Chapter five

Grosvenor Square, London. 1817.

Darcy had spent the last few hours willing Elizabeth’s suffering to end, but he hadn’t realised until now how silence could be worse than listening to his wife’s agony. He held his breath until he thought his lungs would burst, but the sound he waited for never came. His heart constricted as he realised its portent.

Elizabeth would be devastated.

He jumped to his feet when the doctor slipped through the door, closing it carefully behind him. Although the man’s hands were clean, blood had soaked into the edge of his rolled up sleeves and crimson spots marred the front of his white shirt.

Darcy took a deep breath, expecting to hear the worst.

“I am sorry. We did everything we could, but the umbilical cord was wrapped so tightly around—”

He held up his hand, not wanting to hear more, knowing there would be time enough to grieve for his child later. For now, the only thing that mattered was that Elizabeth recovered from her ordeal. “My wife?”

The doctor’s grey eyes reflected his concern. “She is not as well as I would like.” He wrung his hands. “Mrs Darcy has lost a lot of blood and is still weak.”

“Can I see her?”

“I think it would be wise.”

He led the way into Elizabeth’s chamber. Darcy had been pacing the hall for what felt like days. Her groans had reached his ears, even through the thick oak, and he now wished he had insisted on remaining by her side throughout her ordeal regardless of whether the doctor permitted it or not.

He had never in his life felt as useless, or as impotent, as he did at this moment.

Elizabeth lay on her side, her knees drawn up to her stomach. The counterpane covering her to the shoulder was suspiciously smooth and clean, but evidence of her suffering lingered in the bowl of cloudy red water left on the nearby table and a jumble of stained sheets on the dressing table.

Dropping to his knees by the bed, he cupped her cheek in his hand. “Lizzy?”

She opened her eyes at the sound of his voice, but they quickly flooded with tears. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, I am so sorry.”

“Sorry for what, my love?”

“For … for not …” She inhaled deeply, her lips quivering as she struggled to hold back the tears. “For your son.”

Darcy looked to the doctor for confirmation. The older man nodded his head before glancing towards the dressing table. What Darcy had believed to be merely crumpled sheets shrouded the stillborn body of his son and heir. He breathed in slowly, clenching his teeth, knowing it would not help for Lizzy to see his own agonising disappointment. Mastering his emotions, he whispered, “You cannot think it your fault, my love. It was not to be. There will be other children.”

She closed her eyes briefly, as though in pain. “We waited so long for this blessing. What if there are no others? What if I never …?” Her voice faltered, no longer able to speak her fears out loud.

He tried to reassure her, even as his own heart was breaking. “As long as you are with me, I have everything I want.” Taking her hand, he held it tightly between his own. “I need you, Lizzy,” he hissed. “Only you.”

Opening her eyes again she gave him a weak smile. “Then we will grow old and grey together, my darling. I only hope I can give you an heir before that time arrives.”

He heard the doctor’s cough, a less than subtle indication it was time for him to leave. He kissed her cheek. “You must be exhausted. Go to sleep now, and we will talk again tomorrow. Never forget I love you.”

“And I love you.” Her fingers flickered in his grasp, even as her head rolled against the pillows as she fell into an unquiet slumber.

Darcy woke the following morning to news of Elizabeth’s death. A voice, filled with pain and fury, cried out. It took a few moments for him to recognise the voice, and the anguish, as his.

The grief tore mercilessly through him, as though someone had forced their hand down his throat, cleaving his heart out. Enveloped in a blackness that seemed to have no end, he barely existed through the next few days. Eventually, his brain registered movement, and he found himself in his carriage headed for Pemberley, where his family would gather to pay their final respects.

Once at home, Darcy wandered the estate like a man barely alive. People spoke to him with little expectation of a reply. The servants, themselves mourning the loss of a beloved mistress, executed their tasks in silence, passing through the house like ghosts in a mausoleum.

On the morning of the funeral frost covered the ground, sparkling like diamond dust on the blades of grass as the solitary coffin sank into the damp earth. Friends and family remained long after his neighbours had left. He knew he should be grateful for their presence, but he could not summon even one shred of appreciation. Their understanding only seemed to make things worse.

Gradually, the house emptied. His aunt and uncle took Georgiana back to town with them. Richard, loath to leave, was required back on duty. Only Charles and Jane—mourning the loss of a beloved sister—remained behind. Sometimes, Darcy found his sister-in-law’s empathy a comfort, but other days the sight of her face alone could send him spiralling back into the black abyss.

The light was gone; the candle that had illuminated his life, snuffed. Days tumbled into each other, time passing with no meaning.

