.

*

Come Sunday, the house was full of visitors - her eldest daughter Jane was there with her husband, along with the long-awaited, far-famed Colonel Sharpe.

Richard Sharpe was, it had to be admitted, a good deal older than Kitty. Mrs Bentley's trained eye put him closer to 40 than 30, and he spoke with a coarse Northern accent. Still, he had the manners of a gentleman and Sunday lunch passed without much in the way of incident.

Mrs Bentley was left charmed by Colonel Sharpe, but also still wary. Raised from the ranks, he'd said. Kitty could do better than a common soldier, of course, but this fellow was a real hero - he'd saved Wellington, fought in all the major battles. He was the same fellow she recalled reading about capturing an Imperial Eagle. He now, he said, lived as a gentleman farmer in Normandy. His daughter Antonia was being brought up by her uncle in Spain while his two sons were cared for by their French grandmother. It was almost too exotic for Mrs Bentley.

Further careful grilling over the next few days brought more detail, but Mrs Bentley was no closer to understanding Sharpe's character than she had been at their introduction. The family was invited to Pemberley for Easter and as Sharpe appeared ready to offer for Kitty, Mrs Bentley insisted he come too.

*

On arriving at Pemberley, Mrs Bentley was astonished to see Darcy greet Sharpe as if he were a great friend or long-lost relative.

“Colonel Sharpe! I give you a most warm and sincere welcome to Pemberley!”

“It's good to see you again, Darcy.”

William Darcy welcomed the Bentleys in his usual restrained manner, and Mrs Bentley received another shock when she discovered that Elizabeth was also acquainted with the Colonel.

“Dear Colonel Sharpe! How lovely it is to have you in our home! We were so pleased to hear from Kitty that you would be coming here with my family.

“I'm honoured to be invited, Mrs Darcy.” Sharpe seemed to hold the Darcys in as much esteem as they him.

*

Over the course of the following fortnight, Mrs Bentley learned that Sharpe had saved the life of Darcy's cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, at Badajoz. She also learned that his second wife had run off with his money and had lived a life of rather dissolute scandal in London while he fought Napoleon.

“What of your first wife, Colonel?” Mrs Bentley asked one evening a week into their stay at Pemberley. The room went quiet and Sharpe went white. Kitty, Mrs Bentley noted, took his hand.

“She was killed, Mrs Bentley,” he answered after a moment. “A deserter from the army, and no friend of mine, shot her as she attempted to save a young woman from unspeakable horror.”

“She was a great warrior, Mama,” Kitty spoke up fiercely. “A great lady of Spain.”

It seemed that everyone was waiting for Mrs Bentley's response.

“That's a terribly sad table, Colonel. I am sorry for you.”

Judging by the reactions she got, nobody had expected her to say that but were pleased just the same. No more was said of Sharpe's interesting past for the rest of the evening.

*

“I believe he's the very best of men, mama,” Elizabeth was convinced. “He's had the worst possible start in life and has made himself great.”

Lizzy would not be drawn on the meaning of `worst possible start', which meant only that Mrs Bentley would have to ask Sharpe directly. It was not polite, but one had to be impolite when one had a daughter's happy future at stake.

*

“My mother was a whore, madam. I was left at the local workhouse, where I fought constantly with a boy I discovered years later was my brother. I joined the army to leave all of that behind.”

Mrs Bentley was almost sorry she asked, but Colonel Sharpe gave the account of his life so unapologetically that she couldn't help admiring him for it. At the end of the Bentleys' stay at Pemberley, Mrs Bentley was more charmed by Richard Sharpe than she was by stern Darcy... but not quite as much as Jane's affable husband.

*

The return to Hertfordshire also brought the departure of Colonel Sharpe - first to London, then home to Normandy. To Mrs Bentley's surprise, Kitty faced this with quiet resignation instead of her once-customary wailing.

“Are you not sad to see dear Colonel Sharpe leave?” she asked. Kitty looked up from her book and fixed her mother with a subdued sort of look.

“Yes, Mama, but I will see him again soon.”

“If I were a young lady with a handsome colonel paying me compliments, I should be most grieved-”

“He has to go home, Mama. Richa- Colonel Sharpe has been away from his sons longer than he would like.”

“I admire a man who puts his children first,” Mrs Bentley changed her tune swiftly. Kitty said nothing in return.

*

Kitty and the Colonel corresponded regularly and it became clear that he would not return as soon as hoped. Although she bore it with previously unknown fortitude, Kitty did suffer for it. As three months passed without a visit, she became rather despondent no matter how regular his letters were.

After four months, Kitty was often seen with red eyes.

After five months, she was sometimes found in the garden, openly weeping.

Five months and three weeks after Sharpe left, Mrs Bentley awoke to find Mary waiting for her.

“Kitty is gone, Mama.”

“Gone? For a walk, dear?” The question was asked only to delay the inevitable - Mrs Bentley had lived this story before.

“Colonel Sharpe wrote three days ago enclosing a ticket across the channel. Kitty says they will marry as soon as she arrives in Normandy.”

“She's gone on her own? Anything could happen to her on the journey! Awful coachmen, and oh, sailors!”

Mary had the smelling salts and letters for Jane and Lizzy already at hand.

*

It was Colonel Fitzwilliam who came to bear tidings of Kitty.

“Colonel Sharpe, knowing of my acquaintance with you, wrote to me Mrs Bentley. I am told he and Miss Kitty will be married immediately upon her arrival in Normandy. He sends his deepest apologies - his land keeps him at home and he... he is a gentleman certainly, but not a rich man. I imagine arranging passage for Kitty was a struggle.”

“The scandal!”

“Mrs Bentley, not only is Colonel Sharpe a favourite of Wellington and the royal family, he is a hero of note. He's also had enough scandal to last us all a lifetime. It will not be noticed in London until they are long-married. It will be as if you sent her yourself, madam.”

“I might have, if the silly headstrong girl had just asked!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled and said, “Of course, madam.”

“Will you stay for lunch, Colonel? My home is so empty these days.”

“I'd be honoured, Mrs Bentley.”

*

According to her letters, Kitty adapted to the life of a Norman farmer's wife with incredible ease. The Sharpe boys were entirely charming and were such an aid in helping her with French that she was almost fluent within months! Colonel Sharpe was kind, affectionate and all she'd dreamed of. When summer came, they would travel to Spain to meet Antonia.

Due to circumstances, Kitty and Sharpe did not visit England again for two years, although they brought with them the boys and their new daughter Teresa.

*

Lizzy had had trouble locating the marriage details for Colonel Sharpe and Catherine Bentley in their French parish. It was only when she contacted the Moreno estate in Spain for information on Teresa and Antonia that she discovered the truth: Kitty and Sharpe were married in Spain, after six years and three children together. Somehow, she was shocked, even with her modern ideas. Yet, and yet, it seemed romantic at the same time.

Antonia Sharpe's descendants remained at the great Moreno family estate - Adriano Sharpe was the current patriarch. Not nearly so rich as the Darcys (or the Hassans!), these Spanish Sharpes were successful horse-breeders, which led Lizzy to another strand of investigation with the French Sharpes.

Colonel Sharpe's sergeant and best friend Patrick Harper had taken his army pay and established himself as a horse trader in Ireland. This would've been an amusing footnote to her story, but sharp-eyed Lizzy had seen something interesting. The two families had remained close down the generations - so much so that the French Sharpes fled to the Harper estate (called Salamanca) in Donegal before the Second World War.

What she'd noticed in a letter Adriano had shown her, was that at much the same time that Sharpes were being born at Salamanca, so was a little girl called Angela Harper Fitzhugh.

This wasn't particularly important or even interesting, except that Lizzy happened to know that Richard Fitzwilliam's mother had been a Fitzhugh before marriage and was still an Angela.

It was a funny old world, as well as a small one.

*

“Aren't you finished yet?”

“Nope. I'll be back at Pemberley tomorrow, never fear.”

“If I'd have known my bloody family was going to take you away from me, I'd never have said yes to this ridiculous scheme.”

“Do be quiet, Will. I'll be back tomorrow.”

“Yes, only to bury yourself in the archive.”

“If you're going to complain, I shall take my time finishing up.”

“Who's complaining?”

“All things being equal, I should get to the station at about four.”

“I'll ask Edwards to pick you up - I'll probably still be on the motorway.”

“All right. Until then, dear Will.”

“Until then, my Lizzy.”

*

Lizzy had dipped into the Darcy Archives earlier in her research but, now she felt she'd done enough everywhere else, it was time to pull everything together with the Archives at the forefront.

It seemed like every Darcy had preserved every scrap of paper for centuries. So far, Lizzy had even found shopping lists written by long-ago chatelaines. The letters were what she was most interested in.

“Lizzy, you're here!” Will was in the doorway, his kit-bag in his hand.

“Will! Come in!” she shifted some papers off a chair to let him sit down.

“Where are you in terms of finishing?” he asked, settling down. Will grabbed a newspaper off a pile. “Fourteenth of June 1920. What's that to do with?”

“That one?” Lizzy leaned over to see which one it was. He took this as an opportunity to pull her close to him. “That's got an announcement of the birth of Monica Darcy two days earlier.”

“Monica Darcy. She was killed in a car crash in the Hamptons.”

“Yes. Did you know that you have family in America?”

“Really?”

“Yep. The infamous Matilda Darcy's daughter Francesca married a New England merchant by the name of Pierce. I tracked them as far as a doctor who served in Korea.”

“I didn't know about that.”

“Well given how your family cut off Matilda, it's not a bloody surprise, is it?”

“They didn't cut her off.”

“Yeah, right.”

Will was silent for a moment, then replied, “Yeah.”

“Wanna know something really cool? Your third great-grandmother was a Polish countess.”

“Have you found any skeletons?”

“Skeletons?”

“In the dynastic closet, I mean. Alfred Darcy I knew about, vaguely. Anything else?”

“There might be something... something with Monica Darcy. I'm still looking at her. You Darcys are generally so nice and good and honourable that you've sickeningly few dynastic skeletons.”

Will looked so pleased about this that she felt compelled to have the last word.

“I'm still looking, though.”

*
Part Four

Will left Lizzy to her studies quickly enough - once he'd deduced he was unlikely to seduce her away from it he decided to cut his losses and get on with his fitness routine before dinner.

Lizzy, glad to be left to her work, went to work. She hadn't lied when she said she was looking for skeletons - as truly fascinating as she found all his family, Lizzy was a journalist. She knew that the people who'd read her article were looking for juicy bits of ancient gossip - the skeletons lurking in the Darcy dynastic closet.

There weren't many so far. There were a couple of people who'd had babies out of wedlock, which was worth a titter or two, but wasn't exactly barn-burning these days. She still had to look further into the Schleswick-Erchenspee branch of Marianne's family, and there were cadet branches to investigate...

But what she really needed was Big Scandal. She'd have it in bundles if she'd been clever enough to fall in love with a Windsor/Mountbatten/Saxe-Coburg-Gotha... all she needed was a George IV type or something. Something with an actress or a dancer, perhaps. The Alfred Darcy thing ended too badly to really enjoy as a scandal.

So far, she had enough for a long article to fascinate the history-lovers, but not much for the Heat reader types. She had to find something really worthy of the tag `scandalous'.

The problem was that for Will's sake, Lizzy really hoped there wasn't anything to find.

***

Monica Darcy was, by anyone one's estimation, a very beautiful woman. Born fifteen years into her parents' marriage, Monica had been an unexpected arrival in the Darcy house. Doted on, of course and adored above all things.

Now, at nineteen years old, she was public school educated, athletic and poised. She had legs that went on for miles, was fashionably lean, and had truly wonderful auburn hair that had a natural wave so perfect that people assumed she had it styled that way.

Her nineteenth birthday party was held at the Savoy and simply everyone who was anyone was in attendance. The rumours of war with Germany couldn't put a dampener on her shindig, and she made her appearance wearing a dress designed by Norman Hartnell.

It was said of this birthday party that every man above the age of fifteen present left the party in love with charming, vivacious Miss Darcy except her father and brother. Noel Coward was rumoured to be writing either a play or song about her, depending on the rumour. She had her coming out the same year (despite her parents advising her to wait another year) and suddenly it seemed that everything was about Monica Darcy.

1939, it was said amongst those in the know, belonged to Monica Darcy.

“Hello darlings!” Monica was too refined and elegant to ever leap at someone, but it was the closest description of her greeting when the Sforzini twins arrived at one particular party in the summer of Monica's Year.

“Quinny dear boy!” she called out. From a lesser girl, it would've been shrill, but from Monica it was more of a coo. A tall, handsome and athletic young aristo loped over to her.

“Monica, must you shout so? Are we in a field?”

“No darling, we're in my grandmother's ballroom.”

Countess du Lac Harrington's ballroom at Montchartrain House was opulent indeed - the house itself was so grand that on her remarriage to an English earl, the French countess had insisted on remaining there. The English earl had agreed, given that after the Crash of '29 he'd lost most of his money. The Countess' July Ball was one of the highlights of the summer season, and so Monica was determined to be the undisputed Belle of this particular Ball.

“Anyway, dear Quin! I want to introduce you to Vasilis and Leonida Sforzini, my cousins from Rome.”

“You have cousins everywhere, Monica.” The young man certainly sounded bored, although he smiled most charmingly at the female twin.

“These are my Greco-Roman cousins! We share a Darcy great-grandfather, so you must be very kind and charming to them.”

“Would you care to dance later, Miss Sforzini?” he asked, looking directly into the dark eyes of the female twin. They were a striking pair, combining somehow the best genes of the English, the Italians and the Greeks.

“Actually, their father is a prince,” Monica interrupted. The twins both rolled their eyes.

“It's a technicality now,” Vasilis told the young man. “It doesn't mean anything.”

“Of course. Miss Sforzini, I shall find you later.”

He bowed neatly and walked over to a group of young men smoking cigars.

“Who is that young man?” Leonida asked Monica. She smirked.

“That, dear girl, is Quinlan Decker-Moore. He's absolutely charming, absolutely loaded and an absolute devil.”

