Eternal Flame

~ A modern day fairy tale ~

Chapter one

“You have reached your destination.”

Liz parked at the side of the road. She glanced at the satellite navigation display then looked at the houses around her.

In the purple half-light of dusk the village reminded her of the idyllic images you might find on the lid of a jigsaw puzzle or those boxes of fudge they sell to tourists. Low granite cottages with grey slate roofs huddled haphazardly around a triangular village green. A pub and a small shop sat on the far side and a man, standing under a gnarled oak, threw a stick across the grass for his small, shaggy dog.

It was a sleepy scene, reminiscent of England in the fifties, when few people had cars and everyone knew their neighbours.

She frowned and hit the speed-dial on her phone. “Nat?”

“Oh, Liz. I wondered when I’d hear from you. Is everything okay?”

“Nothing to worry about. Your car’s fine, but I don’t understand this stupid sat nav. It’s telling me I’ve arrived, but I can’t see the house.”

Natalie sighed. “Well, I entered the postcode you gave me. Where are you?”

“I don’t know. Hang on, I’ll look.”

Two old women chatting over a nearby gate stopped to stare at her. Uncomfortable with their scrutiny Liz drove on, past a tiny stone chapel and a smart wooden hut. A sign outside said ‘Pemberley Village Hall’.

She stopped and picked up her phone again. “It’s Pemberley village. How do I find the house?”

“No idea,” her friend said cheerfully. “You’ll have to ask for directions.”

“Gee, thanks. I’ll ring again tomorrow and let you know how I’m getting on.” When Nat wished her luck, Liz said goodbye and climbed out of the car. She leaned against the top of the door and sighed. It would be dark soon and she didn’t relish the idea of being lost in the middle of Derbyshire. Where was she supposed to go now?

Just as she’d decided to turn back and ask the two gossiping women, she saw a white-haired man cycling towards her, the pedals squeaking with every turn. He slowed to a halt when she caught his attention.

"Excuse me? I'm looking for Pemberley House. Can you tell me how to get there?”

The furrows on his brow deepened. “Is t’ Master expectin' ye?”

“I hope so. My appointment with Mrs Ellis was for four...”—she glanced at her watch. It was already half past—“but I’m running a little late.”

“You'd best follow me then, Lass, an' I'll show ye how t’ get on.”

Liz jumped back into her car, determined not to lose sight of her unlikely saviour in the gloom.

Turning his bicycle around, he set a steady pace until they reached the corner of the green. Here, he took the road that ran in front of the pub, his gaze turning wistfully towards its welcoming glow before heading for a shadowy lane she hadn’t spotted before.

They negotiated between two overgrown hedges, the road barely wide enough to admit one car. Then the man wheeled his bike onto the verge and propped it on its stand.

Liz wondered why he had stopped. When she climbed out of her car to ask him, the scene altered, reminding her of those pictures where a vase suddenly becomes two faces in profile. As her perspective changed the hedge on the left, which had appeared impenetrable while she sat in the car, now revealed an ornamental gateway.

She knew the owner was reclusive, and she’d assumed there might even be a security guard and CCTV cameras. What she hadn't been expecting was a pair of rusty black gates, half covered by shrubbery, which looked as though no one had opened them in decades.

“Are you sure this is the entrance to Pemberley House?”

“For visitors ... aye, Lass,” he replied, tugging at some knotted ivy tangled around the wrought iron scrollwork. “Master don’t ‘ave many visitors.”

Beyond the gates the drive looked more like a disused cart track cutting across a field, while the remains of a tumbledown lodge, fire-blackened and broken, huddled beneath the spreading branches of an old oak tree.

Seeming to sense her reluctance he waved a bent finger, his croaking voice echoing in the shadows. “Follow the drive straight down. Ye can't miss it.” The gates squealed in protest when the old man pushed them open. He stepped back, inviting her through.

Liz thanked him and returned to her car before setting off down the weed choked driveway. She watched in her rear-view mirror as he closed the gates behind her. The rutted track looked as though it had been muddy in wet weather and she had to concentrate to keep her wheels out of the deepest parts.

She drove through the beautifully preserved ancient woodland and past a herd of roe deer cropping grass in their pasture. The trees and the road winding between them seemed to go on forever, but just as Liz began to wonder whether she'd reach the house before midnight, her car crested a rise and she stopped to take in the scene below her.

It was a sight she had dreamed of for the last three years.

Pemberley House stood on the opposite side of a narrow valley. She traced the road as it wound down the hill to a small stone bridge arching gracefully over a swollen stream. A reflection of the rising moon glinted off the water as it wended its way across the valley floor before swelling into a large pond in front of the house. Liz suspected it had been fashioned in the late 18th century and landscaped in the natural style popular at the time. A wide stand of mature trees grew on the opposite hill that rose behind the house, and the perfectly manicured lawns stretched out around the house.

In the morning the sunlight might shed a harsh reality on the situation, but in the twilight of this slightly damp autumn evening everything on the opposite bank of the river appeared immaculate, as though time had stood still in this little Derbyshire valley.

* * *

Liz parked in front of the main entrance. The twin stairs, rising up to meet in front of a large black door, seemed so large and grand, a far cry from the modern office where she worked. As she reached across to the back seat for her bag, she heard footsteps on the flagstones.

The woman standing on the top step had the stately bearing of a duchess, and looked down at Liz as though she were the lowliest of kitchen maids. Worse, a kitchen maid who had dared to use the front door instead of going around the back to the servants’ entrance.

“Miss Bennett?” She glanced pointedly at her watch. “I expected you sooner.”

Liz locked the car and carried her bag up the stairs. “I’m sorry. There was an accident on the motorway. It brought everything to a stop for a while and I was stuck between exits.” She clamped her teeth together to stop herself babbling, a nervous habit. The woman’s look reminded her of a former headmistress at her primary school. Perhaps it was the waves of silver hair but she looked way past ready for retirement.

The older woman pursed her lips, as though trying to decide whether she could refuse entry on the grounds of tardiness. Seemingly against her better judgement, she said, “I’m Mrs Ellis, Mr. Bingley’s secretary.”

Liz hoped her smile was apologetic enough. “Pleased to meet you.” Mrs Ellis turned on her heel and walked back through the open door, leaving Liz to follow.

Stepping across the threshold, Liz’s mouth dropped open as she lifted her head. Silver grey marble with dark veins formed a large part of the chilly entrance hall. Her gaze drifted from the acanthus finials topping the ionic pillars to the intricate plaster cornices bordering the carved ceiling covered in gold leaf. A long chain dropped from the centre, supporting a large chandelier made up of hundreds of crystal pieces. The wide staircase clung to the sides of the room as it ascended to the first and second floors, the exposed surfaces beneath the stairs decorated with gilded plasterwork. Mirrors on opposite walls reflected a myriad staircases and chandeliers.

Although Liz had been in a number of stately homes before and seen many beautifully decorated rooms, her first glimpse of Pemberley left her breathless and shivering with anticipation. She’d dreamed of this moment for so long and the reality was so much more than she could have imagined. 

Mrs Ellis, however, appeared unmoved by the beauty of the house. She had already reached the far corner of the room and turned around to cast a disapproving glance in Liz’s direction. “Come, Miss Bennett. There will be time enough for gawking later.”

Liz mumbled her apologies and traced the secretary’s steps across the great hall and into a short corridor. Her eyes darted all over as she tried to take in the details of the décor and ornament, but Mrs Ellis’s pace precluded more than a cursory glance. They reached a door that looked identical to all the others and the older woman opened it wide. Liz scooted inside, feeling like a naughty girl sent for punishment.

Inside, the decoration appeared simple and the modern furniture expensive. Behind the desk, Mrs Ellis looked even more like a headmistress than before and Liz felt a twinge of discomfort under her stern gaze.