After the despondency came the anger. Elizabeth had left him, taking their son and leaving him alone. How could he bear the solitude? Even with a house filled with guests he felt isolated, deserted. Loneliness crushed him like a millstone, extinguishing his spirit.

He began to imagine her voice calling to him like a siren, tempting him towards her. He wanted to be with her, wanted to fill the chasm where she had lived in his heart, and in his addled state he saw only one way to achieve that goal.

The case felt heavy in his hands as he removed it from the drawer. He flicked the catch with his thumbnail and raised the lid. The silver mounting on the Mantons caught the light from the window. He hefted one in his hand, feeling the weight against his palm. How long had it been since he had last felt anything? Elizabeth’s death had stripped his senses, leaving nothing but an empty shell.

Despite the air filling his lungs, he was as good as dead.

Wandering to the stables he dismissed the groom, preferring to saddle a horse himself rather than suffer the boy’s sympathetic glances. He rode out, heedless of time or direction, embracing the sensation as the wind scourged his skin, as though Mother Nature herself wanted to punish him for Elizabeth’s death.

The animal beneath him snorted nervously, flattening its ears, prompting Darcy to survey his surroundings—an isolated patch of moorland at the very edge of his holdings. He dismounted, slapping the beast’s rump. The sting on his palm seemed an all too brief moment of pain in a world with no sensation as he watched the horse gallop away down the valley. There was no need for it to witness his pain.

Darcy sat on a nearby rock, the loaded pistol cradled in his hands. His mind wandered, time slipping past without a whisper. The autumn air pricked his cheeks and scoured his lungs, but he felt disconnected from his body, shackled to the earth by the thinnest of threads.

Somewhere beyond his pitiful existence Elizabeth waited for him. There was no question; they had to be together. She was the other half of him, of his soul, joined in such a way death could not separate them. His beloved … forever.

It only needed a moment for them to be reunited.

The muzzle of the gun felt icy cold against his temple, his finger crooking around the trigger as he sought to sever himself from his earthly existence.

* * *

By the time Liz left the stables, she felt faint. Why did she always struggle to breathe around William? It was as though his presence sucked the oxygen out of the atmosphere, leaving her lightheaded.

She’d excused herself to return to her work, but she almost turned back as she walked down the tiled hallway. Liz found it too easy to talk to him. They shared a fondness—she might go so far as to call it a passion—for this beautiful old house. His feelings were understandable; it was his home, after all. Her emotions were harder to explain.

Liz had always loved old things: antique furniture, nineteenth century literature, and even period dramas on television. Anything that showed life as they’d lived it in an earlier time. But since her first sight of the Bancroft print her interest in Pemberley had almost bordered on an obsession.

Was it right for her to have similar feelings about its owner?

She’d initially been overwhelmed by William’s proximity, but Liz realised she was becoming more comfortable in his company. His presence didn’t stun her as much now, unless he came too close, as had happened in the stables.

From the moment he’d held his hand out to her—urging her to meet his horses—the butterflies in her stomach had taken off, swooping in an intricate formation, setting off tremors like mini-earthquakes. She recalled again Mrs Ellis’ words of warning on her first night, and wondered what the old woman would say if she’d witnessed her employer asking her to dinner.

It wasn’t as though she’d come here expecting to find the owner attractive. It had been quite the opposite. Her treacherous thoughts and feelings had flown from somewhere deep inside her, like Pandora’s Box, and William had held the key.

A frisson crawled along her shoulder and down her arm, following the path William’s hand had taken. Liz wondered whether he’d felt the spark when he touched her, whether his hand had tingled as it trailed down her skin. She closed her eyes, remembering the moment, shivering as an icy draught mimicked his caress.

Liz hugged herself, wishing she’d worn something warmer. She jumped up, closing the door before fetching one of the ledgers from the shelf and getting back to work. Despite having access to all the information she could ever wish for, she found it difficult to concentrate. Every few minutes she would turn in her chair, glancing at the door, half expecting him to be standing there, watching her.

She opened the book in front of her, smoothing the pages back against the desk. The steward’s crabbed handwriting recorded the seed he’d purchased, and which field it had been planted in. The yield from the clay pit and the quarry. The breeding stock bought, sold and mated. She found a fascinating family tree detailing the off-spring of Theseus, one of Pemberley’s finest stallions.

Liz wondered whether William had fathered any children. What had happened to his wife?

She considered asking Mrs Ellis, but soon discarded that idea. The old woman wouldn’t appreciate her curiosity. But surely someone must know what happened to Mrs Bingley?