*

The Yellow Room was very cool and very quiet in comparison to the ballroom. By now, with all the people in it, the ballroom was hot, sticky and unbearable. Had she been after fresh air alone, Monica might have just ducked out into the gardens. Monica was after peace as well as quiet, so instead ducked into the little sitting room instead.

“God, it's mad out there.”

She turned around and smiled at the man who'd spoken.

“Quin, darling! You were after some peace and quiet too?”

“That depends on how quiet it really is in here.”

“Hardly anyone knows it's here.”

“Good.” Quinlan smiled at her in such a way that her knees buckled and he had his hands on her stocking tops before she knew where she was.

*

The Ball wound down as the sun came up, and the Countess declared it a great success. Monica had succeeded in being the belle of the ball as she'd decided she must, and any young man not already in love with her probably was now.

“Dear Leonida, you must come to tea at Darcy House sometime this coming week. I insist! Father is hoping to see you.” Monica kissed her cousins farewell, and was so busy with someone else that she didn't hear Leonida's remark:

“Must we, Vasilis? If I have to listen to that spoiled brat for five more minutes, I'm getting straight back on a boat to Italy. I'd rather deal with Mussolini than Monica Darcy!”

Monica was too busy bidding a polite farewell to Quinlan Decker-Moore to have heard.

“I do hope you had an enjoyable evening, Quin.”

“Passable, I should say. Definitely passable.”

“Will you be at Wilhelmina Cavendish's do on Thursday, do you think?”

“I might have other plans.”

Monica's smile dropped, then disappeared altogether.

“With your dear fiancée, no doubt?” she hissed through clenched teeth. Quinlan smirked down at her.

“No doubt, Miss Darcy.”

***

Lizzy nearly choked on the coffee and cake Darcy had brought for her. Had she found her scandal?

DEBUTANTE'S NEW YEAR RESOLUTION

Monica Darcy was the twinkling star of another party this New Year. Despite the war and the blackout, the London beauty managed to dance 1939 away with an array of friends, socialites and charming men. Chief amongst the latter was a certain affianced Deck-hand who rumour has it has charmed more than a dance from Darling Darcy. You didn't hear it from me, right?

Deck-hand? It was probably very obvious to those reading a small gossip column in a newspaper for the upper echelons of wartime society, but to Lizzy in the 21st Century it made very little sense. Perhaps if she went through the rest of the paper?

It didn't take long. Page five had a picture of Monica Darcy at the party, stood with two friends. She was very beautiful, as all accounts had it. Her dress was incredibly opulent, and Lizzy found herself slightly put out by that - a war had been going on for three months by then! She calmed herself a little, knowing that the first few months of the war had been characterised by inaction on all sides... but it still seemed wrong to see a beautiful young socialite dripping in diamonds and smothered in shining satin when young men were being conscripted into war.

The annoyance died away when she read the caption:

Miss Monica Darcy, Lady Sarah Camoynes and Mr Quinlan Decker-Moore.

It wasn't rocket science. Lizzy looked at the photograph for a few minutes, and noticed other little things. Lady Sarah, whoever she was, was stood between Monica and Quinlan, but Monica seemed to have a man's hand on her shoulder. No other men were nearby.

Hadn't Princess Margaret's affair with Group Captain Townsend been revealed by something similarly insignificant?

Yes, Lizzy had found her scandal.

Monica Darcy hadn't been a truly awful young woman, Lizzy discovered, but by her contemporary standards she was a bit... `loose'. These days she'd just be another rich beautiful girl. Paris Hilton she wasn't. Still, the next reference to Monica Darcy in the press was of her departure from London for pastures much more Pemberley.

The last Monica Darcy press clipping (someone had done a very good job of compiling all her press, good and bad) was as Lizzy expected:

ENGLISH SOCIALITE KILLED IN NEW YORK

News has reached London that Monica Hayworth (née Darcy), one of the brightest lights of wartime London society, has been killed in a car crash in upstate New York.

Mrs Hayworth, her husband Laurence and their young son were travelling to a New Year's Eve party in Long Island when their car was hit head-on by another vehicle.

Mrs Hayworth had come to prominence after being presented at Court by her mother, and for some years was rarely out of the society columns. Her marriage in 1953 was attended by the Mayor of New York, and numerous members of the British aristocracy.

Mr Hayworth was the son of Gilmore Hayworth III, a rail magnate and his first wife Michaela Chapman Hayworth. Mr and Mrs Hayworth's son Daniel had celebrated his third birthday only eleven days before the accident.

Mrs Hayworth's father Stephen Darcy of Pemberley, was not available for comment before we went to press.

Lizzy felt intolerably sad, not for Monica but for Stephen. He had endured such a lot of death in his life - his brother James, then his mother, then his sister, and then his daughter. It made her own Darcy's experiences of death seem almost insignificant. How did a man recover from such a lot of grief? He was seventy when his daughter was killed - had it made him truly old? Had he withered after that? What had become of Stephen Darcy?

*

“Grandfather?” George Darcy sat down on the chair beside Stephen Darcy's bed gingerly, as if its creaking might somehow hasten his oncoming demise. Behind him, Stephen's grand-nephew Sam Thornton came in.

“Am I OK to come in, Darcy?” he asked in a whisper. George nodded. Stephen opened his eyes and smiled.

“Hello Sam, how are you, young man?”

“I'm well thank you, Uncle Stephen. How are you, more's the point?”

“I'll be better soon, I'm sure.”

Sam saw George flinch. George was younger even than him, and was unused to death at such close quarters. Dying was what Uncle Stephen was undoubtedly doing, though, and Sam was sad to see it.

“Leonida Manners stopped by earlier, Grandfather,” George told Stephen in a quiet, warm manner. “She didn't want to disturb you, but she wished to be... remembered to you.”

“She's in town, then? I thought she and Mark lived mostly in Rome now?”

“I don't know the particulars, but I supposed she was only here briefly.”

George didn't mention that he'd heard Mrs Manners, the once Leonida Sforzini, say to his mother that she wouldn't be able to see Stephen as he was.

“I knew him best twenty years ago. He... I should be too keenly reminded of my own father. They're the same age you know, and my father's health isn't...”

“I understand, Mrs Manners.”

“I just wish... Stephen is the very best of men, Mrs Darcy.”

“Yes, he certainly is.”

George didn't need to see the sorrow on his mother's face - since her father died a decade ago, Stephen had done his utmost to fulfil any paternal duties required and Alexandra loved him dearly for it.

Now that Sam was here, George left the room for a few minutes, just for the fresh air. His grandfather's room was very warm, airless and ultimately intolerable after a time. He heard Aunt Decca and his cousin Freddie arrive but didn't go down to them. Freddie was a fortnight younger than him but sometimes it felt like decades.

“Lex, you look like you haven't slept in weeks!”

Aunt Decca's voice was kind but strident and easily reached upstairs from the sitting room. He couldn't hear his mother's much softer reply and felt guilty for leaving her alone with their guests.

“George?” Sam poked his head around the door. “The nurse... she thinks you should fetch your parents.”

This was the moment he'd been expecting, dreading and even hoping for in a very odd way. His blood ran cold, he felt his skin become clammy and uncomfortable. His heart thudded horribly loudly in his chest. It felt, in fact, like it might thump its way clean out through his ribs.

“Er... right. Roger, wilco.”

He felt his legs take him downstairs and through the open door of the sitting room. He heard, rather than felt, himself speak to his mother:

“The nurse is asking for us, Mother.”

He remembered later, rather than heard, his mother weakly ask him to get his father from his study, and he barely registered doing so. George knew he must have done, because when he came to a few minutes later in Grandfather's room, they were all there.

“I'm sorry to put you all to this trouble,” Stephen said, and it was clearly such a struggle that Alexandra clutched at him.

“Don't trouble yourself, Pa.”

“No trouble. No trouble at all.”

They weren't last words to compare with Twain, but George would remember the slight, kind smile frozen on Stephen Darcy's lips for the rest of his life.

He just wished he hadn't gone out of the room for fresh air. If his grandfather had wanted to pass anything on, George had taken the opportunity away from him. He felt hot, terrible tears burn his eyelids, but he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He knew that if he did he'd see his father's jaw clenched to the point of breaking and his mother dabbing pointlessly at her free-flowing tears with a lace hanky.

The nurse bustled around doing her job efficiently enough, until nothing remained to be done in the room except the laying-out. That would be done by the undertaker when he arrived. The undertakers would be the same firm the Darcys always used - the same men a much young George had seen work on Grandfather Rathbone-Montague, the same men who had come for Aunt Monica's body when she was brought home from America.

Later, George realised that Grandmere Marianne had been nowhere to be seen. He found her, herself not entirely healthy, in the conservatory reading a book.

“Grandmere?”

“Young man, sit with me?”

“Of course. Are you... are you all right?”

“I'm half-left, dear boy. Ask a better question.”

She smiled up at him - he always asked if she was all right, which she was not.

“How do you feel?”

“With my hands, chiefly.”

“Grandmere,” he lost a little patience with her, unable to see how she could be even a little joking today of all days. “Aren't you sad?”

“Yes, George. Terribly sad.”

“How can you joke about with me?”

“He is not the first of those I love to die.” George watched as she shut her eyes tightly for a protracted moment. When open again, her blue eyes gleamed. “You are very young and for you, this is your first personal experience of death. It is not mine.”

“Who...” No, George would not ask the question. Aunt Monica had died overseas, although it must have been terrible for Grandmere... who had she seen die? He would not ask.

“George my boy, may you never live to see the one you truly love expire in front of you.”

The tone of her voice, which told him that she knew exactly what she was talking about, chilled him right through to the bone. He hoped for the same.

“Grandmere... would you like a cup of tea?” It wasn't the question he really wanted to ask, but it was the only one he could ask.

“Yes, I think I would.”

*

Stephen Darcy's funeral pulled the various strands of the dynasty together. Sheik Ahmed came with his son Wasim (studying at Oxford). The Chamberlains, the Thorntons, Leonida Manners, the Rathbone-Montagues including Viscount Chiswell. So many politicians and statesmen attended that the Metropolitan Police had to create a special team for the event.

George was glad, at least, that his father was there to take the brunt of the mourners' attentions. He was not the principal Darcy and could dodge much of the attention... but the whole experience just reminded him that one day, he would be stood exactly where his father was. He would be stood by the door of St Peter's, Kympton. He would be the Darcy accepting handshake after condolence after kindness.

A wave of affection and empathy for his father overcame him, and although he could've dodged the duties easily, he went and stood with his father as mourners streamed out of the church.

Once they were all past, Arthur Darcy took his son's hand and gave it a squeeze.

*

Lizzy smiled sadly at the reporting of Stephen Darcy's life - there wasn't a bad word to be said, not even a veiled remark or euphemism for a failing or weakness.

There was something Will had mentioned about his widow, Marianne, a long time ago. She'd been in San Francisco when the Big Quake hit. There had been a man. Given that details about Monica and the Decker-Moore fellow were almost non-existent in their suggestive manner, she was still looking for something.

*
Chapter Five

There was one branch of the family in England that she hadn't looked at much - the Darcy Chamberlain branch - those children born to the `only daughter' William Darcy had had to be proud of. She had assumed that they'd been minor aristocracy like the Darcys, only less so.

She had found Ormskirk House near Liverpool was the family seat and had been built by a Chamberlain in 1712 who made it big in transatlantic shipping. She also found that it had burned to the ground in 1944. At first she assumed it was a bombing raid bound for Liverpool gone astray - then she looked it up on Wikipedia and found out that the last bombing raid on Liverpool had been in 1942.

“Will?” she called out, not expecting him to hear her - Pemberley was such a large place that it actually had an intercom in places.

“Yes?” His reply actually made her jump and she looked up from her place at the library desk. He was sat on the sofa reading a book.

“How long have you been sat there?”

“About an hour and a half.”

“And I didn't notice?”

“Lizzy, we had a conversation twenty minutes ago. Don't you remember?”

She rubbed her hot, tired eyes.

“Take a break, Lizzy. You've barely stopped working since Sarah-Jane gave you this bloody assignment.”

“I know.” She got up from the desk and went to sit beside him. He stroked her hair for a moment.

“It cannot be this important, Lizzy.”

“It's fascinating.”

“But still. I've hardly seen you when I've been at home.”

“I know. I'm sorry, really I am. I'm nearly done. I think. Are you playing Liverpool at Anfield any time soon?”

“We play them in... three weeks.”

“Excellent. I'll come with you.”

“I don't have any family in Liverpool.”

“That you know of. You would've said the same thing about Cairo, surely?”

“I knew my father had friends, I didn't realise they were family. Did you say Sheik Ahmed is still alive? I think I should like to meet him one day.”

“When I'm finished with all this, I'll contact Tasnim,” she promised with a yawn.

“Go to bed, Lizzy. My family history is less important to me than my family's present.”

At this remark, said with quiet intensity, Lizzy felt a warm tear roll down her face.

“You're really very sweet, Will.”

“True. Go to sleep.”

“All right. Are you coming?”

“In a minute.”

Lizzy got up and tramped out of the room. Will had promised to wait until she'd finished working before looking at her work, but there it was, right on the desk.

It took every ounce of self-control, dignity and honour that Darcy had (acquired, he unconsciously knew, from the people whose lives Lizzy was so busy capturing) to turn around and follow her out of the room.

*

In Liverpool, Lizzy headed to the city archives, where she found many mentions of Chamberlains. They'd made their money as she knew, from transatlantic trade, but at one point they'd been far and away richer than even the Darcys. The Chamberlain family fortunes had been tumultuous - one Chamberlain would make the money only to have his sons and daughters fritter it away, for their children to rebuild the fortunes.

“Blimey!” Lizzy couldn't help exclaiming - the daughter she'd already discovered that Teresa Darcy Chamberlain had been desperate for had married a man from Spain - Felipe Moreno Lorca. Lizzy already knew this name - it was on the Moreno genealogy that Adriano Sharpe had given her. It really was a small world, but one child of eight leaving for Spain didn't explain the downfall of the Chamberlains.

There must have been a downfall at some point, because they weren't around now.[i]

*

Sophia Chamberlain loved Spain. She loved it with the same sort of certainty that she loved Felipe, who she had first met on a rainy, windswept mountainside in Ireland.