“Before I show you to your room, I thought it prudent to clarify some boundaries for your stay here. Mr. Bingley is a busy man, with many calls on his time.”

That explained why it had taken so long before she’d received a reply to her letter. “Oh, I understand. If someone would show me to your records, I’ll be as quiet as a mouse. He won’t even know I’m here.”

Mrs Ellis looked as though she’d sucked a lemon. “I would be interested to know what would make a … a journalist so interested in this particular house.”

She spat the word journalist in much the same way others would say mass murderer. Liz thought of herself as a historian who just happened to write for a magazine. She’d never felt much like a journalist at all. The first job offered to her after leaving university was on the staff of ‘History Uncovered’, one of the foremost publications in its field. It meant she could make a modest living writing about things that really interested her. The most important part about the job was the independence it gave her. She didn’t have to live at home any more.

“Although I work for that magazine, they didn’t send me here. My interest in Pemberley is personal.”

“So you said.” The secretary picked up a letter from the neat pile in front of her.

It took Liz a moment to recognise it as the one she’d written two months earlier. The one Mr. Bingley had, against all her expectations, replied to personally.

“You learned about Pemberley from a book?”

“Yes, when I was a student. I came across a rare 19th century volume in the library, called Bancroft's Guide to the foremost country houses in the United Kingdom. That was the first time I’d ever heard of Pemberley.”

Liz shivered as she remembered the moment she’d turned the page. Published in 1815, the book had described some of Britain's most elegant homes and included many hand coloured plates—a skill for which Mr. Bancroft was legendary. While he’d intended his project to be a showcase for his artistic talents, among the more familiar names of Chatsworth, Woburn and Longleat were some lesser known properties built in the 17th and 18th centuries.

As soon as she’d glimpsed the elegant proportions of Pemberley, a feeling of déjà vu had sent a shiver down her spine. That frisson of interest had compelled her to find out more about the property and its inhabitants. “I wanted to discover more about the house, but I had no success in the libraries and archive offices. That’s why I decided to write to Mr. Bingley.”

In an age of email and SMS, his reply—handwritten in ink—had seemed to come from another time. Mr. Bingley had thanked her for her interest in the history of his house and invited her to view the property and its grounds at a mutually convenient time. However, his invitation had been for more than just a brief visit. He had granted her five days to access Pemberley’s library and the family’s own archives.

Five short days to discover why Pemberley held such mystery for her.

Now Liz was here, Mrs Ellis seemed less happy with the arrangement. “I accept the building is your primary interest, but you must appreciate this is a family home, not a museum exhibit. Mr. Bingley is a private man, unused to receiving visitors. He has asked that I make you familiar with the library and the estate manager’s office, where we keep the bulk of the records, but I hope you will refrain from wandering around the house like a tourist. He will be happy to show you some of the rooms himself, and answer any questions you might have, but you will have to be patient. He is very busy.”

Mrs Ellis paused a moment, waiting for her acceptance of the house rules. When Liz agreed, she said, “I do not expect you will see Mr. Bingley often, but when you do I would ask you to remember that it is this house you have come to see, not its owner. Neither are we a dating service. If you are here looking for a rich husband then you might as well go home now.”

Liz almost laughed out loud. She’d never had much to do with boys her own age, let alone one old enough to be her grandfather. “I only want to find out more about the house, Mrs Ellis. I have no ulterior motive for being here.”

“Perhaps,” she said, unconvinced. “Please refrain from asking him any personal questions unconnected with the history of the property. His life has not been … easy, and I do not want you upsetting him.”

She accepted the secretary’s strictures, making a mental note to be careful how she spoke to Mr. Bingley. The last thing she wanted was to anger him to the point of bringing on a stroke or a heart attack.

The secretary took out a second sheet of paper and laid it on the desk. Liz scanned through the confidentiality document, which restricted her from writing about, or otherwise communicating, any aspect of the current owner’s life. However, it did allow her to publish her research into the history of Pemberley, as long as Mr. Bingley could approve the manuscript before she offered it to any publishing house.

Liz signed her name on the dotted line and handed it back, considering her agreement a small price to pay. By stepping through the door of Pemberley, so many of her dreams had already come true, so she didn’t think they were asking too much of her.

On the way to her bedroom, Mrs Ellis moved so briskly Liz sometimes had to run to keep up. Once they had climbed to the first floor, they walked along a corridor, turned a corner, and continued along a slightly worn carpet. Eventually, the secretary stopped at a door that looked very much like all the others.

Mrs Ellis led her through into a spacious bedroom where an antique four poster bed, draped with green and cream brocade, dominated the room. Liz walked across to the windows, which looked over the rear prospect. The lights from the house illuminated a graceful swathe of manicured lawn dotted with large trees that faded into the darkness. She’d half expected to find an overgrown wilderness but instead had discovered perfection. “What a lovely view, and a beautiful room too.”

“Mr. Bingley chose it.” Mrs Ellis’s words held an element of reluctance, as though she would have put her somewhere entirely different, such as the attics or next to the kitchen.

Liz smiled. It really would not have mattered if she had been above the stables. The location was perfect. If she was lucky she would be able to watch the sunrise in the morning.

Just being at Pemberley was all her dreams come true.

When the older woman left, Liz began unpacking her bag. She hung her clothes in the Chippendale wardrobe, placed her hair brush and gel on the delicate mahogany dressing table and dropped her battered copy of Jane Eyre on the night table.

Digging her mobile phone out of her pocket, she held it up as she walked around the room, but found no hint of a signal. She wasn’t surprised. Why would anyone bother to build antennas in such a remote location? Liz dropped the useless device on the dressing table, pulled out her laptop and plugged it into a socket to recharge. Then she kicked off her shoes and sat on the bed, stretching her legs out in front of her.

Liz closed her eyes, listening hard. No car alarms crying for attention, no drunks shouting in the street and no sirens blaring. Just the wind gently buffeting the windows and the odd creaks and groans that she would expect in such an old house.

It was peaceful and calm. A perfect place to work.

* * *

Darcy stood in the shadows of the second floor landing as the secretary showed the young woman to her room. Could this be Elizabeth? From this distance it was hard to tell. He had waited so long he did not wish to raise his hopes too far, only to have them dashed as they had been so many times before.

Despite the similarity in their names, she looked nothing like his Elizabeth. Her cropped blonde hair stuck out at all angles, as though she had suffered an electric shock. It made her look more like a boy than a girl. Her clinging blue t-shirt highlighted her protruding collar bones and ribs, as though she was half-starved like the wretches he had once seen cowering in the gutters of London.

A statement of fashion? Or evidence of a harsh life already lived? He didn’t yet know but that alone was enough to pique his curiosity.

He was well aware how much England had changed in the last one hundred and ninety years. Although many of the alterations were for the better, such as the astonishing advances in medicine and social reform, he shook his head at the fragmentation of families and the demolition of polite society.

As she’d climbed the stairs, the young woman suddenly lifted her face. He drifted back into the darkness. He had hoped to find something familiar in her, something to tell him she was the one he’d been waiting for, but he could not reveal himself yet.

He wished he were close enough to see into her eyes. Surely he would be able to recognise those fine eyes, even after all this time.

~~<>@<>~~

Chapter two

Liz woke the following morning with sunlight on her face as it streamed through a crack in the curtain. For a moment she felt a strange disorientation because the window in her flat faced west. Then she remembered her journey north to Derbyshire, and her inauspicious arrival at Pemberley.

She’d eaten dinner in her room the previous night, the whole experience feeling slightly surreal. Her large bedroom reminded her of the kind of room you’d expect to find in a five star hotel, except without a television or a mini bar. Someone had even delivered her three course dinner on a silver tray, like room service, complete with domed covers to keep the food warm.