Liz continued turning the pages, although the details barely registered anymore. Instead of the narrow copperplate hand, she imagined William’s eyes looking out from the paper; his stare holding her attention far easier than the dry ink ever could. His hot breath echoed against her ear as she again recalled the moment when he’d asked her to dine with him. She smiled as she imagined the small dining room transformed into something more intimate for an evening meal, then blushed when she realised the tricks her mind had begun to play.

Shaking her head, Liz refocused on the ledger, combing through timber sales and purchase orders. She jotted down some notes, building up a picture of life at Pemberley in the nineteenth century.

Near the end of the book she found a note scribbled in the margins, describing the fire that had destroyed the lodge in 1933. Three generations of the Harrison family had died in their beds, the smoke incapacitating them before the fire took hold. She’d noticed the burnt-out structure by the main gates and wondered why no one had rebuilt it, or at least demolished the ruins.

A twinge in her shoulder made Liz wince and she flexed her arms above her head. She’d been sitting in the same position for too long and needed a break. Liz considered taking a walk in the garden, but remembered the secretary might not approve of any unauthorised wandering without a chaperone.

Thinking about the damaged lodge reminded Liz about the village, the closest inhabitants to the Pemberley estate. It was also the nearest place she knew that had a mobile signal, and Natalie would be wondering why she hadn’t called. Liz decided to drive back and have a look around. Perhaps, once she’d spoken to Nat, she would also find one or two people there who might share memories of life in earlier times.

* * *

Darcy watched Liz close the last book. She frowned, rubbing her shoulder. Had she grown stiff through sitting, or did the frown denote some dissatisfaction with the progress of her work?

He wondered what she’d expected to discover in those old papers and ledgers. He could have told her anything she wanted to know. Despite their rather dry subject matter, the old steward’s accounts had kept her occupied for a number of hours, but Darcy hadn’t minded. He found watching her to be an equally stimulating pastime.

This waiflike creature seemed incapable of hiding her emotions. She wore them openly for anyone to see. Expressions passed over her face like storm clouds racing ahead of an easterly wind. One moment she would frown, the next her lips would lift into a brief smile. After a few moments her brow contracted into worry, relaxing before she turned the page.

What went through her mind when she tugged at her earlobe like that? Or when she blushed? He found the pink flush on her cheek rather endearing. He only wished he knew what caused such a reaction.

Did she ever think about William Bingley?

Darcy felt something gnawing at his insides. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear it was jealousy. It annoyed him that it was William Bingley she smiled at, William Bingley who had assuaged her curiosity in the house and derived such satisfaction from making her breathless in the stables.

If this was Elizabeth—and he grew more convinced of the truth of it with every moment she spent under Pemberley’s roof—it should rightly be Fitzwilliam Darcy she fell in love with, not William Bingley.

But that was impossible. Liz Bennett could never fall in love with a dead man.

He looked around, realising she’d left the office. He hadn’t heard her go, but it didn’t worry him. It was only a matter of time before he came across her again.

As long as she remained within the walls of Pemberley, he would always find her.

* * *

Liz crept upstairs to her room, grabbing her coat, phone and car keys, before sneaking back down to the hall, all the while rehearsing her excuses should she come across Mrs Ellis. However, it appeared luck was on her side, and a short journey later Liz parked her car just inside the old gates, not wishing to disturb the rust any more than absolutely necessary.

The blackened stonework of the old lodge was little more than a shell. Most of the charred roof timbers had long rotted, and young trees had already taken root within the broken walls. Liz imagined the tongues of flame leaping from the window openings, their sooty trails like a bloom of mould across the dull limestone.

The few dead leaves on the branches above her head rustled in the breeze. Liz kicked a moss covered stone half buried in the ground as she pondered the impermanence of life.

Her own mother had died within a week of her birth. Her father had stayed with her for ten more years before he too had left her. Here a whole family had been killed—mother, father, sons and daughters, grandparents. Ten people wiped out in one stroke. What a waste.

She wondered whether they had been happy, living together in such a small building. Her own home had been spacious by comparison. A large, well decorated workhouse, where she’d been the only inmate ... well, the only person who had done any work, at least.

Saddened by the direction of her memories, Liz shook her head, slipped out between the old gates and dug her phone out of her pocket. She walked down the lane towards the village, impatient as the tiny device searched. The antenna appeared in the top corner, accompanied by one lonely little stick. Not a strong signal but better than nothing. She pressed the buttons and waited for Natalie to answer. It felt good to hear a familiar voice on the other end. “Hi, Nat.”

“Why didn’t you ring me before? I’ve been worried about you.”

The note of concern warmed her. “You sound like your mother.”

“With good reason. I haven’t heard from you since Sunday. You might have been sold as a sex-slave and be half way around the world by now.”