Felipe had been on a horse, and if she'd been a horsewoman she would've recognised it as a black Friesian. All in all, the powerful black horse and its dark rider presented the young walker with an image that would remain with her forever.

He slowed down and looked down at her.

“Are you lost, Miss?”

“No. Are you?” She didn't mean to sound rude, but she wasn't helpless and he was faintly terrifying. He had on a long black cloak and had his long dark hair tied back. All in all he either looked like a great romantic hero or the Grim Reaper. Both ideas secretly scared her, being only eighteen and well-protected by seven older brothers.

“No. What are you doing here in such weather?”

“Is that your business, sir?”

“That all depends, Miss.” The dark, frankly mysterious man spoke with an accent she couldn't quite place beyond `European'.

“Depends on [i]what? It's 1877, can't a woman walk alone if she chooses? These are not the Middle Ages!”

“Quite right, senorita,” he replied with a smile that annoyed her, and she realised that his accent was Spanish. “However, I offered to help find Miss Sophia Chamberlain when her mother became worried when the rain arrived. Do you know where she might be?”

Sophia looked down at the muddy ground, faintly ashamed. If this stranger had been dispatched, that meant her brothers were likely out looking for her.

“Oh. I suppose I've been gone longer than I think?”

“It could be supposed.”

“I don't know who you are, sir.”

“I am Don Felipe Luis Rodrigo Moreno Lorca.”

“You have a great many names, sir. Do you have a preference for any one in particular?”

He laughed at this, and suddenly he seemed neither mysterious nor terrifying. Don Felipe had a really lovely smile, she thought with an emotion she only vaguely recognised.

“Don Felipe Moreno is the short version. Allow me to escort you back to Key Castle, Miss Chamberlain.”

“Very well.” She began walking alongside the horse in the direction of the Fitzhugh family's castle, but Felipe leaned down and pulled her up onto the horse. She screeched, both through surprise and terror - she hated horses.

“Calm down,” he told her, and his voice soothed her. “You'll scare the horse.”

She obeyed. They rode together, her perched on the back of his saddle, until they got into sight of great house. He helped her slide down back onto her feet, and then dismounted himself.

“Your family were worried about you,” he told her seriously.

“It's just a bit of rain. It's not even a lot of rain.”

Sophia was correct - it was merely a misting of rain, the kind of thing the Irish were famed for. Don Felipe frowned.

“They were worried about you, Miss Chamberlain.”

“Yes, I expect that they were!” her temper frayed as she felt him judging her. “They have been worrying about me since the day I was born - probably before!”

Sophia picked up her pace, but he was much taller and had no problem keeping up.

“I meant no offence.”

“I'm sure.”

No more was said until they reached the house. Sophia was bundled away to a hot bath, and did not see Don Felipe until dinner. There, she discovered he was a guest with the Harpers - he was connected to them through family in some form, and she discovered she was herself vaguely connected - it was all to do with the war hero, Sharpe that her great-aunt had married and his first wife... Sophia had stopped listening after awhile, having little interest in things like family connections. They served a purpose, but it wasn't a purpose she cared much about.

“Sophie, at least pretend to listen,” whispered Christian. She looked up a little guiltily, but nobody seemed to have noticed - Regina Fitzhugh was telling a story all about her recent tour of Italy.

Regina was probably a sweet enough sort of girl but she was far too eager to impress, as far as Sophia was concerned. She was younger than Sophia, but seemed much worldlier and better travelled. For that alone, Sophia was a little jealous.

Mrs Fitzhugh was a very prettyish Danish lady, while her husband was her mother Theresa's first cousin and like most Anglo-Irish landowners he was more English than the English people at the table. He seemed a nice enough man, but seemed to allow everything to just pass him by.

Their guests were the Harpers, and it was through the Sharpe connection that Don Felipe had come to know and do business with them - they were all something to do with horses. The horse she'd seen Felipe riding was now the property of Mr Harper, an ageing round-faced Irishman (though born in Spain, apparently) with a jolly and kind countenance. She liked him, but his son seemed intense and intimidating.

“Tell us about Spain, Don Felipe,” Mrs Fitzhugh asked. “I have never been there.”

Sophia managed a better job of listening to this story - the way he described his country seemed quite enchanting.

*

Over the next few days the inhabitants of Key Castle were kept indoors by the terrible weather. Sophia noticed with amusement that Regina seemed quite taken with Don Felipe - and he hardly seemed to notice her.

Not that he really noticed Sophia either, and she found this vaguely irritating.

“Christian! Don't be so mean!”

Christian was only older than Sophia by a year, but often it felt like he was at least five years younger. He tolerated boredom very badly and so chose to take it out on her - in this case he was holding a book she wanted right out of reach.

“Don't be so mean!” he mimicked with a snigger. She punched him in the stomach, not too hard, and while he doubled over she snatched the book and bounced away to a safer corner of the library. “Harsh, Soph, very harsh!”

“You deserved it!” she called back. “Go and bother someone else.”

Sophia settled down to read, and was just getting comfortable and absorbed when she heard footsteps behind.

“If you lay one finger on me, I'll tell Mama!” she warned in the most menacing voice she could muster.

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

The book fell from her hands as she realised that it was Don Felipe stood behind her, not Christian.

“Sorry! I er, sorry... I thought you were Christian.”

“I am not. He left clutching his middle.”

“Yes, that would be my fault too.” Don Felipe smiled ever so slightly and she couldn't tell if he was amused or being polite. “Please, sit down sir.”

“You are reading about Madrid?” he asked as he picked up her book from the floor.

“Yes,” she went a little red. “After you spoke about Spain I... I thought I would learn more.”

His smile was undoubtedly genuine this time. When her mother came to find her to dress for dinner two hours later, they were still talking.

*

It took another two and a half days for Sophia to definitely fall in love. She realised that she had when the rain stopped and everyone headed out to the horses.

Every member of the party was a diehard rider with the exception of Sophia. Even her mother planned to ride, and she was left in the unenviable position of being left behind all on her own.

Still the fact remained that she couldn't ride and until that day had never wanted to. Nobody had noticed that she would be left, and she didn't want to spoil things for them. Once they'd set off, intending to picnic by the Lough-side, she would arrange to meet up with them somehow. Perhaps she'd be able to walk.

She watched the party leave from the library windows and felt almost intolerably lonely. She even felt jealous as she saw Felipe on his black Andalusian beside Regina Fitzhugh on a new horse she'd named Setanta. Wandering out onto the terrace, she sat down and forced herself to read instead of watching them disappear.

“Miss Chamberlain.”

Sophia leapt in her seat. Felipe had ridden back to her.

“Yes?”

“Are you ill?”

“No.”

“Do you not like picnics?”

“I like them well enough.”

“Why aren't you coming along?”

“I don't ride. I can't ride.”

Don Felipe held his hand out to her in the same way he had the afternoon they met. Leaving the book behind, she took it. She was more comfortably settled on the horse this time, although astride the saddle behind him. They took off at a good pace and she clung to him.

“I shall have to teach you to ride,” he told. “I can't have you grip me so.”

“I can't ride. I don't like horses. My grandmother was terrified of them too.”

“I shall teach you to ride, Miss Chamberlain.” Felipe left no room for argument. They did not speak much more, for he picked up the pace to catch up to the rest of the party. He did not try too hard to catch up, and it wasn't until the picnic site that they managed it.

“Sophia!” Her mother did not look pleased to see her astride a horse. The propriety of it was not her concern. “You can't ride! Get down, quickly!”

Christian helped her down, and Sophia was glad to see that Felipe seemed to now see how over-protective her mother was.

“I apologise, Mrs Chamberlain,” he told her. “But I realised that Miss Chamberlain would be left behind entirely.”

He charmed her into agreeing with him and they settled down to the picnic. If Sophia had not been certain she was in love then, she was when she felt hot, vicious anger flare up when Regina attached herself to Felipe's side.

It was a little low of her, but Sophia smiled prettily and said,

“Don Felipe has offered to teach me to ride, Mama. I think I should conquer my fear at long last.”

Mrs Chamberlain did not know how to reply to this at first.

“About time!” Mr Chamberlain cut in. “I've been trying to get her on a horse since she was a child.”

Any question of propriety was pushed aside as a rigorous debate about teaching children to ride began in earnest.

*

Unfortunately for Sophia, Felipe held her to the promise of lessons. Each morning for the duration of their stay at Key Castle, they met at the stables and he taught her to ride.

She started on a pony so small and timid that it was almost insulting. After a week she was on a rather more impressive animal, and after the three weeks that remained Sophia had got over most of her fears.

“This was our last lesson,” she said quite mournfully on their last morning at Key Castle. He would be off to Donegal with the Harpers and she would be returning to Liverpool with her family. She had fallen absolutely and irrevocably in love with him and dreaded leaving with all her heart and soul.

Most of all, riding had given her such a sense of freedom that she hardly knew how she would live without it.

“For now,” he told her with a warm but mysterious smile. “There will be others.”

“When?” she demanded, fighting hot tears back from her eyes. His smiled widened.

“When we are in Spain, I will make you a great horsewoman.”

“When we're in Spain?” she scoffed. “I won't go to Spain! I'll go back to Liverpool and be coddled again.”

Felipe took her hand.

“Sophia, when we are in Spain, I will make you a great horsewoman and you will never be coddled again. Loved and cared for, but not coddled.”

“I...”

“I am saying, Sophia, that we will be married.”

“Oh, we will, will we?”

“I will not survive long without you, even in Spain's hot sun. I will wither. I should ask you, I know, but I cannot bring myself to, in case the answer should be no.”

“The answer will not be no, if only you would ask.”

“Marry me, please?”

“Of course. I would wither even quicker in cold Liverpool.”

*

Felipe and Sophia were married six months later in London. When they left for Spain, she had the sense that she would likely never return to England. When she arrived in Spain, she had the sense that she would not ever want to leave.

*

Lizzy and Adriano Sharpe bounced emails back and forth, and he put her into contact with the magnificently named Rodolfo Sharpe Moreno y Borbon - Darcy was linked to him through both Sophia Chamberlain and Kitty Bentley - Rodolfo mentioned that his mother Marguerite was a French Sharpe that met his father through the Spanish Sharpes.

The Moreno y Borbon branch of the family was now based in Louisiana, having left Spain in 1940. The reason for this became clear:

The very English sounding Timothy Sharpe Moreno's father had been one of the great freedom fighters during the Spanish Civil War. He'd fought alongside Englishmen like George Orwell and James Robertson Justice - had even once had dinner with the infamous Kim Philby. Timothy hadn't been sure about the real circumstances of his father Rodrigo's death, but suspected that he had been assassinated, Rodolfo had told Lizzy.

Perhaps, Rodolfo had suggested, she could look into English records of the war if she was interested?

Will, off on another UEFA Cup mission, called her from Greece.

“I thought you were looking into the Chamberlains of Liverpool?”

“I was! They led back to the Morenos and Sharpes in Spain. Seriously Will, it's OK now, but I hope your family tree doesn't get much closer or it'll be quite circular. Like the Forsyte Saga or... something.”

“I'm sure it won't,” he told her with the confidence of one who hadn't spent weeks and months investigating. “Are you nearly finished?”

“Nearly.”

“You said that last month.”

“I was nearly finished then too. I'll be finished when I'm finished.”

“All right. I'm fascinated to learn what you've found out.”

“As well you should be, Willie, as well you should be.”

“Don't call me Willie.”

“How about Lancelot?”

“Lizzy!”

“I know!” she laughed at him down the phone and the line crackled. “Good luck with the game. Watch your knee where you twisted it last week.”

“I will. I'll call you after the game if that's all right?”

“Of course it's all right, silly boy! I'll go back to the Chamberlains, I think. I've got a couple of contacts who might be able to help with the Spanish Civil War thing.”

“Contacts, eh? Sources, grasses, snitches, squealers? Very mysterious.”

“You really do watch too many movies on the team bus. One's a Hemingway scholar that ended up specialising in it. What she doesn't know probably isn't worth knowing or didn't happen.”

“Will you find out if Errol Flynn really did spy for the Nazis for me?”

“If I absolutely must.”

“Please?”

“All right, although your fascination with that guy causes me no end of concern, Will.”

She heard him chuckle.

“I'll call you later.

“Yeah, change the subject then!”

“Bye!”

*

“Lizzy! It's great to see you!” Eurydice Binks had been in the same English 100 class as Lizzy at university and friendships at that age don't require much more to develop. Eurydice had been passionately interested in the Spanish Civil War for all the time Lizzy had known her - her own grandfather had left his very well-to-do surroundings in Devon to fight with the Republicans.

They met in a Starbucks in Central London, one of hundreds. The rain was lashing down outside and the shop was full of people choosing to remain inside but Lizzy found a table in a quiet corner. Eurydice had arrived late, but Lizzy had known she would. She was just that kind of girl - gifted, intelligent and absolutely unable to cope with everyday life.

“Eury! It's been such a long time!”

“Yes it has, but I know you've been busy. I've seen the papers!”

“Oh, don't start!”

“I'm not starting Lizzy B, I'm just mocking. It'll pass eventually.”

Eurydice sat down, and knocked the man sat behind her as she did. Her scarf got caught under her chair and Lizzy watched with undisguised amusement as her friend attempted to get to the point where she could sit down.

“Don't start, Lizzy.”

“I'm not starting, I'm just mocking.”

“Touché, turtle,” Eurydice was finally able to sit down and start drinking her hot chocolate. “Anyway, Lizzy my darling, I have fascinating info for you.”

Eurydice pulled from her large leather bag a large leather-bound folder.

“You quit vegetarianism then?” Lizzy asked, and Eurydice replied with a sticking out of the tongue.

“Come off it Liz, I've been committed to carnivorism all my life. Anyway, do I have a story for you!”

The last time Lizzy had seen Eurydice this excited, they'd been on their way to Spain at Easter in their Third Year. She watched curiously as Eurydice flipped through the folder. She paused and held out a photograph of a young and very handsome, suitably dark man. Even in the faded black and white picture, it was obvious from his clothes and bearing that he was from a rich and noble family.