Now wide awake, Liz stared at the canopy above her head, studying the pleated chintz gathered into a centre coronet. She‘d never slept in a four poster bed before, particularly one that looked more like a museum exhibit than a place where real people might relax. The carved posts were massive. Even wrapping both hands around one, her fingers hadn’t touched.

She stretched her arms across the cool linen, revelling in the space. The last time she remembered lying in a double bed was when her father was alive, shivering in his arms when she’d woken in the night after a bad dream. She had vague recollections of feeling safe and loved with her father, but that special time when there’d been just the two of them had been a long while ago. Once he’d remarried the whole atmosphere had changed and Liz had learned to keep her nightmares to herself.

Slipping from beneath the covers, Liz felt a chill around her ankles. The three large radiators on the walls didn’t throw out enough heat to fill the high space, so she wrapped her dressing gown about her and pushed her feet into her slippers. The clock on the mantle struck eight and she grabbed her wash-bag from the dressing table.

Liz had no idea when or where they’d serve breakfast but she wanted to be ready. Despite the previous night’s lavish dinner, her stomach rumbled. She didn’t usually eat first thing in the morning and blamed the country air for her improved appetite.

She opened the door and peered into the empty hallway, tiptoeing along the chilly corridor to the next room. She’d already used the bathroom the previous evening, but this morning it felt like a walk-in freezer. They could hang a whole cow in there and it would still be fresh a week later.

Finding the cord of the old fashioned wall heater she stood under it for a moment, enjoying the burst of warm air blowing on her face while the hot water tap ran.

Liz had often enjoyed daydreams about living in a grand house like Pemberley, particularly when her own studio flat was so pitifully small. She hadn’t bargained on the disadvantages such a large property might bring, though, such as having to wait for the hot water to travel through the maze of pipes. She eventually filled the basin, sinking her hands to the bottom and allowing the heat to seep through her skin, dispelling the chill from her bones.

After a few minutes of blissful contemplation Liz washed her face and cleaned her teeth before heading back to her room. She was half way down the corridor when she heard measured footsteps coming closer.

A gentleman in a dark suit loomed above her in the dimly lit hallway. Specks of grey dusted the dark hair at his temples and he held himself with the bearing of a military man. His unlined face made his age difficult to calculate, but he surely could be no less than sixty five. He carried a folded copy of the Times under one arm.

He stopped a short distance from her door and bowed his head. “Miss Bennett?”

Liz blushed, embarrassed to be caught in her dressing gown. “Yes … yes, I am. It’s nice to meet you … er … Mr. Bingley.”

His thin lips twisted into a short lived smile. “My name is Reynolds. I am Mr. Bingley’s butler.”

She longed to warm her fingers from the heat that surely must be in her cheeks by now. “Oh! I’m sorry. I haven’t met Mr. Bingley yet, so I thought …”

The butler made no comment, but bowed his head again. “Breakfast will be served in the south parlour from eight-thirty.”

“Thank you.” Liz smiled at him then frowned. “The south parlour?”

“Mrs Ellis will wait in the hall to show you the way.”

Thanking him again, Liz retreated to her room and finished dressing. She pulled the tags from a plain, long sleeved jersey top and shrugged it over her head, checking her reflection in the mirror. The tailored black trousers were smarter than her usual style but she still felt under-dressed. Unfortunately her wardrobe was sadly lacking in what she would call ‘posh’ clothes, and she wanted to save her few best things for the evenings.

Liz had no idea whether Mr. Bingley would want her to eat with him at all during her stay, or whether she would end up dining alone in her room every night. Although it would be lonely she could hardly complain. After all, she wasn’t really a guest here. Only a poor writer with an insatiable curiosity for someone else’s house.

An icy gust trailed across her shoulder blades like the caress of cold fingers and she shivered. She wasn’t surprised the house was freezing when there were so many draughts.

The clocks had barely finished chiming the half-hour when Liz started down the main staircase. When she reached the bottom Mrs Ellis appeared by her side.

“Good morning, Miss Bennett. I’m pleased to see that your tardiness does not extend to mealtimes.” She turned away without a backwards glance, but this time Liz expected it and followed her, no longer surprised by the woman’s animosity. They took a different route from the previous evening, walking down a wider hallway until Mrs Ellis reached a pair of doors standing open.

The room inside was intimate for a house the size of Pemberley. It wasn’t much larger than Liz’s bedroom. Along one side three sets of French windows allowed access to the gardens. A long case clock ticked loudly in the corner and a polished sideboard ran along one wall. In the centre, eight chairs surrounded a small oval table, covered with a yellow cloth. Liz imagined how wonderful it would be to eat breakfast here when it was warm enough to open the doors and let the outside in.

There was only one set of cutlery on the table. Liz looked to Mrs Ellis, who must have read the question in her eyes. “Mr. Bingley took breakfast early this morning. He had something to attend to.” She glanced at her watch. “If you wait in here when you have finished, I will escort you to the estate manager’s office.” Her gaze swept the room as though cataloguing the contents then she left.

Liz wondered who else might use the other seven chairs. Was there a Mrs Bingley? A young Master or Miss Bingley? Were his children grown up with families of their own? Did Mr. Bingley enjoy visits from his grandchildren? His personal life was none of her business, she knew, and yet she could not help but wonder what sort of a family inhabited a home like this.

A rattle of china came from beyond the door and moments later the same young woman who’d delivered her dinner the previous evening pushed a trolley over the threshold. “Mornin’, Miss.”

Liz smiled in response to her cheerful welcome. “Hello.”

“I’m Kelly by the way,” she said as she laid a selection of crockery on the table.

“My name’s Liz.”

“You’re going to be working in the estate office for a while, aren’t you?” Kelly asked, her accent proving a challenge for Liz to keep up.

“Yes, that’s right.”

She looked at Liz’s top. “You might want to pop a jumper on, if you’re nesh.”

“If I’m what?”

“It’s chilly in the office. I’d put an extra layer on, ‘specially if you feel the cold.” She placed another dome-covered platter on the table, uncovering it with a flourish. “I hope you’re hungry.”

There were sausages, scrambled eggs and beans, and Liz thought she spotted some fried bread lurking beneath several streaky rashers of bacon. Before she could say anything, Kelly lifted another cover to reveal a full toast rack. Pots of butter, jam and lime marmalade followed, along with a jug of milk and another one of orange juice. Finally, from the bottom shelf of the trolley, she produced a pot of coffee, some hot water, tea bags and a sugar bowl.

“How many more people are you expecting down for breakfast, Kelly?”

She grinned. “This is yours. You look as though you need feedin’ up.”

Liz did her best to do justice to the mountain of food in front of her, but there was enough for a family of five and she didn’t normally eat large meals.

Once she’d finished Liz pushed herself away from the table and walked to the windows. A rose garden, with gravel paths formed in the shape of a wheel, lay just beyond. A delicate marble fountain stood where the spokes met in the centre, the falling water droplets shining like diamonds in the autumn sunlight. Contrary to her expectations there didn’t seem to be a leaf or a blade of grass out of place. So much for imagining Pemberley as a neglected ruin.

She turned when she heard footsteps behind her. Mrs Ellis looked down at the food left on the table and frowned, whether because of the waste or her lack of appetite Liz had no idea.

They left the room and walked down the hall together, passing through another set of doors. Liz gasped at the grandeur of the room beyond. The salon was around twelve metres long and at least eight wide. It included a marvellous chimney piece on the inside wall, carved with delicate flowers and detailed leaves, an artistic masterpiece in its own right. A row of tall windows let in the light and offered a panoramic view of the rear lawns and the estate beyond. Chairs ranged around the fireplace, although one high-backed leather armchair appeared more worn than the others. She could imagine her host sat before the fire with his feet up on the stool, a book in one hand and a glass in the other. “Does Mr. Bingley spend a lot of time in here?”