“Relax. You read too many tabloids. I’m quite safe. The valley is a bit of a telecommunications black spot. No mobile signal, no internet…”

“Jesus, Liz. I thought you’d only gone to Derbyshire, not back to the Victorian age.”

“It does feel as though I’ve travelled back in time. You would’ve been pulling your hair out by now. There’s no TV either.”

“No telly? You’ve volunteered for sensory deprivation.” She heard Nat’s exaggerated shudder. “How can you stand it?”

“Oh, it’s not so bad. The people here are … nice and there’s plenty of material to work on. I’ve been so busy there’s been no time to miss the home comforts. I just wanted to let you know I’m still alive.”

Nat sighed. “It’s been weird at work. No one else appreciates my bitching quite like you.”

Liz laughed at her mournful tone. “I might not get a chance to ring again but I’ll see you sometime on Saturday, okay?”

“Take care, Liz, and drive carefully.”

They said their goodbyes and Liz hung up. Hearing Natalie’s voice had made her happy, but she regretted not being able to tell her about the last two days at Pemberley. Liz would have loved to talk about William and the time they’d spent together, but she knew Nat too well. Her best friend would most likely tease her about her first real crushand the story would be all over the office by the time she returned.

Liz’s curiosity about William was too new, and she still needed to make sense of her strange reactions to him in her own mind before she felt comfortable discussing them with anyone else.

She dropped her phone into her pocket, turned up her collar against the autumn wind and headed towards the village green.

~~<>@<>~~

Chapter six

The dusty window display of the village shop looked as though it hadn’t changed in years. A yellowed Pukka Pies advert leaned against the glass next to sun-bleached cereal boxes and dented cans of cat food. Like many rural corner shops it stocked a wide range of items for those who did not have transport to travel to the nearest supermarket. Plant pots, fishing rods and fuses shared the shelf space with staple food items like eggs and bread.

A bell rang above her head as she pushed open the door. Liz hadn’t expected to find it so busy. Two middle aged women were behind the counter. One used a cheese wire to slice a lump of white cheddar from a large block. The other, perched half way up a ladder, reached for a jar of mint imperials on one of the higher shelves.

The three waiting customers made the shop seem overcrowded. One of the patrons wore a silk headscarf and leaned heavily on a walking stick. She chatted with a silver haired woman in a black wool hat. The third seemed slightly younger than the others and she carried a Yorkshire terrier under her arm.

At the sound of the bell they all turned to look at Liz, their gossip momentarily forgotten. The terrier growled and his owner reprimanded him with a tap on the nose.

“Don’t mind Henry, dear. He would never hurt a fly.”

“Except when he bit Michael’s ankle,” the one in the black hat added thoughtfully.

“It was dark, wasn’t it, my darling?” The dog’s owner seemed determined to exonerate her pet from all blame.

The lady with the walking stick took a step closer. “Good morning. You must be Miss Bennett. It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear. Are you enjoying your visit to Pemberley?” Although she appeared the eldest of the three, her voice was firm and strong.

Liz wasn’t in the least surprised they knew her name, or where she’d come from. “Yes … yes, thank you.”

“I am Violet Reynolds.” She moved her walking stick to her left hand as she held out her right to Liz, who shook it politely.

“Reynolds? Then is Mr. Reynolds is …?”

“My son.” She smiled proudly. “He took over the position from his father, God rest his soul.”

Liz quickly calculated her age. She’d guessed Mr. Reynolds was at least sixty, so she couldn’t be any younger than eighty.

Mrs Reynolds introduced her companions. Miss Fisher, the lady in the black hat, bade them a brisk farewell as soon as she’d paid for her cheese. Mrs Thompson stayed a moment longer, choosing two or three more items from the shelves before leaving with her shopping basket in one hand and a yapping Henry under her arm.

“And this,” Mrs Reynolds continued, “is Mrs Tibbetts and her daughter Alice. They do a wonderful job of keeping this shop well stocked for our modest needs.”

Liz had to admit the amount of inventory they’d managed to cram onto the shelves was impressive. She’d already tripped over a broom handle that had been sticking out at odd angles next to the mouse traps and slug pellets.

When Mrs Tibbetts asked what she needed Liz’s mind went blank. Curiosity had prompted her to enter the shop and she hadn’t intended to buy anything. Glancing around the nearest shelves she grabbed the first thing she felt she could use. Liz paid for the toothpaste and followed Mrs Reynolds outside.

The old woman settled her basket more comfortably in the crook of her arm. “So, what do you think of the big house?”

“It’s beautiful. More so than I ever imagined.”