“This is Rodrigo Moreno Lorca in a portrait taken for his eighteenth birthday.”

Eurydice then handed her another photograph. This man was much older and had been in the wars - literally. A long scar ran down the left side of his face, he hadn't shaved in weeks, and probably hadn't had a bath in nearly as long. In his hands he held a revolver and he wore the uniform of a Republican. He looked neither rich nor noble.

“He was in his forties by then,” Eurydice explained. “He was a Coronel, that is to say, a Colonel.”

“What happened to him?”

“Well, he died on the 26th of April, 1937.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“He died at Guernica.”

“Oh.” Even if she hadn't been pals with a Spanish Civil War expert, Lizzy would've known at least vaguely about Guernica. “That's where the German bombers killed just about everyone, right?”

“Heralding the age of carpet bombing and mass media coverage of human inhumanity,” Eurydice said, solemnly. “Darcy's cousin or whatever he was, was right at the centre of history as it was being made.”

“You can be so dramatic.”

“Yes, but I'm also right. How he died, I don't know. Maybe he was killed by a bomb or by other fighting. Then again, the Republicans had plenty of ammo and such stored in the city - it might have been to do with that.”

“The thing is, Rodolfo seemed certain that Rodrigo was assassinated - not just killed in battle. Assassinated was the word he used.”

“There's no detail about it that I can find, which means there's nothing in Spain about it.”

“You're too modest, Eury.”

“Yes, true. Listen, I found some stuff about his son Timothy as well - he fought briefly but lost some fingers when a grenade went off by accident. The folder's got all the detail about Rodrigo I could find as well as some stuff about Timothy. They went to America when the Nationalists won. The rest of the Morenos and the Sharpes stayed in Castajada, at the ancient Moreno estate. They weren't... not everyone felt the need to fight on either side. Some people like the quiet life.”

“Well, we've never had to make that choice.”

“No, that's true.”

“What would you do, Eury?”

“If I were there, I'd be stood right next to Granddad. I hope I'd say the same if the worst happened here. Still, if we are always vigilant and always hold our government to account we shouldn't have to get to that point.”

“Ever the socialist, Binks!”

“Of course. Vive la revolution!”

Lizzy laughed, and they put aside history for the time being.

*

Lizzy went back to the Chamberlains after the Liverpool history society sent her copies of hundreds of documents. For a long time, the Chamberlains had been one of the most powerful and eminent families in the city. Theresa Darcy Chamberlain had had seven sons all right - but the Chamberlain family title had been held by four of them after their father died.

One son had died in an Atlantic shipwreck in his early adulthood. Another died during an illegal duel against a lover's enraged husband - but not before amassing such enormous debts that his father spent months putting the affair in order. A third hadn't even made it to adulthood before the foul Liverpool weather took him one winter. No wonder Sophia Chamberlain had been coddled, as she'd mentioned in so many letters to friends.

The eldest son Thomas didn't outlive his father for a full year before his own death and the title passed to his younger brother John. John held the title for eight years before his murder in Lancaster - his lifestyle was described in the documentation and press clippings in such language as to put Lizzy in no doubt that John Chamberlain was a homosexual at the very worst possible time - he was murdered the same month Oscar Wilde was sent to jail.

Lizzy felt desperately sorry for him - hadn't she seen something on TV that described attitudes in Britain towards the homosexuals as much more relaxed, if not accepting, before that? The legal concept of `gross indecency' between males was only ten years old when John Chamberlain had his brains kicked across the steps towards Lancaster Castle. It wasn't fair, not fair at all.

Theresa Darcy Chamberlain lived to see five of her sons die without issue - that wasn't fair either. Life wasn't fair, Lizzy repeated to herself over and over again.

Her research therefore moved onto the sixth son, Andrew. The research included a marriage certificate between Andrew and a girl called Gwendoline Darcy.

She'd been working on this for a long time and was certain she knew all the Darcys that existed, even if she didn't know the details of their lives. She'd never heard of Gwendoline Darcy, not in all these long months travelling across the world in search of Darcys.

*

Gwendoline Darcy walked as upright as she could manage into the Ormskirk House drawing room. Andrew Chamberlain was already waiting for her and rose out of his chair to greet her.

“Hello Gwen... Miss Darcy.”

Andrew always managed to pronounce her surname the better to make it sound insulting.

“Mr Chamberlain. I hope you and your family are well.”

“Lord Chamberlain is in London, as usual. My mother is fine. Thank you for asking. Please sit down.”

“Thank you.” She sat on the edge of her seat and even an uninitiated observer would be able to see how nervous she was.

“You can't have any doubt as to why I invited you here, Miss Darcy.”

“I don't believe I do know why I've been afforded such a privilege.”

“You have just turned nineteen, I believe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you any suitors?”

“No, sir.” Gwendoline looked down at her folded hands - there were not many men of honour and substance who would look at the illegitimate daughter of a politician and a disgraced Darcy. She was still young to have suitors, but she was enough of a realist to know she was unlikely to get many that could keep her in any kind of style - and she had no dowry to speak of.

“Your education was paid for by my mother, I believe?”

“Yes, sir.” Gwendoline loved Great-Aunt Theresa and had no doubt that if not for her, Veronica and Gwendoline would've been unambiguously poor. Indeed, Veronica had told her daughter more than once that without Theresa, it would've been the workhouse for them. Great-Aunt Theresa was incredibly kind and generous - when asked why she did it, she explained only that it was her chance to do something where she had not for someone else. Gwendoline had not felt able to ask what she meant.

“She has been very generous to you.” Andrew managed to make even Theresa's kindness sound like an insult.

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe it is time that you considered repaying the favour, Miss Darcy.”

“I do not understand, Mr Chamberlain. I have nothing to-”

“I wish to be married at last. I do not believe my brother John will have children,” Andrew practically spat out his brother's name “and so I must continue the line. Therefore I am in need of a wife.”

Gwendoline's head swam and she felt faint - and somehow sick at the idea.

“We are cousins, Mr Chamberlain.”

“Not so very close.”

“Your mother is my great-aunt!”

“Yes, yes,” he didn't seem to care at all, and she realised this was not an argument she could make. “I have watched you become a beautiful young lady, Miss Darcy. You are unlikely to get an offer nearly comparable to mine. I will be the head of the family one day, Miss Darcy. My brother is... well, he lives a life you wouldn't understand.”

Something in Andrew's tone told Gwendoline that she probably didn't want to understand.

“You must know, Gwendoline, that I am unaccustomed to hearing the word `no' and you should consider your answer carefully.”

Gwendoline sat silently for a long time, unable to form sensible thoughts. He was right - it would be the best offer she'd get. She'd live a wealthy life, but she would be married to Andrew, who was the only person in her life she truly despised, more even than her disloyal and dishonourable father.

Great-Aunt Theresa came in while she was still thinking.

“Dear Gwen! How lovely to see you here. Andrew did not say you would be here.”

“I invited Miss Darcy for a particular purpose, Mother. She is to be my wife.”

Gwendoline hated him, truly hated him for the assumption. Theresa looked a little surprised but recovered herself and was genuinely pleased.

“Oh, dear Gwen, how lovely to have you as a daughter!”

Gwen nodded, and knew she was agreeing to be married not for her own sake, nor for Andrew's but for Theresa's.

*

Gwendoline Chamberlain had one son, Gerald. She then found herself more or less cast out as her husband grew tired of her. She had come to realise that he enjoyed a woman's youth most of all and she no longer fit his criteria for an interesting partner.

“You will go to Italy, Gwen.”

“I will?”

“Yes. For your health, of course. You'll be well provided for of course.”

“I'm sure I will.” The only thing to be said for Andrew was that he was always willing to spend his money on her. “Miss Stephens will move in, I suppose?”

“After a decent sort of interval.”

“I don't think there's anything decent about it.”

“You'll agree or you'll never see your son again.”

“Of course, Andrew.”

Andrew Chamberlain had used her and now he was finished. A handsome son was all he had truly required of her and now she was to be packed off to Italy.

“What about your mother? How will you explain it to her?”

“Your health, Gwen. Your health. Besides, Mother's health is poor. She won't last much longer.”

“You're not a pleasant character, Andrew.”

“True. Bon voyage.”

*

Letters were exchanged rapidly between Theresa and Gwen. The former was increasingly frail and after her eightieth birthday was more or less restricted to her bed. Gerald seemed to do well with his nurses - though in early 1897 Theresa reported that Andrew's mistress had given birth to a daughter every bit as illegitimate as Gwen had been - the thing that Andrew seemed to despise about her most would now define and shape the life of his own daughter. Magda, she was named, according to Theresa, who did not approve in the slightest.

Gwen did not tell Theresa that she had found entertainment of her own in the form of a young Italian man. It felt much more of a betrayal of Theresa than of Andrew. She did not tell Theresa that she was expecting another child at some point soon, and hoped never to do so. It was contrary to everything she'd been brought up to believe in - despite her own beginnings. Still, she loved Stefano and believed he felt the same, and so she would not apologise to anyone.

*

Gwendoline was married to Stefano Torriani in the second month of 1900, barely weeks after her husband died. Their relationship legitimate at last, they embarked on a trip to England to see her son.

It did not go well.

“I don't believe you are my mother!” the little boy shouted angrily. “You aren't pretty enough!”

Gwen began crying while Gerald's uncle and guardian Christian berated him.

“Gerald, you will apologise at once! Gentlemen do not talk to ladies in such a way.”

“She isn't a lady,” Gerald yelled, his young face red with anger. “I heard my father talk about her - she's the daughter of a whore!”

Christian slapped the boy.

“Apologise, boy.”

“I shan't!”

“You will apologise to your mother or you will go upstairs to your room with no lunch, dinner or supper. You will be confined to your room except for lessons.”

Gerald calmed down.

“Sorry, madam.”

It didn't stop Gwen's tears - although a little boy, he sounded insincere, mocking and cruel as his father had. She bade Christian a tearful but warm farewell (Chris had always been so lovely to her - his mother's son indeed) and never returned to Liverpool again. Although Christian kept her faithfully up to date with Gerald as he grew up, Gwen never saw her son again.

*

There wasn't much on Gerald Chamberlain - Lizzy had been sent a copy of his birth certificate and his marriage certificate, and one news clipping - he was knighted in 1929... but that was about it.

There was so little about him that Lizzy's journalistic spider senses tingled. Still, as Will said, she had her sources and grasses. She picked up the phone and dialled a number listed there only as 23h.

“Ben,” the voice replied.

“Hey. I'm looking for Intel on a guy.”

“Name?”

“Gerald Chamberlain, Sir. Born 7th of the 4th 1894.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“Absolutely nothing else. That's why I called you, H.”

“I'll see what I can do. I'll let you know by the usual means.”

“Ta.”

That was it. Lizzy was suspicious though - it was unusual for so little information to be available on someone from the last century - she had more on people two hundred years older!

*
Part Six

Lizzy had met her contact during a particularly difficult investigation in her early career. She'd been sure that a Falklands veteran accused of breaking the Official Secrets Act had been stitched up. She'd been young and hungry for a break, and had gone to ridiculous lengths to `seek the truth'.

One day, when she was sure she was close to the truth, a very nondescript man approached her in the street and after inviting her to the cafe on the corner very quietly but definitely clued her into the truth, which had been far worse than she'd possibly considered. She knew him as `Andy', listed him in articles as `unnamed sources', had him as 23h in her phone and went to him for anything regarding the secrets of national security.

He was an honourable and trustworthy man - which couldn't be said for everyone in the Secret Service. He never broke the law, never told her anything that would endanger people, but always told her the truth.

So, when she saw how grim-faced he was as he walked into the same coffee shop she'd met Eurydice in, Lizzy knew what he'd found couldn't possibly be good. In fact, it couldn't even be just half-bad.

“Ben,” he said, and she saw his gaze flicker across the crowded shop. “I feel like a walk.”

“But I just-” she stopped herself. “Of course.”

She followed him out and onto the street, remembering advice she'd been given at journalism school: If you don't want to be overheard, be outside, keep moving.

“You found something, then?” she asked, desperate to get to the crux of things. Andy nodded, still grim-faced.

“The name rang a bell,” he told her. “Have you heard of something called SOE?”

“Yes, I think so... I saw a programme on TV about it. Churchill's Secret Army. The more controversial version of MI6?”

“Yeah. If James Bond was real, he'd have been in SOE during the war. Established in in June 1940 and dissolved in 1946, when the job was done.”

“Right. Was he one of them?”

“Yes. Now, I've got you copies of some documents, on the strictest understanding that they're burned once you read them.”

“Of course.”

“They're in the usual place.” Andy slipped a slip of paper into her pocket.

“Roger, wilco. Is it really that awful?”

“Lizzy,” she stopped - he never referred to her by her first name. “It's much worse. He... he's infamous in the Service. You remember the Cambridge Spy Ring?”

“I saw that on TV too.”

“Right. He was worse. I mean... he's the Service poster boy for what not to be and who not to become. Read the documents, then burn them.”

“Can I... can I tell Will? It's his family, after all.”

Andy looked like he was eating something sour.

“You know what? I think this should've been made public years ago but it's not my bloody choice to make. Tell your man Will if you want, ask him to keep it to himself but as far as I'm concerned, you can announce it on Richard & Judy. Just keep me out of it.”

Andy seemed so angry that she understood why he was so good at his job.

“I understand. I won't... I won't screw you over, you have my word.”

Andy now smiled, and he looked more like a suburban history teacher.

“I know, Ben. That's why I help you out occasionally.”

“Andy... do your superiors know you help me? I sometimes feel like you all want stuff to leak out sometimes.”

Andy's smile twisted a little and she had no idea whether it was a yes or a no.

“See you around, Ben.”

“Sure, Andy.” Lizzy watched him walk off down the street, then turned and headed to the tube station. She had to get to Liverpool Street, which was at least on her way home.

It didn't take long, and once she got to Liverpool Street station she headed out onto the mainline concourse and to the Left Luggage office.

“Hi, I have a case to pick up.”

“Do you have your receipt?”