Mrs Ellis nodded and Liz noticed the first softening in the secretary’s demeanour. “This room and the library are his two favourite rooms in the house.” She headed for one of two doors in the wall to their right and ushered Liz through.

The library appeared to be around half the size of the salon, but was still an impressive sight. Books covered the available wall space on three sides, while blinds shaded the high windows on the fourth wall to keep out any damaging sunlight. An oak desk stood near the fireplace, with a few neatly stacked papers on one side. Although tidy, the collection of pens and the silver letter-opener lying on the top suggested it was where Mr. Bingley answered his correspondence. Mrs Ellis indicated the far end of the room where two smaller rectangular tables stood together.

“Mr. Bingley ordered these tables set up for you to use while you are here. If you need to, you may use the library up to five o’clock in the afternoon. After that time, access will depend on Mr. Bingley. He prefers to work alone, you understand.”

They left the room and returned to the salon before opening the second of the doors. This led to a corridor and a short flight of steps descending into a narrow curved hallway that seemed bare compared to the rest of the house. Half way along they stopped at a simple panelled door, painted brown. Liz couldn’t imagine any of the rooms in the main house having plain brown doors, so she assumed they had entered one of the two service wings.

Mrs Ellis took a key from her pocket and turned it in the lock. The darkened room had only two dusty windows at the back providing meagre illumination. Then a harsh fluorescent strip flared into life.

Old books and ledgers covered one wall from floor to ceiling. Maps and estate plans almost entirely covered another. On the third wall, to Liz’s left, she saw a large metal door with a dial and a circular handle.

It was this door that Mrs Ellis went to next, shielding the dial with her body as though it contained the Crown jewels. Liz heard a clicking noise as the dial spun left and right. Eventually there was a clunk somewhere deep inside. The secretary turned the handle clockwise and pulled. The heavy door, over a foot thick, eased open. The strong room seemed almost as large as the office, lined with wide shelves filled with papers and filing boxes.

Mrs Ellis brushed dust from her hands. “I assume you know what you are looking for?”

“Yes, thank you.” Liz had no idea where to start but she’d work better without an audience.

“Then I will leave you to it.”

Thankful she was now on her own—Mrs Ellis creeped her out a little—Liz delved into the piles of paper and books, hoping to find something that might shed light on Pemberley’s hidden history.

* * *

She’d been in the office for little over an hour when a tingling sensation on the back of her neck made her turn around.

The man leaning against the door frame, watching her work, looked to be in his early thirties. His face—noble, with just a trace of hauteur—wouldn’t have been out of place in the pages of GQ, his poise and confidence distilled over generations. Above the black riding boots, fawn jodhpurs clung to his thighs like a second skin, and he’d rolled the sleeves of his plain white shirt casually up to his elbows. Only a genuine member of the gentry could carry off such intentional carelessness, while still appearing impeccably dressed.

In the silence that followed, he inspected her with an intensity that made her blush.

Liz jumped out of her chair to face him. “You surprised me. I didn't realise you were there.”

He frowned but said nothing. Liz put up with his silent appraisal for a few moments before raising her eyebrows. “Can I help you?”

He blinked, shaking his head. Then he gave her a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry. Please forgive my deplorable manners.”

She took a breath to calm her racing heart. That smile should come with a health warning. It bought his handsome features alive. Hoping to distract herself, she said, “I thought there might be something in my hair, or smudges on my face from all these dusty papers.”

He leaned closer. “No, there are no smudges. You are Liz Bennett.”

Curious to know whether he was a member of the family or just visiting, she acknowledged his statement with a nod. “And you are?”

Laying his gloves and crop on one of the tables he sat in the other chair behind the desk, crossing his ankles ahead of him. “William Bingley.”

She wondered how many other children Mr. Bingley had, and whether they were all as taciturn. “It’s nice to meet you. Pemberley is a lovely house.”

“You like it then?”

“I haven’t had the chance to look around much yet,” she replied regretfully, “but what I've seen so far has exceeded all my expectations.”

“Yes. I have a soft spot for it as well.” His eyes softened, as though just thinking about his home brought back happy memories.

Liz waited, but he didn’t speak again. Wanting to fill the silence, she said, “That’s fortunate. So, no plans to sell it off to developers when you inherit?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m sorry. I thought you might be Mr Bingley’s heir. Do you have a brother?”

“Brother? No, Pemberley has been mine for a while.” He frowned again. “You were expecting someone ... older?”

She clapped a hand across her mouth, wanting the earth to swallow her whole. At no time had she ever imagined the Mr. Bingley who had replied to her letter to be anything other than a grey haired old man of sixty, or even seventy. Had he asked, she could not have pointed to one single thing that had given her that impression, although his letter had probably not helped. She had made a stupid assumption, based only on the fact that he chose to reply to his correspondence by hand. She knew better than that. “Mr. Bingley, I'm so sorry!”

He laughed. “Please ... call me William.”

“Oh no. I don't think I can.” Liz could now see why Mrs Ellis acted like a lioness protecting her cub. Not only was her boss young enough to be her youngest son, he must have women throwing themselves at him from all sides.

“You're a guest here, Miss Bennett. Besides, Mr. Bingley sounds so formal ... not to mention old.”

“Well, if you put it like that, I suppose Miss Bennett does too. You can call me Liz, if you’d like.”

“No one would make the mistake of thinking you old.” He gave her a questioning glance. “You’re not an Elizabeth?”

She sighed as she leaned against the filing cabinet. “Well, yes, I was christened Elizabeth, but I prefer Liz.” Her step-mother’s preference for Elizabeth had put Liz off the old-fashioned name long ago.

Nodding his head he leaned back into the chair, watching her under his dark brows.

Liz wasn’t used to such close scrutiny and she squirmed a little where she stood. Attempting to avoid the awkward silence she tore her eyes from him and glanced around the room, searching for another topic of conversation. “I wasn't quite sure what I'd find when I came here, but I’d prepared myself for the worst. I expected Pemberley to be at least partly ruined.”

Sitting forward, he propped his elbows on the desk, folding his fingers under his chin. “I couldn't let Pemberley fall into disrepair. It's my home. I've lived here for much of my life.”

Liz tried to restrain her curiosity but failed. “That was one thing I’d wondered about. How long has Pemberley belonged to the Bingleys? When did your family buy the estate? No official records survive for this area and I’ve not been able to pin down a specific date from other sources.”

“They didn't buy Pemberley. It passed into the Bingley family through inheritance. The house has never been up for sale. I can trace the ownership right back to when the land was first granted to the D'arcys after the conquest.” He waved towards the strong room. “You should find the deeds in there somewhere, on the left.”

“I'm surprised you never went the route of other historic houses by opening your doors to the public to defray the cost of maintenance.”

William’s piercing gaze dropped to the desk as he drew circles in the dust. “I don't want any visitors. I prefer to maintain the tranquillity here.”

“Oh? Then what am I?” Liz spoke before thinking and quickly regretted it, but her host seemed unperturbed. “What ... what I meant was ... well, why did you invite me?”

Mr. Bingley shrugged, but didn’t look up. “You seemed interested.”

“I am, but if you don’t like having visitors I'm surprised you were willing to allow me here.”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers, holding her gaze. “In your letter, you described being drawn to the illustration of Pemberley in Bancroft's book. That image is also one of my favourites. His original oil painting is up in the gallery. I felt … I thought, as you appeared to have an empathy with the estate, I might regret refusing your request.” He looked away, releasing her from some spell as he spoke to the floor. “Besides, I doubt whether a negative response would have completely dampened your enthusiasm for the project.”

Liz smiled at his perception. “You're right. I've been dreaming about Pemberley for so long, it would have been hard to accept defeat.”