“I agree, although some might say we are a little biased here.”

They were walking towards the pub as three men came towards them, heading for the door. From a distance, Liz thought they were too young to drink. She wasn’t over tall, but none of them came above her shoulder. As she looked into their faces though, their weather beaten skin and bushy beards showed their age.

“Tom, Dick, Harry,” Mrs Reynolds addressed them in greeting.

“Mornin’, Mrs R,” they said, almost in unison.

“How’s your mother?”

“Much better, thanks,” one said, smiling at Liz.

“That’s good. Tell her I was asking after her.”

Mrs Reynolds nodded toward the swinging doors as the men disappeared into the Green Dragon. “They’re good boys, the Dawsons. Not too bright but strong workers. Thomas is the friendly one. Dick is more thoughtful. Mr. Bingley wanted him to go away to a fancy school, but he wouldn’t leave his ma. Harry is a handful, but he’s good with the animals. There are another four at home, all boys. I don’t know how Betty copes with ‘em all.”

Liz wanted to ask whether the whole family were as short as those three, but before she could open her mouth, Mrs Reynolds said, “You look half starved, my girl. What’s the matter? Is Kelly not feeding you?”

Liz laughed. “Yes, more than enough!”

“Quite right. The master doesn’t like to see anyone go hungry.”

The feudal title sounded odd on the lips of the old woman, but the pride in her voice shone through. She obviously considered Mr. Bingley a God amongst men—the Lord of the Manor.

Mrs Reynolds tapped her stick on the pavement, interrupting Liz’s thoughts again. “I worked at the house for more than forty years, you know.”

“You did?”

“Oh, yes. I was cook and housekeeper until I retired. I taught my granddaughter all she knows.”

“Do many people from the village work at the house?”

“Everyone living here has either worked on the estate in the past, or does so now. Why, the whole village belongs to Mr. Bingley, including the shop and the pub.”

“He owns it all?”

“Every single brick, my dear.”

Liz looked at the village in a new light. “He never mentioned that.”

“He wouldn’t. He’s far too modest.”

“Is he a good landlord?”

“Oh yes, the best landlord and the best master. I might have worked at the house for most of my life, but he will look after me until they lay me in the cold earth. My reward for services rendered. Mr. Bingley is very loyal to his workers, and they give him their loyalty in return.”

She stopped in front of a brown gate set into a dry stone wall. Behind the wall, a tiny garden separated it from the squat grey cottage with square windows. Mrs Reynolds opened the gate and walked down the path. “Would you like a cup of tea, dear? I don’t see many new faces. It would be nice to hear some different news for a change.”

Although Liz found herself liking Mrs Reynolds, her decision to stay stemmed mainly from curiosity; a curiosity about the man whose existence was so central to the lives of his tenants, employees and pensioners.

Inside felt like a doll’s house. Liz took off her coat and hung it on a hook in the cramped hallway. Mrs Reynolds showed her through to a cosy sitting room before slipping away to the kitchen to fill the kettle.

“I have some date and walnut cake left, if you’d like to try a little?” she called through the door.

Liz rolled her eyes, out of sight of the old woman. “Thank you, but I’m still full from breakfast.”

Mrs Reynolds carried a tray into the room and placed it down on the table. She measured three spoons of loose leaf tea from a decorative caddy before pouring hot water into the pot and replacing the lid, leaving it to steep.

When it was ready she poured out two cups. “Here you are, dear. Please help yourself to milk and sugar.” Liz noticed she hadn’t strained the tea and didn’t looking forward to drinking bitter bits of tea-leaf. She allowed it to stand a moment, hoping they’d soon settle to the bottom.

“I understand you are doing some research into the history of Pemberley,” Mrs Reynolds asked after a moment of silence. Liz admitted she was. “It surprised me when I heard Mr. Bingley had invited you, but I can understand now why he did.”

“I hadn’t met Mr. Bingley until the day after I arrived here. Actually, I thought he was …” Liz blushed as she remembered what she had originally assumed of Pemberley’s owner.

“Was what, dear?”

“I had no idea he was so young. No wonder Mrs Ellis is protective of him.”

Mrs Reynolds laughed. “Mrs Ellis, protecting Mr. Bingley? Ha!” She sipped her tea, before chuckling again at the idea. “Had a go at you, did she?”

“Oh no, she didn’t say—”

“If she kept quiet, it would be the first time. Spit it out, my dear. I won’t tell on you.”

“Well she … she thought I’d come to Pemberley looking for a rich husband, which couldn’t have been further from the truth,” Liz added hastily.

“Don’t you worry about Ellis. She’s only jealous.”

“Jealous? Of me?”