“Sure.” Lizzy handed the woman at the counter the slip of paper Andy had put in her pocket. All being in order, she waited while the left luggage was retrieved.

It was a massive blue suitcase that looked heavy. She did not relish dragging that up Shoreditch High Street to get home. Still, needs must and she thanked the woman and wheeled it out.

It was as heavy as she thought it would be, and she struggled just to get it onto the escalator up to Bishopsgate. Fortunately, it was early and most of the City's daytime occupants were shut away in air-conditioned, artificially lit offices staring blankly at Excel spreadsheets. The case made a loud rattling noise as she wheeled it up the street.

Finally she made it across the border from the City into Shoreditch, and onto her own street and into her own house. She locked the door and pushed the blasted case into the living room. Paranoid somehow, she closed the curtains and switched the lights on.

Only then did she realise there was a lock on the case. Fortunately, the receipt hadn't been the only thing Andy had put in her pocket. The case was full of clothes and books. Heavy bloody books. Still, she looked at them and discovered books on the Spanish Civil War, on World War II, on SOE and one about a city in Libya called Tripoli. There were a couple of blank writing pads and a folder so inconspicuously blank that it must be the real reason for the case.

There were far more documents than Lizzy had expected - Andy usually hooked her up with just two or three documents that had just enough information contained without implicating anyone in MI6.

The first document was the contract Gerald Chamberlain signed in 1916 when, at 22, he joined the Foreign Office fresh from Trinity College, Cambridge. Following documents traced his rise through the FO and his parallel rise through the ranks of what was then known as Military Intelligence.

He was knighted in 1932 for services to the Foreign Office, and in 1933 was sent over from MI5 to SIS, the external security agency. It was all fine, dandy and correct.

Then, she was confronted with a photocopy of a telegram from 1st July 1934. ALL GO FOR ISTRIA STOP MEET PAL JOEY TRIESTE STOP. It would be fine, except that someone had written on the bottom that it had been intercepted for SIS by Sir Gerald Chamberlain and had been sent from someone named Luit to a man called Stephen Carey.

Instinct told Lizzy that this was crucial, but only reading through the rest was it likely to be clear as to why.

*

Sir Gerald Chamberlain travelled widely across Europe for his work at the Foreign Office. His work at the Foreign Office was dictated by his work for the Secret Intelligence Service, and so he travelled a great deal.

News of some kind of putsch in Germany had reached Britain - Ernst Rohm was dead, along with probably a hundred other prominent Germans. Sir Gerald did not care - he was about to set off for another corner of Europe entirely.

“Do you have everything, dear?” his wife asked over breakfast. He looked up from The Times and grunted. “Cook has put together a bag for you, just in case the food isn't up to snuff.”

“I'm travelling on the Orient Express, wife.”

“Only from Paris, dear,” Lady Delia Chamberlain had been married to him for eleven years and was no longer fazed by his gruffness, or even his outright rudeness. For Delia, the title, the money and the house were enough. She was just disappointed that he'd arranged for his familial Lordship to pass to his uncle before she met him. Delia would've persuaded him otherwise...

“Thank you, Delia.”

He left after breakfast, heading for the boat train. Delia telephoned a close friend, who said he'd be over for lunch.

*

Sir Gerald thought the Orient Express was really rather vulgar - even for a long train journey he felt simple was best. He would be carried on it all the way to Trieste at the northern most part of the Adriatic, but he did not want waiter service - he wanted to be left to his own devices. Fortunately, the staff were understanding and after a terse `no thank you' had been left alone.

In Trieste, his journey was paused but not complete.

“Joseph,” he said, shaking the hand of a man sat at the train station cafe. The man, older than Gerald, looked at him suspiciously.

“You are Stephen Carey?”

“Certainly am. How are we to reach Pula?”

“Train, sir. Are all your things in order?”

Gerald pointed to a small navy blue suitcase at his feet. Joseph led him through the station to where a local train was pulling in. They got on and soon the Istrian countryside slid past their view. It did not take long to get to Pula, in the south of Istria, in comparison to his journey from Paris. He would certainly be glad to get into a bath.

“This is Pula?”

“Yes, sir. See there, the arena and behind it, out of view, is the fortress.”

“Excellent. Where are we staying?”

“The Hotel Riviera, sir. Just there.”

The bright yellow hotel right on the waterfront had clearly been built in the Austro-Hungarian days and was surely the most prestigious hotel in the town. They checked in quickly and after freshening up, Gerald and this man Joseph (of English and Italian descent) went on a walk through the town.

Aside from the port, it was quiet and sleepy. There were many sailors, for this was an important military port for the Italians. Joseph pointed out matters of tourist interest, but then as they continued towards the armoury, it turned to matters of military capability. Gerald made a mental note of everything he saw, from the details of the port itself to the steep slope to the fortress and the Forum and Town Hall. The arena was quite a sight to see - a smaller but much better preserved version than the one in Rome.

He bought a few picture postcards on the pretence that he was just on business and was shopping as a tourist, and bought some cravats - Joseph said the Croats had invented it. In the secrecy of his room he drew diagrams of the train tracks and sewed them into the lining of his suitcase. Indeed, if anyone had been watching, they would've said `Stephen Carey' was the very model of a modern spy.

Gerald was back on the Orient Express two days later. In Switzerland, a woman sat opposite him in the dining carriage as it was busy. She got off at Lausanne with a small navy blue suitcase.

*

Lizzy was exhausted, but could hardly bear to stop. She had to know what the hell had gone on - had Gerald been sent to Trieste to pose as Stephen Carey on the instructions of SIS? There was another possibility and as much as she hated to admit it, it was the only likely explanation that also tied in with Andy's opinion of him...

Sir Gerald Chamberlain was Stephen Carey. Sir Gerald Chamberlain's job with the FO was a cover for his work for the security services and that was a cover for something else.

Lizzy knew absolutely that she had found her scandal, the Big Scandal... and she had no inclination to tell anyone about it.

What she didn't know was that it was about to get even worse.

*

“Chamberlain, old man!”

Gerald had barely made it into the FO building before Dickie Bowman had hallooed him.

“Bowman, how are you this morning?”

“All at sixes and sevens, old chap. Can't believe what Chamberlain - the prime minister that is-” he laughed at his own joke but Gerald remained stonefaced. “Appeasement, man! Peace for our time, my foot!”

“Anyone would think you wanted a war, Bowman.”

“Not at all! I think Herr Hitler's got a couple of good points to make but... dammit, we can't let the Germans walk all over us!”

“We're not ready to fight a war just yet. Give it time, and we'll see what happens.”

“You're always so bloody neutral, Chamberlain!”

“Not at all. I just don't go shouting my opinions around the crowded halls of Westminster, and nor should you. Good day.”

Gerald strode quickly through the halls until he reached his office. His secretary bid him good morning and had a cup of tea ready for him with his papers for the day.

“You have a meeting with Sir Edmund at eleven o'clock Sir,” she reminded him as he hung his overcoat up.

“As regards?”

“He didn't say, sir.”

“Very well. I was due at the Club for lunch, push it back to one, would you?”

“Yes Sir.”

Gerald's morning passed quickly and soon he was off down Whitehall to the War Office.

Sir Edmund Harrington was around the same age as Gerald, but a sedentary lifestyle featuring the very best wine, food and women had left him looking a decade older than Gerald. He was nominally one of the War Office's most efficient civil servants - in reality he was one of the best desk jockeys for Section D.

Section D was the new covert operations arm of SIS, and that made Sir Edmund Gerald's real immediate superior.

“Sit down, Chamberlain.”

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Yes. It's about Spain.”

“Spain, sir?”

“Don't be coquettish, it doesn't suit you.”

“Yes Sir.”

“I've had a couple of people asking questions about Spain. What we did and so on... Philby getting a medal of bravery from Franco didn't help. Guernica made a lot of people angry, you see.”

“Yes Sir.”

“C wants to see you.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, Chamberlain. Tell the truth and you'll be fine.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“That will be all, Chamberlain. He'll be waiting for you.”

“Yes Sir.” Gerald rose from the seat and with a smart nod at Sir Edmund he exited and made his way through the War Office.

Why had Spain come up? All that had been sorted out!

*

April 1936, Spain

Sir Gerald Chamberlain didn't like hot countries, and although he knew Africa was hotter than Spain, this was more than enough. It just wasn't civilised. He dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief and made his way through Madrid to a cafe where he had arranged to very discreetly meet a Republican contact.

The cafe was busy, which was good. He sat down at the table he'd been told to sit at and ordered a coffee. It only took two minutes for the contact to sit down. She was very beautiful, except for a scar she had across her neck.

“I was nearly garrotted,” she said by way of an opener, and he felt ashamed that he'd been caught so openly staring.

“By whom?”

“One of Franco's men, who did you think?”

“Shush, woman!”

She laughed and replied, “there's no one in here that wishes me harm, Senor Chamberlain.”

“You know who I am, might I also have the pleasure?”

“Assumpta Maria. I have been sent with the details of your meet up. We are glad... we are hopeful that this might bring in a new era of British cooperation with
the Republican movement.”

“I must be clear that my government has sent me here for intelligence gathering only. I have no power to negotiate with any side of this conflict.”

“Spare me the legality, I know what you can and cannot do. Follow me.”

She was on her feet and out of the door before he could even gather his thoughts. He followed her through the streets and they finally ended up outside a run-down house. Two men, dressed in the manner of the Republicans appeared at the door, both carrying guns.

“We must now search you,” Assumpta Maria told him. He nodded, knowing that any hesitation would be held against him. He was clean, of course, and was led into the house and up the stairs. Two more guards stood outside a room where a group of men sat smoking, drinking and playing cards. Gerald took a moment to observe them before Assumpta Maria announced their arrival. A tall man with dark eyes and aristocratic bearing stood to greet him.

“I am Rodrigo. You are the Englishman.”

“Yes.”

“What can you offer us?”

“At the moment, nothing. I am here to observe and to advise my government-”

“You won't do it.”

“You seem very sure.”

“Your country is terrified of Bolsheviks. You will not support us while we are supported by the Soviet Union. However, we are not all communists. Some of us just love our country and wish to be free. Some of us are also sick of the constant fighting that has blighted this country for so long, but this is not a popular idea.”

“I am here to observe and advise,” Gerald said. “I shall give His Majesty's Government my true and honest opinion of what I see and experience. You have my word.”

“An English gentleman's word is his honour,” Rodrigo smiled. “My mother was English.”

Gerald smiled politely and nodded. He was offered a chair, and that was it.

*

Over the course of the next few weeks, Gerald travelled with Rodrigo's cell. Madrid was being battered, although the Nationalists had failed to take Madrid in March.

He also discovered, quite by accident, that Rodrigo's English mother was his aunt Sophia - that they were first cousins. It was a small sort of world and he wondered vaguely if SIS had known and that was why they'd sent him.

Still, it was interesting work. On the 20th, he arranged to meet a friend in Segovia. The park was practically deserted - the weather was dull and the war had been discouraging people from wandering around unnecessarily.

The friend was the same age as Gerald - they had been at university together. He was thin and blond and when they were at Cambridge had been the cox on the Trinity rowing crew.

“How have you been, Chambers?”

“Busy, Tickers. Funny place, this.”

“We Englishmen always think `abroad' is a funny place,” his companion said with a grin.

“Which is why you now live and work in Germany, I suppose?”

“You suppose. Anything interesting been going on?”

“Not terribly, no. Republicans are all holier-than-thou as they always have been, except they're starting to bicker amongst themselves.”

Tickers grinned triumphantly and offered Gerald a cigarette.

“That's what we've been hoping for, of course. It's all part of a much bigger plan.”

“So I'm led to believe,” Gerald tried to be neutral, but it was what he'd been hoping for.

“Your trip to the Adriatic was well received, old boy.”

“Good, good.”

“When are you shipping back to Blighty?”

“End of the month. I'm just being taken up to the North first, to see how the Basque lot are doing.”

“By that Moreno chap?”

“Yes.”

“We've orders regarding that particular sticky wicket.”

“Oh yes?”

“He's far too well-organised. Rational, too. Not like the mad anarchists or blowhard communists. We would appreciate your helping us...”

“You know he's my cousin?”

“Yes, of course I do,” Tickers seemed surprised that Gerald didn't think he'd know such a thing. “You'll do it, though?”

“Of course.” Gerald was momentarily stunned by his lack of hesitance. Cousin or not, it didn't matter to him. It wasn't like he'd grown up with the man. Hadn't known him until recently, after all. Sacrifices had to be made for the ultimate ends, and a random Spaniard made no difference to Gerald.

“By the way, the weather will be bad up north.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks. See you around, Tickers.”

“Yes, you will.” Tickers laughed and walked away, out of the park.

*

Guernica was a perfectly dull place to be, Gerald had realised. The novelty of Spain and of war had thoroughly worn off and he wanted terribly to just go home. Still, he had a job to do - several jobs to do, in fact.

“Gerald, you should come with us!” Rodrigo called up the stairs to where Gerald was stood looking out of the window over the town. “We're going to check some supplies.”

Gerald obeyed, hoping it would kill some time and give him an opportunity to fulfil one of his tasks. They wandered through the town, seemingly without aim. It was late afternoon and he only half-listened to Rodrigo's chatter.

“Here we are!” Rodrigo opened a warehouse door and beckoned Gerald in. Inside, the building was being used as an ammunition store. If the Francoists knew, Gerald thought, trying to think of the best way to let Tickers know about it.

“Well,” Gerald said, if only to break the suddenly awkward silence.

“We are not so... we are not so badly off or badly organised as you may think.”

“The last few weeks have proved that to me amply. I shall tell my superiors just that when I return next week.”

Rodrigo opened his mouth to reply, but never got the chance. A rumbling sound got closer, ever closer. One of Rodrigo's men ran in, yelling in Spanish.

“What is it?” Gerald asked, suddenly afraid. It was funny, but it was the first time in Spain that he was afraid. He was afraid like he'd been afraid as a child during thunderstorms. The rumbling got louder and louder and even louder, and he suddenly realised what `bad weather' had meant.

It only took a moment or it took a long time, but soon the town of Guernica was being smashed to pieces by the planes above.