His face took on a serious expression as he raised his head. “I understand. It is difficult to let go of something you desperately want sometimes.” After another patch of silence, he glanced at his watch and jumped out of the chair. “I should change. Mrs Ellis is expecting me and she will have my head if I turn up in my riding gear. Will you excuse me?”

She nodded her agreement and watched as he strode purposefully from the room. With William Bingley's departure, the room felt somehow different. His life force had filled the space in a way she had never before experienced.

Liz wondered if he had the same effect on all the rooms of the house.

~~<>@<>~~

Chapter three

An hour later, Liz was cursing herself for letting Mr. Bingley leave so easily. Although she hadn’t expected anyone to show her around the house on the night of her arrival, her daydreams had often involved an extensive tour on her first full day. From what Mrs Ellis had said, it seemed that any viewing would be at the whim of her host, and then only when he could fit it into his schedule. If his appearance hadn’t surprised her quite so much, she might have thought to ask him while she had his attention.

If she’d known in advance how young the owner of Pemberley was, or how handsome, Liz would have been sick with nerves long before she even stepped over the threshold. Handsome men had always unnerved her. It had been the same ever since university, when she’d been the ‘geeky history girl’. While she’d had her crushes just like everyone else, none of the good looking ones had given her a second glance, and she’d been too busy to develop any meaningful social life.

Not only was William handsome, in a rugged Burberry-model kind of way, it appeared he wasn’t short of a pound or two either. Under any other circumstance she would be a quivering wreck by now.

Shaking her head as though to empty her thoughts, Liz looked at the piles of documents surrounding her. They were an historian’s dream come true. Had anything ever been thrown away? It seemed as though every tradesman’s bill, inventory, ledger and day book were stored in the strong room, going back over the last two hundred years at least. There had also been relatively few structural alterations, the biggest changes being the simple pleasures of indoor plumbing, heating and electricity; the kinds of things most people now took for granted. There were invoices from stonemasons who had made repairs to the fabric of the house and bills from decorators and cabinet makers, when rooms had been refurbished and new furniture ordered.

A small painting on the wall illustrated Pemberley’s south side, a façade of the house she’d never seen. All her dreams had focussed on the north facing elevation. Although she’d visited a number of well stocked libraries, including the British Library in London, Mr. Bancroft's illustration showing a Palladian fronted mansion set in a landscaped park was the only image from the nineteenth century she had been able to locate. She’d even bought a copy of the print from an internet auction site and pinned it to the wall by her bed. The successors of that guide book had printed the same image for a handful of editions before dropping the grand estate of the Darcy family, the original owners, from later versions.

Local directories covering the area had mentioned little of the estate or its residents, and it wasn't until she sent a letter of enquiry to Derbyshire Archives that she received proof that the building had survived into the twentieth century. Even then, the only photograph they held was a grainy black and white aerial shot taken in the seventies as part of a local environmental survey, the house no bigger than her thumbnail in the background.

It was almost as though someone had sought to erase Pemberley from history.

And yet now she was sleeping here, like a princess in a castle. She was glad she’d not told Amanda about her invitation. Her step-mother was the worst kind of social climber and Liz didn’t want to imagine the lengths she might go to in order to secure a visit while Liz was here.

Liz spotted a roll of papers sticking out from one of the higher shelves. When she spread them out on the desk—the corners weighed down to stop them rolling closed—she realised they were blueprints for the house, drawn up ten years earlier at the time they’d last renewed the electric wiring.

Her fingers followed the corridors from the marble entrance hall, through to the south parlour where she’d eaten breakfast. The large salon and library were easy enough to spot, and she traced a path along one of the two single story wings to the set of offices where she now sat. But there were so many other rooms she hadn’t so much as glimpsed yet. At least three drawing rooms and a state dining room on the ground floor alone.

On the opposite side of the house, the second wing contained the kitchens, still room, dairy room and cold store, as well as a house-keeper’s room. There were many bedrooms, bathrooms and closets upstairs, while a long gallery stretched across one side of the house on the first floor.

Liz was still studying the plans of the house when the master of the house returned. In place of his jodhpurs, he now wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a soft cream shirt, open at the neck. “Found anything interesting?”

“Oh yes, lots of things. Did you know the previous occupants of Pemberley were compulsive hoarders? They never threw anything away.”

“That’s good for you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course, but I never expected to find anything quite like this.” She pointed to the blueprints. “These plans are great. It’s made me realise just how big Pemberley is. I’m looking forward to seeing all these rooms for myself.” Liz bit her lip, hoping her hint wasn’t too subtle.

He smiled. “I know you came primarily for the house, but I thought you might like to see the garden after lunch. The weather is forecast to turn wet tomorrow, so it might be your best chance this week.”

She pushed down a mild irritation. Although Liz liked gardens, it was the house and its history that she had come for. But she was his guest, and therefore somewhat at his mercy. “That sounds great,” she said, forcing herself to smile.

* * *

Walking through the house with William was a very different experience to being with Mrs Ellis. William didn’t so much walk as stalk down the corridors, like a lion on the plains of Africa. She also noticed a marked difference in his behaviour. Unlike his earlier reticence, William now seemed completely relaxed as he paused to point out objects of interest, reciting the history of each painting and sculpture for her benefit.

As they sat down at the table, Kelly arrived pushing her now familiar trolley. William had ordered a light lunch, or so he’d said, but the lasagne covered her plate leaving little room for any salad. Kelly hovered, pouring drinks and making Liz uncomfortable in a way she’d never felt when she’d been eating alone.

It was a relief when William told Kelly she didn’t need to stay. After reminding him that their dessert was on the sideboard, she left.

The tension left Liz’s shoulders as she sat back in her chair. “Don’t you find it a bit strange, having servants around all the time?”

“No, not really.”

“But you don’t have any privacy. That must be hard to live with.”

William twirled his fork between his fingers as he caught her eye. “But they’re not just servants, they’re also my friends. They’re like family to me.”

“It feels odd, having people cook my meals and wait on me.” Especially when she had usually been the one doing all the work.

“You’d rather make your own meals?”

“Well, no. I don’t enjoy cooking,” Liz admitted, as she prodded what was left of her lunch. The plate was still half full.

He wiped a spot of sauce from the corner of his mouth. “That’s obvious.”

“What is?”

“That you don’t like to cook. It’s probably why you’re so thin.”

Liz glanced down at the wilting lettuce leaf on her plate and sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with how I look.”

He chuckled. “Fishing for compliments, Miss Bennett?”

Her annoyance flared and she raised her eyes to glare at him. “You were the one who brought the subject up. I was only trying to explain I’m happy with my body as it is. I don’t eat huge meals. It’s a habit I got into.”

“Because you think thin is attractive?”

“No, because at university sometimes I had to pick between buying a book I needed or having a hot meal. Cash was tight. Even with two jobs the book often won.”

The idea that someone might have to choose between one thing and another because of a lack of money seemed alien and it took him a moment to digest the concept. Eventually, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” His eyes searched hers. “Am I forgiven?”

She nodded, taking another mouthful of food to cover her confusion. When he looked at her like that it was difficult not to forgive him.

He smiled as he watched her pushing the food around her plate. “You don’t have to finish that if you don’t want to.”

Liz laid her fork down. “Kelly is a good cook.”

“She had a good teacher. Are you ready for our walk?”

“I’ll just grab a coat from my room.”

William escorted her to the bottom of the stairs and was waiting when she returned. He now wore a waxed jacket over his shirt and jeans, perfect for the English countryside. He glanced at her short denim coat that fastened snugly around her hips. “Are you sure you’ll be warm enough in that?”

His concern warmed her more than the coat. It had been a long time since anyone had worried about her comfort. “I’ve got a jumper on underneath. I’ll be fine.”