“She wasn’t born that old, you know. We were all young once and Ellis has always had a soft spot for Mr. Bingley.”

Liz knew this might be the only chance to turn the subject around to the one she was most curious about. “Was Mrs Ellis also jealous of Mr. Bingley’s wife?”

Mrs Reynolds leaned over in her chair to prod at the fire burning in the grate, sending sparks flying up the chimney. “How do you know about her?”

She drank some of the tea, holding the warm cup with both hands. “William … I mean, Mr. Bingley told me.”

“He did, did he? What did he say?”

“Not much. Only that part of the garden brought back memories of her.”

Mrs Reynolds nodded thoughtfully but made no further comment about the first Mrs Bingley.

When Liz had drained the cup as far as she dared, Mrs Reynolds took it from her. “Let’s see what the leaves say, shall we?”

Liz held out her hand. “Please, you don’t have to.”

“Does the thought of my reading the leaves bother you?”

“I don’t really …” she began, but chose not to finish the sentence. Just because she didn’t believe in that sort of thing, was there any reason to refuse? She decided to let the old woman have her entertainment. “No, of course not. It’s just a bit of fun, right?”

Mrs Reynolds turned the cup over on its saucer and twisted it three times. Picking it up, she stared into the pattern left by the dregs in the bottom of the cup. She paused a moment, frowning. “Well, that is interesting.”

Despite herself, Liz was curious. “What?”

“I’m seeing changes ahead for you, my dear. You are coming to the end of a journey. Are you planning on moving?”

“Moving house? No.” Liz thought of her flat back in London. The tiny space was all she could afford until she paid back her student loans. As much as she’d love to move to something bigger she knew it wasn’t going to be a viable option for some time.

There was a knock on the front door and someone entered the room behind Liz just as Mrs Reynolds said, “I see a tall, handsome man in your future.”

She didn’t even have the chance to react to the words before a voice at her shoulder said, “Matchmaking again, Violet?”

Liz jumped in her skin, her heart beating so loud she was sure they could both hear it. Mr. Bingley was the last person she’d expected to find wandering into his former employee’s house with so little ceremony.

Mrs Reynolds grinned like an indulgent mother. “Just curious.”

He looked down at Liz and the crease between his brows relaxed, although he still appeared annoyed. “I’ve been looking for you. I thought you might need a ride home. I’m on my way back to Pemberley.”

She noticed he was wearing jodhpurs again and wondered if he expected her to sit on one of his horses. “No, thanks. I left my car by the gates.” For a moment, a vision of him sweeping her up into his arms and riding off into the sunset held a strong appeal, but she ruthlessly quashed it.

“There’s some cake in the kitchen. Would you like a slice?”

William unleashed a devastating smile at Mrs. Reynolds. “You need to ask?”

The old woman laughed and wandered into the kitchen, leaving William and Liz alone.

He looked at her from under heavy brows, which made his eyes seem darker than usual. “I didn’t know where you were this morning. Mrs Ellis had no idea either.”

Liz’s heart started beating faster. Was she imagining the worry in his voice? “I only popped to the shop for something. I didn’t realise I’d be out for this long.”

Her poor excuse seemed to lighten his mood and a ghost of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “I know what that’s like. Once you get Violet started it can be hard to stop her talking.”

Mrs Reynolds returned then with a thick slice of cake on a delicate china tea plate. “Miss Bennett and I were having a nice chat. Will you join us?”

William finished his cake in three bites. “No, I need to get back. I have work to do.” He turned to Liz. “I’ll see you when you get home.”

Mrs Reynolds made a point of showing him out. Although she’d pulled the sitting room door closed, Liz could still make out their words in the small hallway beyond.

“Violet, I need your help with something. Will you come up to the house once your visitor has left?”

Liz breathed out as her shoulders drooped. He’d only come to find Mrs Reynolds after all. So much for her suspicion that he’d been worried about her.

“Of course,” Mrs Reynolds replied, as though she thought nothing of his request. “Liz is a very nice girl,” she added with a hint of approval.

“Yes, she is, but I’m serious about the matchmaking. I’m old enough to look after myself, don’t you think?”

“I know what’s going through that brain of yours.”

“Leave it alone.”

The old woman’s chuckle sounded like gravel through a sieve. “Why? I think she’s lovely. What’s wrong with her?”

Liz wondered the same thing. She’d begun to imagine William’s attention might be more than that of a host to his guest but now she realised she’d read the signs all wrong.

When Mrs Reynolds spoke again, Liz realised William’s reply had been too low to hear. “It’s your loss, but young ladies like this don’t arrive on your doorstep every day. Don’t be surprised if you lose out to Tom.”