Rodrigo ran outside and Gerald, realising that he had a job to do and needed to survive, followed.

“They're German!” he yelled. “Take cover, everyone!”

Gerald followed as Rodrigo ran away from the building full of live ammo. Buildings were already aflame and he could already hear the screams of the injured and the terrified. He felt a surge of excitement and grabbed the gun he had holstered in his jacket.

Rodrigo had found shelter in the basement of an already-ruined cafe.

“Gerald, in here!” he shouted. “Come on!”

“Right!”

The basement felt oddly serene in comparison to the carnage above. Gerald readied his gun.

“Are you all right?” Rodrigo asked. “Were you hit by anything?”

“No.”

“Check. You must. You might not have noticed yet.”

Gerald checked himself, but not a piece of shrapnel had corrupted him just yet.

“I'm fine.”

“That's good. Stay here, I will be back for you.” Rodrigo had his hand on the door. If he left, Gerald would not get another definite chance.

“Where are you going?”

“People are dying, and I must help as best I can.”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible.”

Rodrigo turned around and saw the gun in Gerald's hand. It was now pointing at him.

“Gerald, you're English!”

“Yes, and I know a good deal when I see one.”

“You're working for the Nazis?”

“They're the ones with the good ideas, Rodrigo.”

“They'd have half of Europe locked up and the other half enslaved! There is nothing worse than losing your freedom. Have these past few weeks shown you nothing?”

“They have only proven to me what I already believed. There is a cancer in Europe and we must cut it out.”

Gerald aimed and without a moment's pause, fired. Rodrigo fell to his knees. The bullet had hit him in the chest at point blank range - he would be dead soon.

“May God,” he said as best he could “forgive you, cousin.”

“You knew?” Gerald asked, dumbfounded. Somehow, it now felt like a betrayal.

“Of course I knew. Uncle Christian sent photographs of you to Mama. She was very proud of you. I am glad she is not here to... to know what you have become.”

“In fairness,” Gerald said. “I've always been like this.”

“May God have mercy on your soul,” Rodrigo spluttered.

“I don't have one.” Gerald wiped the prints from the gun and dropped it at Rodrigo's feet. “You committed suicide at this great victory for the Nationalists.”

“You will even rob me of an honourable death?” Rodrigo had a trickle of blood running from his mouth now. He fell further, and his head was now on the dusty floor.

Gerald picked the gun back up, and Rodrigo managed a smile.

“Will you tell my family about my death? No... I don't suppose you will.”

“No, I won't.” Gerald watched as Rodrigo quietly died, and he had to admire a man who went to his demise with such dignity, and not a moment's complaint. Now though, he had to get out of Guernica before Hell truly broke loose.

*

C's office was forbidding, the kind of place that was designed to intimidate the guests. Sir Gerald Chamberlain had visited it before and it no longer held quite the same level of fear for him as it would a younger man.

“Good morning Sir,” said C's secretary. “Go right in.”

He did. C was sat behind his large oak desk and looked thoroughly grim.

“Sit down, Chamberlain.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“It's about Spain, I'm sure Harrington told you.”

“Vaguely Sir.”

“I've had some questions from the Lords about it. Lord Christian Chamberlain, for one. Guernica was such a big story, you understand. The Picasso painting arrived in town the other day... it's getting a lot of publicity. You were there, I just wanted to go over the detail again.”

“I don't... It was such a blur, really. It was an ordinary day, then in mid-afternoon the whole place was aflame.”

“How many dead, would you estimate?”

“Hard to say. I wasn't there long afterwards - my contact was killed, you understand and as I have no medical training it seemed best to get back here with my full report.”

“Yes, Chamberlain, I understand. Just a guess, if you would.”

“Most of the town was either damaged or destroyed. It was unexpected, so... it could be one hundred dead, but it could also be a thousand dead. It was so... confused, Sir.”

“I understand. Can you verify that they were German planes.”

“Without a shadow of a doubt, Sir. Saw them myself. I'm told there were Italian planes too, but I didn't see them myself.”

“Your contact, what happened to him?”

“He ran for shelter and it was bombed as he tried to get into the cellar. Dead almost instantly.”

“Thank you, Chamberlain. That will be all for now.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

As he walked swiftly down the halls, Gerald allowed himself a couple of smirks of satisfaction - his cover was safe. No trouble admitting they were German planes - they'd already taken credit for it. The Germans were heralding a new age of warfare, and wasn't he glad to be on the right side!

He was annoyed though, that his uncle Christian was one of the Lords apparently investigating in some probably impotent manner. What did they expect to achieve? The Francoists were making excellent progress and the Munich Agreement would be a kick in the teeth for the Republicans. How typical of his uncle to back the wrong horse.

*

Lizzy looked up from the mound of paperwork and realised, with shock, that it was nearly two o'clock in the morning. She'd written no notes, had made no remarks. All she'd done was read. Gerald had joined Section D on its creation, then SOE... and all the while he was working for the Nazis.

Darcy's second cousin was a Nazi spy. He'd killed at least one man and was responsible for dozens more. The notes made on documents after the fact showed where his spy activities had had a definite effect on the British war effort.

Shockingly though, the SIS had had its suspicions since Guernica and had just watched to see what would happen.

*

Gerald knew his time was nearly up. The war was going badly for the Germans, and he had a good idea that SOE had an idea what he was up to. He had always planned to sneak away to Germany when things got rough, but Germany wasn't much of a bet these days.

Tripoli was under the British now, and it was much too hot for his liking. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief and waited for his contact. He was hoping for a lead on a Russian they'd been tracking who was selling stolen British weapons on the black market. It was a dull case, but he had to keep SOE from being too suspicious.

The Officers' Mess was crowded, but he'd found a table to himself. He waited, and waited.

“Chambers!”

“Tickers?”

Oh God. Gerald knew his game was up when Tickers sat down. Tickers grinned like the Cheshire Cat, and Gerald wished he could just shoot the man.

“Triple agent, are you?” he asked. Tickers' grin didn't die.

“Only recently.”

“You've switched sides now the war is going in the Allies' favour? I might have betrayed my country, Tickers, but at least I'm not a hypocrite.”

“Yes well, needs must. Want a drink?”

“I suppose. Gin and tonic.”

Tickers beckoned the waiter over and ordered two.

“I can't kill you here, of course,” Tickers said. “Perhaps we'll nip out the back later, and when it's reported you'll have been attacked for your wallet. We shan't ruin your family, Chambers.”

“You're too kind.”

“It's not you I'm being kind to. I might be a despicable character, but I don't believe in ruining a little boy's life because he's father's a fascist. When did you last see little Harry, Chambers?”

“His first birthday. I've been travelling the world since the war started.”

“Yes. I saw some fascinating photographs of you at the Berghof.”

“I've seen similar of you.”

“I won't live out the war, you know,” Tickers told him. “My sole remaining lung is failing. I might as well work for my own country in the time I've got left.”

It was only now, when he was told outright, that Gerald even noticed his friend had been breathing with difficulty since sitting down.

“What happened?”

“Oh, long story. It doesn't matter now. I'll be dead soon, and so will you. Fascism has failed, Gerald.”

It was the first time Tickers had called him Gerald since their first day at Trinity. The gin and tonics arrived. Gerald reached over after a moment.

“Cheers, Tickers.”

“Cheers, Chamberlain.”

They sat in silence for a moment, drinking.

“I wonder what happened to us, Chambers. We had such potential.”

“I've always been like this.” The phrase made his head swim, and he could see Rodrigo Moreno on the floor as clearly as if he was really there. Of all the times to grow a conscience... He realised that his fingers felt numb, and his arms and...

“You've already killed me, haven't you Tickers?”

“Yes. It shan't hurt. For old time's sake. You'll be reported as a heart attack. We don't have to be remembered as traitors, although we both should be.”

“Heil Hitler,” Gerald mumbled, his facial muscles not quite obeying. “and here's to Oswald Mosley.”

Tickers had one last nugget of information to impart:

“By the way Chambers, I don't know if you heard... but the Allies landed in Normandy just yesterday.”

It was the last thing that Gerald heard, and he died knowing that in all ways, he had failed.

*
Part Seven

Lizzy didn't sleep well after the Chamberlain Dossier. She wanted very badly to scream about this secret traitor from the rooftops, wanted to do what Andy had clearly signalled she could do. There were other considerations, though. Will, Georgiana and a family she had come to truly adore for all its secrets, silliness and sadness. Even if she didn't make it public, should she tell them?

Yes, of course she should. It was the truth and they would have to make peace with the black-shirted demon in the closet. It would be far crueller to omit this and let it break when someone else got it - they invariably would. The news would break when documents were leaked, or released, and then someone would make the link to the Darcys. That would destroy them.

So, if she was going to tell them, did she then make it public? She wanted to, but the SIS had been merciful at the time and given him a good death. Should she do the same? The last messages about Gerald had mentioned a son. Perhaps she should find him and decide then. If he was the last of the great Socialists, it might be best to let sleeping traitors die.

First things first: Google for the next Chamberlain, whose name was Harry.

*

Harry Chamberlain had had a charmed young life. As a young boy he had lived with his mother and her second husband, the Duke of Sunderland at his excellent estate in the North-East. On the Duke's death in 1954, his eldest son had inherited everything and had the widow Sunderland out on her ear before the gravediggers had finished piling the earth onto the coffin.

For his part, fifteen year old Harry had been removed from his expensive private school (with much viciousness from his previously charming classmates) and he and his mother returned to London to beg help from her brother Charlie Lansdowne.

Harry had found it difficult to be a charity case. He didn't like the way his Lansdowne cousins treated him as some kind of lesser being - in some ways worse than a servant. With that in mind, at the age of sixteen, he hitched his way to Liverpool.

Ormskirk House had been abandoned since July 1940. A bomb had landed in the gardens, which should've been perfectly all right. Unfortunately, it had landed in the area where the family's shelter had been built. Lord Christian, his eldest son and his wife had all been killed instantly.

Harry knew that the younger of his cousins, Arthur, had been a Colonel in the army during the war and had been killed in action in North Africa, but he was hoping to find some trace of the middle son Henry. Unfortunately, the house looked like it had been empty since the bombing.

The garden had hardly been touched, except to retrieve the bodies of his family. Fifteen years worth of grass and weeds had covered the churned up earth, even the bent metal of the ruined shelter had been assimilated by nature to some extent.

He wandered around for longer than he intended - noticing only when dusk was well and truly arrived. Having no money and no idea how to get back to Liverpool itself, he chose to break into the house. If Henry was dead, it belonged to him anyway.

The interior of the house had been largely emptied - probably looted - although a few sticks of furniture dotted the house. No mattresses remained on the bed-frames still there. Still, would he want to sleep on something untouched for so long? Hardship had become a close friend of his since Sunderland's death, so he had no problem sweeping some dust off the floor of the master bedroom and bedding down on it.

The next morning, he explored the house in detail. Nothing of value remained, and he did wonder what had happened. Had the contents been stolen or stored? There was something about the shabby state of the house that he found offensive, and he spent the remainder of the day cleaning as best he could.

On the second day, he walked back into Liverpool and tried to find out what had happened to the Chamberlain fortune. The newspaper office told him that the family solicitor had their offices near the Liver Building, and he headed to it.

Dewey, Cheetham & Howe had a smartish office, and the receptionist was friendly enough. Doug Dewey greeted him like a long-lost friend.

“Mr Chamberlain,” he said, tactfully ignoring Harry's youthfulness “It's terribly nice to meet you.”

“Thank you. I'm here-”

“You're here about the Chamberlain estate, I'm sure.”

“I suppose I am. Not in a grasping way, Mr Dewey. I'm really looking for my cousin Henry.”

“Ah, Henry.” Mr Dewey's face fell. “I'm afraid... It's not good news, Mr Chamberlain.”

“What happened to him? Is he still alive?”

“I'm afraid you've missed him by only six weeks. He died in a mental institution in March.”

“Oh. What, er...” Harry couldn't quite find the words to frame the question. Mr Dewey understood what he was trying to say nonetheless.

“He had lived at St Gerard's Hospital for many years.”

“Why?”

“Well, I don't know all the circumstances, Mr Chamberlain. I was led to believe an accident as a young child left him largely incapable, but the accident may have happened because he was... challenged.”

“Oh. I see. Did he know his family died?”

“Yes, his parents had both visited him faithfully at least once a week. This leaves you in an interesting position, Mr Chamberlain.”

“It does?” He'd half wondered if perhaps the Chamberlain fortune was his, but these circumstances had taken the fun out of it.

“We tried to contact you in March, you understand. The young Duke of Sunderland was hardly forthcoming or helpful.”

“No, he wouldn't have been.”

“He rather led us to suspect you might have perished yourself.”

“Knowing Dickie, I suppose he wanted to see if it might get directed his way.”

“Perhaps. Still, you're here now and that's what matters. I suppose you'd like to know what's coming to you?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Obviously, we'll need confirmation that you are who you say you are.”

“Right.” Harry had brought every scrap of paper relating to himself along on this journey, so the formalities were completed quickly.

“The house is yours, of course. There's some money but I'm afraid Lord Christian lost a good deal of his fortune in '29. He recovered some of it but when the war began he directed a good deal of his money towards the war effort. He did a lot of good in this city, you know?”

“He did?”

“Oh yes. Bombed out families were given help where he could. Ironic then, that his family should've been taken in that very way.”

“So there's no money?”

“There is some, not much.”

“That's all right. I haven't had much for awhile.”

“You seem like a sensible young man, Mr Chamberlain.”

“I'm trying, Mr Dewey.”

*

Harry went back to the house stocked up with cleaning stuff, food and various things necessary for fixing a place up.

All summer he worked and even tried to track down some of the furniture which had been donated to the less fortunate rather than looted as he'd originally thought. Many families hadn't let him pay for it.

“Your uncle did us a great kindness in '41 Mr Chamberlain,” one woman had said. In fact, he hadn't heard a word said against Lord Christian and it left him with an idea which just continued growing in his mind as he worked.