Leaving the house by the front door, they set off across the lawn towards the large, natural-looking pond. William, for the most part, remained silent and Liz knew she was beginning to babble as she asked questions to keep up some form of conversation. As they walked part-way around its edge, which was a little boggy in places, William offered his hand to steady her as she trod the rough ground.

Not thinking, she reached out to take it, and experienced a shock where their skin touched.

Surprised, she sucked in a breath and let him go, just as one of the stones beneath her began to sink into the mud. Liz fell back, towards the lake, wheeling her arms to regain her balance.

“Careful!” William grabbed her around the waist, pulling her towards him.

This time, the sensation that flowed through her at his touch felt more like a lightening strike and she gasped, unable to breathe. When her gaze flicked to his face she wasn’t surprised to find two soft brown eyes staring back at her. Had he felt it too? Liz searched his face, but his expression betrayed nothing except a natural concern that she shouldn’t fall in the water.

Once he’d made sure she stood on solid ground, William withdrew his hands, sinking them deep into his pockets.

Liz tested her footing. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually have a problem standing upright.”

“The ground around the lake can be pretty treacherous at this time of year,” he said, his voice remaining calm. “Perhaps we should move somewhere a little safer.”

Giving the lake a wide berth, he led her around the side of the house and through a shaded walk. Liz recognised the rose garden with the small fountain she’d first spotted from the breakfast room window. The gravelled paths radiated out in all directions. As they walked down one of the paths, William began to speak about the gardens, describing how his mother had designed some of the sections. By the time they’d reached the end of the path he sounded like a walking guide-book, seeming to know who had planted each tree or bush, and when.

As they rounded the corner, they came to a brick wall, eight or nine feet high, with a solid wooden gate set into it.

Liz smiled. “Oh, how lovely! A herb garden!”

William’s head whipped around to look at her, his right hand frozen on the gate. “How did you know it was a herb garden?”

Pausing, Liz sniffed the air. “Easy. I can smell the lavender.”

He frowned. Turning the handle, he pushed the gate wide, signalling for her to precede him.

As she stepped through into the walled garden, her steps faltered. It was a herb garden. Low box hedging marked out the different sections and it all looked just as she imagined it would. However, the season was getting late and the dead blooms of the lavender plants now waved in the breeze like skeletal fingers. “I could have sworn I smelled lavender in the wind.”

“Maybe you did.” William shrugged, but his eyes watched her warily.

He was offering her an excuse, and she knew it. Just like she had known beyond a doubt that the walled garden had contained herbs. She laughed, but it sounded false to her ears. “Who knows? Perhaps I visited here in a former life.”

William nodded thoughtfully. “That’s always a possibility. It could have been recognition that drew you to the Bancroft print. Bancroft was sketching here at the time this garden was being planted ... but perhaps you remembered that.”

“Remember? No, of course not. I was joking. How could I remember something that happened almost two hundred years ago?"

She waited for a reply, but instead of answering William walked away from her, deeper into the garden.

Liz paused, wondering whether she would be welcome if she followed him. A niggling doubt in the back of her mind made her worry that she’d done something—or said something—to upset him, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what.

Instead of following him, Liz took a different route; one she could see eventually joined with the path William had taken. As she walked, she watched him from the corner of her eye. Occasionally he would bend and straighten a label, or break off a dead stem. Then he stopped in the middle of the garden, his shoulders sagging as he looked down, his shoe scuffing against the gravel.

Seeing him like that, Liz felt an overwhelming urge to comfort him. She quickened her pace and moved closer. “William? Are you okay?”

He straightened his shoulders, as though he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. “Sorry. This place … it brings back too many memories.” Looking up, he held her gaze. “This was my wife’s favourite part of the garden.”

Feeling a lump growing in her throat, Liz tore her eyes away. His wife? Of course he was married. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? A man as good looking as he was had to be married.

Then she replayed his words, noting the past tense, and wondered if they were divorced. No, William wasn’t divorced but widowed. She was sure now. His expression and body language spoke of sorrow and loss. Although his wife could have left him, Liz found herself hoping it had been a more permanent separation.

When she’d recovered enough to look at him again, she realised he was watching her, waiting to see how she would react to his admission.

“I’m sorry," she whispered, meaning every word.

He shrugged, brushing off her sympathy. “We were only together briefly. It was hard for me to deal with at first, but these things are supposed to get easier with time.” His brief smile had a bitter edge to it.

It certainly explained why he might hide himself away. Stepping closer, she was not surprised when he offered her the support of his arm. It seemed an unconscious gesture on his part, as though he sought only the comfort of another human being.

They continued down the path and Liz saw they were making for a bench, set back within the border. When they reached it, both sat down.

They remained seated for a while, neither feeling any urge to speak. It didn’t seem necessary. Liz spent most of the time gazing across the garden to the dark trees of the parkland beyond, wondering what it might be like to be the wife of the man who owned it all.

What sort of woman had he married? Was she beautiful? Rich? Most importantly, Liz wondered if he still loved her. Given his reaction to the garden, she feared that was indeed the case. It made his isolation here all the easier to understand.

When Liz glanced back to William she was surprised to meet his eyes. She’d been so deep in thought, she had no idea how long he’d been staring at her.

After a few seconds he turned away. “I’ve just remembered there’s something I need to do this afternoon. Will you be okay returning to the house on your own?”

“Yes, of course,” Liz replied, ignoring the stab of disappointment she felt inside. She’d already developed a preference for his company. Perhaps it was merely because the alternative was being alone. That was something she should be used to by now, but things seemed different here.

He smiled as he stood, but she could tell his heart wasn’t really in it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He walked down the path, his hands deep in his jacket pockets and his attention on the gravel ahead. Just before he passed from view, he glanced back. William was too far away for Liz to clearly see the expression on his face, but he appeared troubled.

That night, after a lonely dinner delivered to her room, Liz soaked in the bath before curling up under the bedcovers. She wondered where William Bingley was at this moment, imagining him sitting by the fire in the salon, with a book in one hand and a brandy in the other.

Her reaction to William’s touch this afternoon had surprised her. She hadn’t even known him a day, yet she felt inexplicably drawn to him. An image of his face formed in her mind, and she recalled the sensation of his hands around her waist.

Liz sighed. In reality, William Bingley was nothing more than the pleasant subject of an unattainable daydream. The last thing she wanted was to spoil her research project by developing a crush on the owner.

The secretary’s words of the previous evening returned with crystal clarity: “If you are here looking for a rich husband then you might as well go home now.”

Liz had not come to Pemberley looking for a husband. She’d come here to do a job and she would do it, as professionally as possible. There was no reason for her to be anything but friends with Mr. Bingley. No reason for Mrs Ellis to protect her employer.

He was quite safe from her.

Opening her book, she turned up the corner of the page, where Mrs Fairfax attempted to explain her master’s nature to Jane Eyre.

“I don’t know—it is not easy to describe—nothing striking, but you feel it when he speaks to you: you cannot always be sure whether he is in jest or earnest, whether he is pleased or the contrary; you don’t thoroughly understand him, in short—at least, I don’t: but it is no consequence, he is a very good master.”

Liz felt the housekeeper’s description seemed to fit the Master of Pemberley almost as well as the Master of Thornfield. He could move from light-hearted to melancholy in the time it took to spin a coin.

She pulled the covers closer around her body, as she struggled to concentrate as Jane continued the tour of her new home. The words swam in and out of focus, and her eyelids weighed heavily. Moments later she drifted into unconsciousness.

* * *

~~<>@<>~~

Chapter four

When Liz opened her eyes she was no longer in her bedroom at Pemberley, but another very similar in size and shape. Something about the bed was different and the furniture had changed. Now an oriental lacquered armoire stood on the right and a large dressing table sat in front of one of the windows. The walls were different as well; the wallpaper decorated with lifelike branches, populated with yellow, green and blue budgerigars.