“Tom Dawson?”

“Yes. We met him on our way from the shop.”

William laughed out loud at that. “I doubt Tom would be your mystery man. You did say tall, dark and handsome, after all. I’ll see you later,” he promised, just before the door slammed behind him.

By the time Mrs Reynolds returned to the sitting room, Liz had been careful to hide any trace of her disappointment. “Does he visit here often?”

“Oh, he usually pops in once or twice a week.”

“It’s nice that he keeps an eye on you.”

“Yes, Mr. Bingley is so considerate.”

Liz frowned. “Why do you call him Mr. Bingley when he calls you by your first name?”

“I grew up in a different age, my girl, and my mother taught me to respect my elders and betters.”

Liz couldn’t argue with that. William was better than most men she’d met. She managed to say her goodbyes and leave the small cottage without asking Mrs Reynolds if she needed a lift to the house. It would be impossible to make that offer without giving away that she had overheard William’s request.

She walked through the village, no longer interested in the quaint houses or their history. Whatever appreciation she thought she’d seen in William seemed to be nothing more than wishful thinking on her part.

Wandering up the lane, Liz squeezed through the gap in the gates and climbed into her car.

She knew now why they welcomed so few visitors to Pemberley. It seemed that everyone—the master included—were all quite happy here without them.

* * *

Liz stood at the top of the staircase that evening, wondering how much noise it would make if she fell. She felt so nervous about having dinner with William that she half expected to trip on the stairs and land in a heap on the marble below.

She’d decided to wear a simple flower print t-shirt with her skirt, but already she regretted not choosing something warmer. The chill sweeping up the stairs raised goose bumps on her arms and a shiver snaked across her shoulders.

Cautiously, taking one step at a time, she managed to make it to the ground floor safely, before starting towards the breakfast room.

“Miss Bennett?” Mr. Reynolds stood on the opposite side of the hall. “If you would like to follow me, I will escort you to Mr. Bingley.”

She followed the stately butler through the hallways, eventually arriving at the last place she expected to be.

“Miss Bennett, sir.”

Liz looked around the state dining room, remembering it as it was on the day William first showed her around. The floor-length curtains now blocked out the chill of the night and log fires blazed in the two hearths. Candles flickered in the wall sconces, and in candelabras positioned down the centre of the oak table. At the closest end, an impressive array of cutlery lay in front of two chairs—one at the head of the table, and the other immediately to its left. Crystal glasses and white linen napkins completed the impression of a perfect evening.

Well, at least she wouldn’t be trying to hold a conversation from the other end of the table.

William leaned against one of the high mantles as he stared into the leaping flames. When Mr. Reynolds announced her he turned his gaze towards his guest but said nothing.

Liz clenched her fists against her thighs, not knowing quite what to do with them. It was a while since she’d worn a skirt and the flimsy material swirling around her calves unsettled her. She had no idea whether William’s stare was one of curiosity, surprise or admiration. Part of her hoped it was the latter, but then she recalled his words to Mrs Reynolds and realised how unlikely that would be.

He, of course, appeared the epitome of a well bred gentleman. She knew next to nothing about men’s clothing, but the black jacket fit across his upper body in a way only the most expensive tailoring could achieve.

“Liz! You look … lovely.”

She thanked him and felt herself blush, unused to receiving compliments.

He pulled one of the chairs away from the table “Here. Sit down.” As she lowered herself into the chair, he adjusted it before taking the place next to her.

“When you said dinner, I didn’t expect anything like this. You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”

“I didn’t. Violet and Kelly are the ones who have done the work.”

That explained his reason for calling on Violet. “You dragged Mrs Reynolds out of retirement, just to cook for me?”

“You’re assuming I could have stopped her. There was no coercion involved, I promise you. She was happy to help.”

Mr. Reynolds entered the room, carrying a large tureen. He laid it on the sideboard and ladled soup into two bowls, before carrying them to the table.

Liz looked down into her bowl. The aroma wafting from the homemade soup was wonderful, but she didn’t recognise it. It didn’t smell like chicken, or mushroom, although it was a similar colour. She sipped a little, allowing the soup to linger in her mouth as she tried to guess the flavours. “No, I can’t quite place this. What is it?”

“Potage à la Dauphin.”

“Which is?”

“Dauphin Soup. It’s an old recipe with vegetables, ham and veal. What do you think?”

Considering she’d eaten three mouthfuls as he was speaking, she wondered if that wasn’t a little too obvious. “It’s tasty.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“I’m glad I’m not a vegetarian.”

He grinned. “It would be a waste, I agree.”