Harry wasn't a selfless young man, but the idea that he would smarten the house and fill it only with himself didn't sit quite right. He continued working on the house, and though it took a long time on his own, he was determined to finish - to have achieved anything at all. He had nothing else to do, no one to answer to, and so he worked on the house.

In September 1955 Ormskirk House was donated in perpetuity to the people of Liverpool. Harry Chamberlain was photographed with the mayor, and twenty minutes later he was on his way to Australia as a Ten Pound Pom.

*

Lizzy had no idea if Harry Chamberlain was still alive. He might well be somewhere in the depths of the Australian Outback. Still, surely he'd care if his father's past was revealed to all as what it really had been?

Clearly, she needed to speak to Darcy. He would decide for the best. Perhaps it was time to write everything up and hand his history to him. She headed for her computer, where she worked through the whole night so she could drive to Darcy's in the morning.

*

Lizzy bit her lip. He'd hardly changed the look on his face since she'd handed him her sheaf of paper. He'd not reacted to news of Kitty Bentley's scandalous life with a hero of Waterloo. Alfred Darcy's hanging for murdering his wife and her lover raised no eyebrow. The rogue Schleswick-Erchenspee branch was already known to him - although she supposed the cameo of the Duke in The Triumph of the Will was a shock.

The happy parts made him smile - she was glad to see that he was fascinated by the Spanish connection and that the Italian connections did not cause him to scowl.

Only when he reached the clipping of a gossip column regarding his own great-aunt's scandal did he react by tearing it into four neat pieces. She was glad to have only given him a photocopy. Monica Darcy's torn head smiled up at her from the carpet.

“You may not use this,” he told her in such a way that she (and her journalistic reflexes) were offended.

“It's in the public domain, Will.”

To his credit, he looked apologetic.

“Please, Lizzy. Don't use it.”

“Will, you don't get to pick and choose.”

“You don't understand, Lizzy. I'm not trying to flex anything editorial. The man mentioned was engaged-”

“Yes, it's in the article!”

“Lizzy, he was engaged to Aunt Decca! I don't really care what you write about people who have been dead a thousand years or five hundred or even one hundred. It doesn't really matter. But Aunt Decca...”

Lizzy's heart sank, and her journalistic reflexes were killed by guilt. Why hadn't she looked further into it at the time? She'd just seen it as a scandal to spice things up - she hadn't given a second's thought to the fiancée this Decker-Moore chap had had.

“I understand.” She sighed unhappily, knowing that there was worse still to come. She couldn't write about stoic, lovely Aunt Decca. What would he say about Gerald Chamberlain? “Do you know what happened to him? The fiancé, I mean.”

“From what I heard, when I was young and not meant to be listening, he went to some far flung corner of The Empire, where he died.”

“Oh... well...”

“Aunt Decca met Mounthaven not long afterwards. She always said that things worked out as God intended, but... I've not doubt the whole experience humiliated her. I wouldn't be all that surprised if she learned of it from this very article when it was first published.”

Lizzy just nodded sadly.

“I understand, I really do. I'm not so hardened a journo as all that.”

“I know. Lizzy... from one point of view, I think what you're doing is splendid. There's things I never knew - never even imagined - and it's fascinating. It's just... the idea of then putting it up for public consumption! It's not the Darcy way. Some families like mine have been commodifying themselves for years, but we never have.”

“I know that, but you're Will Darcy and that means people want to know everything about you... so you give them a little bit. You'll see.”

“See?”

“When the article comes out, you'll see.”

He looked sceptical, but said nothing. Lizzy took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“Read the next bit, Will.”

“After dinner, I think-”

“Will, you need to read it now. Please.”

He shrugged, and she hated the naively innocent look of `can't be that bad' he had on his face. It didn't take long for the look on his face to disappear and be replaced with incredulous horror.

“What is this, Lizzy?”

“It's true is what it is. I'm really, really sorry.”

“Are you going to publish this?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No.”

They sat in silence for a moment as he continued reading.

“I don't want you to, but you should,” he told her. “He doesn't deserve to continue being hailed as a hero just because I want to protect my good name. Published and damned!”

He rose to his feet and said, “Come on Lizzy, let's get dinner.”

*

The article was honed and edited with the time Lizzy had to spare now she'd finished travelling and researching. An idea she'd had for some time was coming to fruition, and she enlisted the help of Georgiana and Richard to see it through.

Will's birthday party was rarely a big occasion, and this year was to be no exception. Lizzy had booked a table at one of London's finest restaurants for them.

In fact, she'd booked every table in one of London's finest restaurants and couldn't wait.

*
Part Eight

“William? Where are you, boy? Come on!”

Mr Darcy leaned against the banister and craned his neck to look up to the landing. There was no sign of his son. It was getting to be late and if William didn't appear soon, there would be hell to pay.

Presumably, it was that same hell which was keeping William behind. Eventually, after Mr Darcy yelled a second time, the boy appeared at the top of the stairs, trying not to pull at his tie or his collar.

“Come along William, otherwise we'll be dreadfully late and that will make your aunt angry. How would you like that?”

“I wouldn't,” William grumbled quietly. “Where's Mother?”

“She's in the - oh, this bloody family! The four minute warning would be an absolute waste!”

“Don't shout so, George,” Anne Darcy came out of the sitting room already wearing her hat and coat. “We mustn't keep Catherine waiting.”

The car journey across London was fairly uneventful and by the time they reached Kent, William had taken to staring blankly out of the window. Somehow, his aunt had managed to shoehorn her way into his birthday party, and he was being made to travel all the way to Rosings for some boring tea party when all he wanted was to play football with his school friends for the afternoon.

Aunt Catherine was waiting for them on the steps of her big house when they arrived. Several other cars were parked there, and William couldn't help being excited at the idea of seeing Granny Alexandra and his cousins. In fact, his cousin Anne (at 13, some three years older than him) was waiting with her mother. Mother had said she'd been ill recently, and William silently noticed that she was very thin and tired.

“Good morning Aunt Catherine,” he said in his most polite voice. “Cousin Anne.”

“You're twenty minutes late,” Aunt Catherine scolded, although it seemed more pointed at his father. “Still, come inside.”

As he knew they would be, his cousins Edward and Richard were already inside, and it looked like Richard had already had a cream cake or two. Aunt Decca was there too, along with her grandchildren, his cousins, Freddie and Vivien.

“Will!” Vivien was six years old, and aside from being a tomboy, had a thick sheaf of bushy hair. Will liked her, although she was a lot younger than him, so he accepted her hug.

“Hello Tufty,” he replied. “How are you?”

“I won a prize at horse-riding yesterday! Mummy says I'm a natural, you know!”

“I'm sure you are,” he said very wisely, although he'd never seen Vivien riding. Richard and Freddie, both master mischief-makers, stole his attention away quickly.

*

After lunch and an afternoon of playing, Will found himself tired enough to return to Aunt Catherine's sitting room. His mother was there talking to Marina Mounthaven about babies and what the doctor had said, while Aunt Decca was talking to his father and Uncle Wilco about arable farming or something.

Granny Audrey was sat reading a book. Aunt Catherine took after her more in looks than his mother, but Will thought Granny Audrey was much kinder than Aunt Catherine. Empathy, Mother called it. He went and sat beside her, but didn't interrupt her reading.

“Tired, Will dear?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“So am I. Cuddle up to me, darling.” She held her arm open so that he could snuggle into her shoulder. No matter how big he got, he still loved to spend time with Granny Audrey. It was tough to decide which of his grandmothers he liked best, and he supposed it wasn't a question of best, but different. Granny Alex was very outgoing and energetic where Granny Audrey liked to sew and read. Will loved them both equally, but right now he wanted to sit quietly and so it was to Audrey he went.

She was very refined and poised, like he was told countesses were expected to be. Granny Alex was the daughter of an Earl, but she wasn't like Granny Audrey! In fact, as he thought this, Alexandra's voice raised high above everyone else's.

“You big cheat, Edward! Honestly, this family!”

She was playing Monopoly with Edward, Richard and Freddie, and Will assumed that Rich was fiddling and blaming it on Edward as he usually did. He heard Audrey laugh softly - she liked Alexandra almost as much as Will did. Aunt Catherine, on the other hand, scowled over at her. Edward and Richard's mother Angela went over quickly and had a quiet word with them both.

And so in this manner, Will Darcy's tenth birthday passed with a quiet family afternoon. His cake was the shape of a football, which was nice. It was the last birthday he would celebrate with all these people - by the time he reached fifteen he would gain a sister but lose a mother and two grandmothers. Indeed, he came to learn to mark birthdays not by years reached but by loved ones lost.

*

Lizzy's feature was submitted to her editor almost as soon as it was written, and it was arranged that it would be published on the Saturday before Will's birthday. Published then it duly was, and the world was given the Darcy family history.

*
The Darcy Dynasty, The Guardian.

It wasn't a task I relished, readers: Take a family that's been in England since 1066 and discover as much as you can. Oh and by the way, it's the family of a rich, famous, powerful football star. No, I didn't much relish it.

The search for Will Darcy's lineage began, suitably enough, with a family tree. Mine is not the first quest to trace the Darcys but it quickly became the most in depth. There have been records kept and preserved down the years, as with most aristocratic old families, but the first person to research and compile a proper family tree was Marianne, the French wife of Stephen Darcy and Will's great-grandmother. Hers is a very beautifully made tree, but it is sparse and the details come only from Darcy records. Cadet branches are barely mentioned and only the basic birth and death details rate a mention.

My search for information took me to France, Germany, Italy, Spain and Cairo, and put me in contact with New York, San Francisco, Cairo and India. Fortunately, in this day and age email, fax and the like makes things easier!

It's my opinion, and I'm a little biased, that the Darcy family history is the history of Britain. Their story reflects a bigger one and occasionally influences it. It is the story of powerful people who have almost always shunned titles, popular opinion and the attention of the limelight. You might not know their names, but the Darcys have left their mark on your lives as much as kings, queens and prime ministers.

The Darcys have instilled in themselves such a sense of duty that even the Windsors pale in comparison.

Let me warn you again: this story spans the globe and stretches over a thousand years, but if you're looking for scandal you're not going to find much here. I mean it: the history of the Darcys is one of good sense, propriety and regulation. Upright citizens - if these people have had their moments of dissipation or outright hedonism, they've kept it well hidden from the judgement of history.

Mostly, this is a story of love. For a family devoted to duty, they did a lot of marrying above or below their perceived station. For love. (cont. p. 94)

*

“Georgie, where are you?” Will hollered up the stairs and got only the sound of feet rushing against carpet in reply. Lizzy appeared though, and swished down the stairs in a very beautiful red dress.

“Is she ready yet?” Will asked her. “I mean, do you think we might be ready to go, ever?”

“Oh shush,” Lizzy smirked and turned back up the stairs. “Georgiana, if you're not down the stairs in thirty seconds we will leave without you!”

She turned back to Will and smirked again. Within thirty seconds, Georgie was down the stairs as instructed.

“Fine, come on then,” he tried to grumble, but couldn't really manage it. They went out to the car hired for the evening and were soon on their way to the restaurant Lizzy had booked them a table at.

“Cheer up, Will!” that same Lizzy told him. “It might never happen.”

“I'm not a particular fan of birthdays.”

“Yes, I know.” She didn't try to say any more to that - there was nothing to say that would help.

*

The restaurant was one of London's best, an old-fashioned place that had been at the top of its game for a century or more and had no desire or need to be seen as `trendy'.

Will had expected to see it busy, but it was not so. In fact, not a single table was occupied.

“What's going on, Lizzy?”

She produced from her bag a copy of the article published a few days before.

“Will... I remember when you first started telling me about your family, that I was struck about how little family you seemed to have left. That really it was you and Georgie alone. I've learned an awful lot over the last few months' research, but mostly that you have so much more family than you think. I know you think and feel that you're the last Darcy left... I hope to prove that you have family everywhere, whether you know it or not. You are not alone.”

“What?”

Some doors were opened, and people began coming through until the place was more or less full.

“Will, lovely to see you again! It's been a long time.” Sam Thornton was as tall as he had ever been, but as he reached seventy, his hands were twisted with arthritis and his face was covered in deep wrinkles. His wife Tanzie was as short as she ever had been (Will had always thought that they made an odd-looking couple) and her once red hair was now silvery and set into a tight perm.

Will was glad of familiar (though somehow estranged) faces to begin with - Lizzy's purpose had become clear to him immediately but most of the people in the room were, after all, strangers. He spoke with Sam for some time, mostly about his father. Sam and Tanzie had brought their daughter Lily and their sons Quinn and Rafael. He knew the boys - had been at Eton at the same time as him, though not in the same year.

“My mother wanted to come,” Cousin Sam told him. “Really wanted to, but she turned ninety-two last month and... she's just too frail.”

“Please, give her my fondest regards,” Will told him. He had genuinely warm memories of Margaret Hale, whose mother had been a Darcy and who had always had toffees to offer. Yes, he remembered her with fondness.

“Come on Dad,” Rafael cut in. “We'll go get a drink and stop bothering Will.”

“Bothering? I'm talking not bothering.”

“Come on!”

Will realised that his day would be spent sat here, meeting person after person after person. It would be like those Arsenal functions, full of strangers.

“It won't be like you think,” Lizzy cut in, having appeared from somewhere or other. “Because if it turns into that, I'll throw everyone out.”

“It's OK.”

“Good. I don't know if you remember Leonida Manners, the one-time Princess Sforzini.”

Leonida was ninety-one years old and was being manoeuvred around in a wheelchair by her daughter Gina Sforzini-Manners. Will only really remembered Mrs Manners in the context of Aunt Decca - the two had apparently been excellent friends since the war. He hadn't seen her yet, but he hoped Aunt Decca was here.

Leonida looked twenty years younger than she was, except for her frailty. She reached out a diamond-heavy hand to him and he shook it tenderly.

“I don't know if you remember my daughter Gina,” Leonida asked, and waved her other, equally bejewelled hand at the prettyish middle-aged woman behind her.

“Yes, hello Gina.”

“My son is here also. My niece Freya is here for her father. You remember my brother Vasilis?”

“Yes, I do.” Did he really remember Vasilis Sforzini, or did he just recall photographs? The smile on Leonida's face was enough to prove to Will he'd given the right answer, whether it was true or not.