The other unusual thing was the man standing by the window. His features were indistinct. The more she tried to focus on him, the hazier he grew. Despite her lack of success, Liz continued to concentrate on his face because she was too embarrassed to look anywhere else.

One of his hands rested on the glass in front of him, while the other hung by his side. The early morning sunlight traced the curves and planes of his naked body, leaving a warm glow in its wake. Although she couldn’t see his eyes Liz knew he was staring into the distance, watching the sun climb past the horizon.

Then he turned to face her and she felt such a strong swell of emotion in her chest she could barely contain it. It seemed like her heart was trying to claw its way out of her body just to reach him.

The faceless man sauntered towards her before pulling back the bedcovers and settling in the space by her side. Liz could now see what had bothered her about the bed before. The rumpled sheets spread across the whole width, not just on one side, as though this man had been with her through the night. She blushed at the thought.

He moved closer, gathering her to him. “What’s wrong, Lizzy?” His voice, soft and gentle, seemed vaguely familiar. He pulled her across him until her head rested on his chest, his right arm holding her close.

“I think I must be dreaming.”

She heard the rumble of his chuckle deep beneath his ribs.

“Would you like me to wake you now?”

Her reply was more honest than prudent. “No, thank you.” She lifted her head, straining to see his face. At this distance his features sharpened. Liz gasped and she opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word he pulled her face towards his, kissing her.

For a second she resisted but he swept all her thoughts away with the persuasive power of his mouth on hers. Welcoming him, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

A loud bang startled her awake and Liz sat up, gasping, her eyes barely open as she searched the room. She only relaxed once she’d convinced herself she was alone. The vision had felt so life-like, more like a memory than a dream. Her heart rattled away in her chest and she breathed deeply to calm herself.

Her book lay open on the floor, the cover a little more creased and battered.

Now Liz knew she was safe her conscious mind struggled to grasp the strands of her dream, trying to recall glimpses of it before it drifted away like a spider’s web blown by the wind.

Her cheeks were hot and Liz covered them with her cool hands, wondering how she could face William when her mind was so full of him.

* * *

When Liz finally arrived in the south parlour for breakfast, she didn’t expect to find the object of her dreams waiting for her. She blushed as soon as she saw him, recalling brief images from the vision she’d experienced the night before. Why could she not think about something else? Was her brain so lacking in stimulation that she had to obsess about her host? Did she miss the TV and internet so much that she had to entertain herself with thoughts of William Bingley?

He looked up from his newspaper. “Good morning. I still owe you a tour around the house. I thought you might want to see some of it before you started work today.”

She smiled, pleased to see that his strange mood from the previous afternoon had disappeared. “I'd love to. I’ve spent many hours imagining what it might be like.”

“I hope the reality doesn’t disappoint.”

“It won’t. My imagination isn’t that good.”

Just then Kelly arrived, her trolley laden with enough food to feed a small army. As though trying to set a good example, William worked his way through a full plate of sausages, eggs, beans and bacon. He forbore to comment when she selected her usual smaller portion.

When they’d finished he took her down a familiar corridor which led to the salon. She’d been in the room before, with its gilded ceiling and cream and gold wallpaper, but a second visit could not diminish the impression it had made on her. There were vases and busts on pedestals, old family photographs and paintings dotted around the room. Liz's eyes swept along the longest wall, with its landscapes and formal portraits in gilded frames. Some of them stretched right up to the cornice while even the more modest canvases were still as tall as Liz.

She stopped in front of a family group that took pride of place above the mantelpiece. Her host dated it to 1796. Liz looked up to see a solidly built man wearing a neat white wig and dark, long tailed blue coat. A gold chain draped across his waistcoat and a seal hung from the waist of his stone coloured breeches. His wife, dressed in a pale blue gown, sat by his side looking down adoringly on an infant of indeterminate sex who had been captured learning to crawl on its mother's knee. To the father's left stood a serious looking young boy of ten or eleven years. "Who are these?"

"This is George and Lady Anne Darcy painted by Joseph Wright of Derby. Wright completed the portrait six months before Lady Anne’s death and her husband died about eleven years later. He never recovered from her loss and mourned her constantly during his remaining years."

"That’s a long time to be mourning ... almost as long as they had been married." She heard him sigh and regretted uttering her thoughts aloud.

"I think you will find that the length of time you spend with someone bears no relation to how long you mourn." William paused for a moment, examining the painting before returning his attention to the conversation. "The child on Anne Darcy's knee was their daughter Georgiana while the young boy was Fitzwilliam."

Liz rubbed at the goose-bumps on her arm. "Named after his mother's family, I believe."

"You have been doing your homework."

She shrugged, not wishing to appear immodest. "I spent a few hours at the Family Records Centre. I wanted particularly to find out more about Fitzwilliam Darcy. He always sounded so … oh, I don't know, romantic, I suppose. I've been curious about him ever since I first heard his name, maybe because he was the owner of Pemberley at the time Mr. Bancroft completed his illustrations. I had no problem finding his baptism here in Derbyshire and I even managed to locate his marriage, in Hertfordshire of all places. But after that, the only thing I found in the local parish registers was his wife's burial a few years later. It's odd actually. His wife's maiden name was Elizabeth Bennet, the same as mine, except with one 't' instead of two. I found no mention of Georgiana Darcy at all; no marriage and no burial."

"No, you wouldn’t have. Georgiana Darcy travelled overseas and married an American called Thomas Hudson. They had five children, two boys and three girls, and they both lived to a good age."

"So the last Darcy died in America."

William turned away from the painting. "Fitzwilliam left Pemberley to his godson Thomas Bingley."

"Not to one of his sister’s children?"

He shook his head. "They did not want to leave their country of birth and Pemberley had been left empty for long enough."

Liz stared into the dark, serious eyes of the young boy in the painting. "Are there any portraits of Fitzwilliam Darcy taken when he was older?"

"There are one or two upstairs, I think." He wandered through into the library. “Mrs Ellis says she has shown you around here already.”

“We came in here for a few minutes, but I didn’t really get the chance to appreciate it.” She glanced up at the ornamented ceiling, where a panoply of gods looked down from the heavens. “It’s one of the most beautiful libraries I’ve ever seen.”

“I take it you’ve never viewed the library at Chatsworth.”

“No. I’ve never been to Derbyshire before.”

“We’ll have to go some time. It’s a fine house.”

Liz smiled. “And, unlike you, they’ll let anyone in.”

“Yes, quite the cottage industry.” William laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the old Dukes are turning in their tombs to see their descendants in trade.”

She ran her fingers lightly across the spines of the books. The library appeared well organised, with books on one subject kept together, until she reached one particular section. Crouching down, she took a closer look.

“Found something of interest?” William asked, dropping to one knee by her side.

“I don't quite know. There are some beautiful books on this shelf, some are even first editions, but the subjects are mixed. Are they together for any particular reason?”

“No good reason, really. Those books were all purchased at the same auction in 1812, although not, I might add, on the same day. They formerly belonged to the Duke of Roxburgh.”

“Ah yes, I remember reading about that auction. Didn’t the sale last for more than a month, because there were so many books?”

“Forty-two days, including the whole of a very wet May.” He looked down at the titles with a wry smile. “They’ve been sitting together a long while. I suppose it’s time for them to be relocated to the correct sections.”

“Please don’t move them. Change for the sake of change isn’t always a good thing. Sometimes keeping things as they are is good too.” 

“Is that the historian in you talking?”

Liz grinned. “Yes, very probably.”

“Fine. They can stay where they are … for now.”

He led her out of the library and through another door to the great dining room. Almost as large as the state room, with an equally ornate painted ceiling, the dining room boasted an enormous table and enough chairs to seat twenty in comfort. A long sideboard stood against one wall and Liz opened the narrow door beyond it, confirming that it accessed the servant’s stairs.