“Grandmother!” A young woman came running over, completely blind to Will. “I'm so sorry I'm late, but the bus was...”

“Thekla, this is Will Darcy, your cousin.”

Thekla, who was a girl of about twenty with wild dark hair, now noticed Will and nearly collapsed with the surprise of it.

“I'm really sorry I'm late. The bus...” Thekla's voice trailed off and Will understood that she was overwhelmed by being near him. He got that a lot. After a moment she recovered in order to hug her cousin Freya.

“It's been a long time,” Freya laughed as Thekla attached herself. Her Northern Californian accent was clear. Will listened, interested, as they chatted. It was clear they hadn't seen each other in some time and it became clear also that this was not a reunion only for his sake.

“I remember your Aunt Monica,” Leonida told Will. She must've understood the slightly sour look on his face because she continued: “She was a good girl really, Will. Honestly she was. She did a lot of growing up during the war. I believe...”

Leonida lowered her voice and said, “I believe that realising what it did to Decca brought such guilt onto Monica's shoulders that she could hardly bear it. I can't tell you with absolute certainty, but Monica exiled herself because she thought she deserved it.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome, dear cousin. I will go and seek out Decca now, if you'll excuse me.”

“Of course.”

“Darcy! What's it like being part of your own This Is Your Life?” Richard came bounding over, champagne glass in hand.

“Well, that depends on whether you're Michael Aspel. Were you in on this?”

“More or less from the beginning,” Richard was even more smug than usual. “I got most of the contact details for Lizzy. Mind you, I asked Mother for most of them.”

“Of course. I suppose you found the Rathbone-Montagues without too much trouble?”

“Of course. Jimmy said, actually, that we'll have to start being careful who we attach ourselves to.”

“Lizzy found out an ancestor of mine married a Fitzwilliam back in the day, you know.”

“It's getting very Hanoverian, Will.”

“Indeed.”

“Anyway, I see more people being choreographed in this direction, so I'll leave you for now. You must check out the bar later.”

“I will, if I get a chance.”

“Will,” Lizzy now came over with a tall lady with salt-and-pepper hair. “This is Francesca Pierce. She's your fifth cousin, but she's named after her ancestor. Matilda's daughter.”

Will felt a surprising surge of fondness for this lady and shook her hand vigorously.

“I... I'm so awfully glad that her line survived, Mrs... Miss...”

“Doctor.” Francesca grinned.

“Doctor Pierce.”

“Call me Francesca, really. I've known about you for some time - my mother immersed herself in ancestry after retiring. I have to say, I was surprised to find out I was related to such a renowned English family.”

“I'm told your parents distinguished themselves in Korea.”

“That isn't how my father would describe it, but yes.”

“Are they both well, your parents?”

“They are. Old but not out just yet. Now, Mr Darcy-”

“Will.”

“Sure, Will. Tell me what being a Darcy means.”

“Where to begin?”

*

Will sat with Francesca Pierce for some time, talking about Englishness and Darcyness, and discovered a few nuggets of information about Matilda and Francesca Darcy. Finally, Lizzy came over and whispered in his ear.

“I'm sorry Will, but there're a couple of guests I really don't want to have to wait.”

“It's fine,” Francesca rose. “I'll get a drink and do what you asked, Lizzy.”

Lizzy beckoned over Tasnim Hassan. She approached quite slowly with a tall man with silver hair walking with a slim, silver-topped cane. Although Tasnim wore a Western trouser suit, he wore the more traditional wear of a desert nomad. Will thought he rather looked like an extra from Laurence of Arabia. No, not an extra, he corrected himself, a featured player who should be credited just below Anthony Quinn.

“Will, I would like to introduce you to Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan, his daughter Tasnim and granddaughter-”

“Atiya!” Will exclaimed, shaking the hand of the young lady with dark, spiky hair. “I had no idea we were related!”

“Nor did I,” she replied in a strong North London accent.

“You know each other?” Tasnim asked. Sheik Ahmed laughed.

“Atiya works at Arsenal!” Will told them, still grinning.

“I'm their nutritionist, Granddad,” she told the sheik.

“It is a small world,” he said. “Will, I have long looked forward to meeting you at last.”

“Yes sir. I'm sorry that... I'm sorry that our families lost contact after my father died.”

“It is understandable. He was enormously proud of you, my boy.”

Will felt tears prick at his eyes at Sheik Ahmed's sincerity. They sat down and although neither spoke a large volume of words, they both said a great deal. Sheik Ahmed told him about his visits to England and about his mother Diana, who had died in 1978 while Will filled him in on all the changes at Pemberley since he had been a guest.

“Really, there haven't been many changes made. I mean, we've got broadband now, and digital TV... but the house looks much the same as it ever has.”

“I am glad,” Sheik Ahmed replied. “I have many very happy memories of Pemberley.”

*

After the Hassans, Will was introduced to a horde of Sharpes, French, Spanish and as it turned out, American. From them he learned more about the Peninsular War and the Spanish Civil War than he'd ever known before.

He also made informal arrangements to see about buying himself an excellent Spanish horse - although if Aunt Angela Harper Fitzhugh Fitzwilliam heard he was buying horses and didn't go to the Harpers in Donegal he'd never hear the end of it. He said as much to Rodolfo Sharpe, who roared with laughter.

“Ah, welcome to my world! I find I spend most of my time trading with family to avoid offending anyone. My father established our stud farm in Kentucky after he fled the Civil War.”

“Yes, I er... I must say, about your grandfather-”

“I read it, Will. It's a sad and terrible twist of history, but we are not answerable for it, are we? Anyway, I find when buying horses I go first to the Sharpes in Spain...” He pointed over at Adriano Sharpe, who was talking to Freddie Mouthaven.

“Then I go to the Harpers...” He now pointed at two tall, ruddy-faced men sat with Aunt Angela, the Countess of Matlock and formerly a Harper-Fitzhugh. “Only then do I feel comfortable being able to trade with outsiders.”

“I'll bear that in mind.”

“If you ever decide to go into the horse trading business, you'll have plenty of contacts.”

“At the moment, I'm just in the market for the one. My sister outgrew her pony some time ago, and I rather think she misses riding.”

“I'd recommend the Harpers. They have some wonderful, well-trained and placid Arabians that might do well for a young lady.”

“Thank you.”

Whether by accident or design, Lizzy brought over the Harper brothers next. By the end of their particularly amusing conversation, Darcy had an appointment in Donegal for the Tuesday after next.

*

Lizzy clearly saw that Will was starting to feel tired, because he found himself left alone for long enough to find himself a drink and some food. He wandered around a little and saw that a lot more people were there than he'd thought. Hidden away from the sight of his table, a massive board had been erected, upon which a giant interactive family tree was being filled in.

He recognised the artistic hand of Jimmy Rathbone-Montague was evident in the main stems of the tree, but Lizzy had asked the guests to fill in any blanks they could, and it was spindling away in ever more complicated twists. Photographs and memorabilia had been tacked up - he saw an early photograph of his Victorian ancestors in one section.

It was quite overwhelming to see. It went as far back as 1199 with certainty for the main branch of the Darcy family, but that wasn't what touched Will. All these people were connected to him - and for so long he'd believed that it was just Georgiana and himself left.

He was the last Darcy, that was true. Georgiana would marry and have her children or she would not, but they would not be called Darcys (at least, he vehemently hoped not). He was the last Darcy, but even if the name died with him, he now understood that the family would not.

Will had truly believed the family had all but died out. Now, stood watching some of the Sharpes eagerly adding some detail and photos to the board, he realised that actually, it had spread itself across the globe.

“Will?”

He turned and found Lizzy stood with a silver-haired, tanned man.

“Will, this is Harry Chamberlain.”

His head swum a little. Harry Chamberlain?

“I've come all the way from Oz to meet you, son,” Harry told him with a firm handshake. His accent was definitely but not strongly Australian. “Brought the kids too.”

“Harry, it's... excellent to meet you.”

“You too, son. I'd like to introduce my daughter Melanie-” a prettyish middle aged lady darted forward to shake his hand. “My son Mike and his daughter Bronwyn.”

Mike was a man who looked like he'd spent his entire life in the burning sun of the Outback, while his teenage daughter looked like a character from Neighbours.

“I'm quite taken aback that you've come all this way,” Will said.

“Ah, not at all. The girl here's been bugging me to bring her for awhile now and who am I to deny a granddaughter, eh? Besides, er, when I read Lizzy's article on the internet, I er...”

Harry paused and for the first time looked a little unsure.

“I don't know what to say,” Will began.

“No, he was my father and it's my cross to bear.”

Harry led Will away from his family into a quiet corner.

“I... I know that Rodrigo's family are here. I wouldn't dream of causing a scene for you, but... do you think I might be able to have a quiet word?”

“I don't know, Harry...”

“I can't ignore it, Will. My father murdered their father. To leave without so much as an acknowledgement seems cowardly to me.”

Will nodded solemnly and said, “I understand. I'll ask Rodolfo.”

He sought out Rodolfo, who rather surprisingly, smiled.

“Of course, Will.”

They went out into the hallway, which was welcomingly cool from the outside breeze.

“Rodolfo, this is your second cousin, Harry Chamberlain. Harry, this is your second cousin, Rodolfo Sharpe Moreno y Borbon.”

Rodolfo shook Harry's hand warmly.

“It is so nice to meet a Chamberlain, Harry.”

“It is?”

“Certainly. My father adored his grandmother Sophia and talks about her all the time.”

“Your father is still alive?” Harry asked, to which Rodolfo nodded slowly.

“He will be ninety-four in November. He is in the throes of extreme old age, but... he is still himself. Believe me when I say he will be glad I met you.”

“Really? I hadn't thought-”

“We do not hold you responsible for the actions of your father. Do you even remember him?”

“No,” Harry admitted. “I only remember vaguely my mother telling me that he was dead.”

“Then it would be cruel for me to associate you with him. Lizzy Bennet tells me you now live in Australia?”

“Certainly do. I own a farm these days. Anyway, I want to apologise to you-”

“It is not necessary.”

“Even so, I will do it.” Rodolfo nodded.

“As you wish.”

“I am sorry. I wish... I'm sorry for what my family did to yours. It was evil and terrible.”

“Yes, it was. It's the past, Harry. Let me get you a drink.”

Harry held his hand up. “No, I'll get the first.”

Will watched as they went back inside, straight to the bar.

*

The meal served was fantastic, as he knew it would be, and the restaurant rang out with the happy sounds of many voices enjoying themselves and their company.

At one point, Aunt Decca approached him.

“Will dear.”

“Yes, Aunt Decca?”

“I suspect... I suspect that I have you to thank for Monica's absence from Elizabeth's article?”

“Yes, you do.”

“It wasn't necessary - this was all so long ago - but I thank you, dear boy.”

Will reached down and took her hand, then kissed it. “For you, Aunt Decca, anything.”

“You're a very dear, kind young man. I have always thought so.”

“From you, it means all the world.”

“I'm glad she did this for you, Will. It will be the last time some of these people are in a room together.”

He was a clever man - he knew she meant herself and Leonida.

“Do you know how Leonida and I came to be such excellent friends?” Aunt Decca had apparently developed mind-reading abilities in her long life.

“No. How?”

“We were both at the Cafe de Paris the night it was bombed.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. She came over to me, to congratulate me on my engagement to Mounthaven. It was March 1941, quite early in the night. Ronald telephoned to say he was at his club with his uncle, who wanted to meet me... so I said I would go over there although it was the blackout, it wasn't far. Leonida said I couldn't possibly walk on my own and came with me... the bomb took out the Cafe de Paris and eighty people about half an hour later.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Yes. The guilt of surviving such a thing just by chance knocked us both for six. When her house was bombed out, I insisted she come to stay with us.”

“I never knew that.”

“You never asked. Leonida stayed with me for the rest of the war. I don't think I would've survived without her, not after Ronald was shot down and Freddie was born. I... I'm awfully glad we've had this evening, Will.”

Will got to his knees and gave his aunt a no-holds-barred embrace he'd never dare try on someone like Aunt Catherine. She returned it after a moment's surprise.

“I love you, Aunt Decca.”

“Yes dear, I know. It's all right. I'm not going anywhere just yet. Dear boy.”

She kissed him on the cheek, the same way she always had when he was a little boy.

The party continued until late. His Aunt Catherine had been invited, according to Richard, but since their to-do over Georgiana had cut herself off from Darcy. Anne would've come but was in hospital having her appendix out. He even got up and danced a little, mostly because Jimmy wasn't a girl to whom a person could say no.

*
Finally, the Darcys got back home and put their feet up. Georgiana chattered about all the people she'd met - apparently she hadn't expected so many people her own age to be there. She ran upstairs to speak to some friends online and to add the new list of email addresses to her contacts.

Lizzy handed him the copy of the article she'd had earlier. Every guest at the party had signed somewhere where their family was mentioned.

“The giant family tree is being sent to the FitzDarcy art people to have copies made for everyone.”

“I can't believe you went to all this trouble.”

“It wasn't trouble, Will. It was a pleasure.”

“But still-”

“There is no `but still', Will. You're not the last of your family. You're not even close to it.”

“Even if the name dies out with me, the family continues,” he added. “Thank you.”

“Will, I don't think there's an awful lot of danger of your name dying out.”

“It's nice of you to say that, but... I don't want to take anything for granted.”

“I know that.” Lizzy stood up. “Come on, Last of the Darcys. You need to get some sleep before training tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes. In a minute.”

Lizzy left him to it, and for a little while, all Will did was sit, thinking about all of the evening that had gone along. Then, he picked up the article, with all those signatures across it. Some were elaborate creations, like Chiara Torriani, Gwendoline Darcy Chamberlain's daughter. He thought of her, and how she met Harry for the first time earlier - they had never known each other, despite sharing a grandmother.

Some of the autographs were much more compact. Others had quite marvellous flourishes, like the R in Rodolfo.

He fought the desire to suddenly cry. He had been alone so long, with only Georgiana for company... but now being the Last Darcy no longer felt like a burden.

*

The End

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