"You are curious, aren't you?"

"Of course,” she called back over her shoulder as she peered down the narrow steps. “It's the only way you learn anything."

“The wine cellar is below.”

Liz retraced her steps. “That’s convenient.”

“It can be. Unfortunately the kitchens aren’t quite so handy.” They returned to the dining room and she followed him through another door into a small anteroom decorated in a much plainer style. Kelly’s trolley sat dejectedly in the corner. Beyond it, five steps took them down into the second wing—the mirror of the one where the estate manager’s office was located. “In this part of the house you’ll find Kelly’s office, the larders, scullery and the dairy. Right at the end of this corridor, past all that, is the kitchen. Kelly is the best person to show you around that part of the house.”

Liz couldn’t see the end of the corridor as it curved half way down. “It’s a wonder you’ve ever eaten a warm meal.”

“I suppose it’s something you just get used to. Fridges and freezers have replaced the old ice house and pantry, and microwave ovens are a great invention … or so Kelly tells me.”

"You've never used a microwave?"

"I never needed to. That’s what I have Kelly for."

Liz tried to imagine what it must be like to rely on others for food and clean clothes. Did Mr. Reynolds shave him in the morning? Could he even dress himself? She balked at the idea of asking that question.

Retracing their steps to the main part of the house, he crossed the room to a door in the opposite corner, which opened into another living space. “This is the Red Drawing Room.”

The rich red of the walls and carpet contrasted nicely with the warm cream of the sculpted ceiling and intricate moulded cornice, while complimenting the main portrait in the room. It was the likeness of an old man, with the long white wig and the miniver trimmed scarlet robes of a High Court Judge. "That is Justice Ambrose Darcy, painted in 1787. Two years after this likeness was taken he argued with King George during one of his Majesty’s bouts of illness and retired from the bench."

"It takes a brave man to argue with a King."

"Or an unlucky one. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Leaving that room, they crossed the marble hall to reach what William described as the Common Sitting Room, although Liz couldn’t see what was so common about it. With its fine collection of Chippendale furniture, vibrant yellow wall coverings and views of the front gardens, Liz thought it a lovely room. An antique pianoforte sat gathering dust in the corner.

“This was once a music room but it hasn’t been used for many years. Do you play, Liz?”

Just the sound of her name on his lips was enough to make her pulse flutter. “Um, I had lessons as a child but I doubt I can remember anything much now.” She depressed the high ‘c’, noting from its dull tone that it was out of tune.

“Perhaps I should call someone in to sort that out.”

“Please, not on my account. It was my least favourite hour of the week. I never went past the basics.” Looking to change the subject she stood before the carved stone fireplace, studying another large family group above the mantelpiece. A man with curled light brown hair and laughing eyes stood behind a serene beauty whose blonde ringlets framed her face. The full skirts of her green dress surrounded her and a number of children of different ages gathered around the couple.

"This is the Bingley family, painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence in 1826. Jane Bingley was formerly Jane Bennet, the elder sister of Elizabeth Darcy. Their second son Thomas is there, on the right, behind his mother. The eldest, named Charles after his father, stands here on the left, while young William is down here, playing with the kitten. These two girls were Elizabeth and Caroline; the twins were Jane and Mary. Louisa was their youngest, born seven months after this portrait was completed."

Thomas Bingley appeared to be around eight years old and seemed slightly uncomfortable with one hand resting on the back of his mother's chair. When Liz pointed this out, William explained that even though the artist might have been one of the foremost portrait painters of the day, as well as holding the title of President of the Royal Academy, it was no guarantee his young sitters would warm to him.

Liz laughed. "You're right. Children make their own minds up about people, don't they? I don't suppose young Thomas Bingley knew his godfather very well."

"Hardly at all."

"But he was grateful to inherit Pemberley?"

"Yes, I believe he was very grateful," William replied as he continued through the next door into what he called the Blue Room.

Liz fell in step beside him. "And did Thomas have a family?"

"No, he did not, although he was a very popular uncle."

"So, no children of his own to inherit? What happened to Pemberley when he died?"

"His younger brother William lived here for a while with his family." He pointed up at a pair of paintings of a middle aged man and a plain faced woman wearing an unflattering cap of lace over her hair. "This is William and the lady next to him is his wife Mary. Here is a group showing Mary and her four children. The youngest one—this one with his grandfather’s curly hair and ready smile—is Samuel Bingley, who inherited Pemberley from his uncle."

Liz imagined the family tree in her head. “Right. Was he your grandfather or your great grandfather?”

“Neither. He didn’t marry.”

“What is it about the Bingley men? Is Pemberley cursed?”

William shrugged one shoulder. “Perhaps the gentlemen didn’t want to get tied down ... or maybe they were just waiting for the right woman to come along.”

“I thought back then begetting an heir was the most important thing?”

“Obviously not.”

There were a number of smaller portraits in this room and William introduced each one, peppering his descriptions with anecdotes of years gone by in a way that only someone whose family had lived in the house for hundreds of years could ever hope to emulate. Liz frowned. “Do you have a portrait?"

“I do, but it’s not down here.” He looked around him, as though getting his bearings. “That's all the main rooms on the ground floor but there’s something else I’d like you to see outside. Something I didn’t get a chance to show you yesterday.”

Not having any real objection, Liz agreed.

He took her back through the house past the office where she’d been working. At the far end of the curved corridor a half glazed door led to a yard surrounded by low outbuildings. He crossed the yard on a diagonal path towards the stables, ignoring the drizzle of rain that surrounded them. Liz ran after him hoping to avoid the worst of the wet weather.

The stables were dark and quiet, reeking of animals and musty straw. Liz had never been inside a stable before and it made her a little nervous.

William, however, walked past the empty stalls as though they were his second home, which, Liz thought wryly, they might well be.

At the end of the building they found the only two occupants. Liz knew nothing about horses, except that one was black and the other brown. Both stood taller than their owner. One snorted when they saw him coming while the other whinnied and stamped its hoof.

Two chunks of carrot appeared in William’s hands and for a minute Liz listened to their appreciative crunching. He entered one of the stalls and stroked the long neck of the black horse. “This is Remus and his brother there is Romulus.”

Liz surveyed the two horses from the furthest wall. They’d pricked up their ears when he’d mentioned their names, so were clearly intelligent.

William tore his attention away from Remus to look at her. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Although she couldn’t in all honesty call herself a horse person, there was no doubt they were handsome and graceful, not unlike their master. “Yes, of course.”

“But you don’t like horses.” His laugh came like a whisper in the darkness. “I should have guessed.”

“It’s not that I don’t like horses. I’ve just never had much experience with them. You don’t get to meet many horses in my part of London, unless I happen to pass by when they’re Trooping the Colour.”

He held out his other hand to her. “Come and say hello.”

Liz took one tentative step forward, looking up at Remus’ mobile ears. Were all horses this big?

William’s soft voice carried across the faint noises in the stable. “He won’t bite.”

With that reassurance she moved forward again, studying the elongated face of the black, surprised by how long his eyelashes were.

“Remus,” William said conversationally. “This is Liz. Liz, this is Remus.”

The horse nodded, tossing his glossy black mane as though in greeting. Liz tried to take a step back, but stumbled instead into William’s chest.

He put a hand on her shoulder to steady her but made no attempt to move away. She sensed the warmth on her back where their bodies touched. Then he slowly slid the same hand down her arm, sending a shiver across her shoulders as her heart rate doubled.

His lips hovered by her ear. “Would you join me for dinner tonight?”

Liz tried to swallow but her mouth was dry. “Dinner?” The question came out as a squeak.

She heard the smile in his voice. “Yes. You know … it’s that meal people usually eat at the end of the day, sometime between lunch and supper.”

“With you?”

“Consider it a belated welcome to Pemberley.”

~~<>@<>~~

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