After a few minutes Mr. Reynolds took away the empty bowls, leaving warmed plates in their place. He then served what looked like a small roast chicken each. Liz inhaled the bouquet floating off the gravy they’d been sitting in. It smelled of oranges, her favourite fruit.

“Perdreaux à la Polonaise,” William explained. “That’s partridge, braised in brandy and orange juice.”

She studied her dinner cautiously, as though it might rise up and fly away, although, in truth, its flying days were over. “I’ve never tried partridge before.”

“This will be a night of new experiences then.” William covered her hand with his, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Don’t worry, he’s already dead. He won’t feel a thing.” He poked his fork in his own bird to demonstrate and she watched the clear juices oozing from beneath the roasted skin.

Liz smiled, grateful for his efforts to reassure her. In order to pace herself, she took only a few spoonfuls of the vegetable side dishes Mr. Reynolds offered. William’s plate seemed very full, but he had no problem clearing it. She assumed all that riding gave him a healthy appetite.

In an attempt to keep her attention off her host, Liz studied the empty table, wondering how many times it had been full of diners. Had other Bingleys collected around this table for Christmas? She turned her attention back to William, giving voice to her curiosity. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

Sighing, he shook his head.

“What about your parents?”

His eyes met hers, his expression unreadable. After a pause he shook his head again.

Belatedly, Liz recalled Mrs Ellis’s injunction that she should avoid asking personal questions. The thought that she might have offended William—a man who, despite his stated preference for solitude, had welcomed her into his home—upset her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stick my nose where it wasn’t wanted. I hope I’ve not annoyed you.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to anyone about ... about my parents. I’m not used to it.”

“You don’t need to explain anything to me. I had no right to ask.”

He put down his knife and fork and waved a hand, as though brushing his memories away. “It’s old news. I haven’t thought about them for a long time. I was only a child when my mother died. My father was never quite the same afterwards. He was almost ten years older than she when they married and he suffered a fatal stroke when I was in my early twenties.”

“And is that why you hide yourself away, William? You’re what? Thirty? Thirty-two?”
He smiled at that, but didn’t reply. “You’re too young to be burying yourself in this place, regardless of how beautiful it is.”

His shoulders lifted in a deprecating shrug. “I’ve never mixed well with strangers.”

“I can’t say I’d noticed.”

“It’s different here. This is my home.”

Liz wanted to question him further but she stopped herself. She’d already pushed him far enough. Really, she should feel ashamed of her ill manners but she couldn’t regret what she’d said.

He was too nice and far too damned handsome to be a recluse.

~~<>@<>~~

Chapter Seven

They ate what was left of their main course in silence, and Liz wondered whether her questions had ruined the mood of the evening. However, as Mr. Reynolds cleared away the plates, William said, “What did you think … er, of the partridge?”

“Lovely. I really liked the flavour of the meat. In fact, you’ve spoiled me. Chicken will taste so bland by comparison.”

William relaxed back in his chair, his elbow on the arm-rest as his gaze rose to meet hers. “I hope you like your dessert.”

“Dessert? I couldn’t eat another thing, honestly. I’m completely stuffed.”

“You don’t have to finish it, but Violet would be disappointed if you didn’t at least try a little.”

Liz expected an intricate creation with an even longer French name, and she mentally prepared herself to force a mouthful down her throat, for Violet’s sake. She was surprised to see a simple bowl of ice cream set before her. “I love strawberry ice cream! How did you know?”

“Doesn’t everyone like ice cream?”

The desert melted in her mouth. “I don’t know about that. I always ended up with the strawberry to myself because no one else liked it.” Liz looked down into the dish and realised her ice cream had gone. Had she finished it already? It tasted wonderful. “Did Violet make this?”

“Yes. A secret family recipe, handed down through the generations, although she might let you have a copy.” He pushed his chair away from the table and stretched his long legs in front of him. “What would you like to do now? We can take our coffee through to the salon and talk a little, or if you’re still interested I could show you around the rest of the house?”

Liz tried to swallow around the lump in her throat. As far as she knew the only rooms left to see were the long gallery and a number of bedrooms. She shivered inside, as though someone was quenching a fire in her chest with a hosepipe. The chill washed across her ribs. With nothing more than a look or a word he seemed to be able to turn her into a quivering wreck.

If she agreed, would he read something into her acquiescence? No, that was one thing she was sure about. She was safe with him. She had no idea how she could feel so certain. It was a feeling as insubstantial as a whisper, like déjà vu.

William wouldn’t hurt her.

What reason did she have, then, for refusing his offer? None. Pemberley had been her dream for a long time and she wanted to experience every last inch. “I would love to see the rest of the house. Thank you.”

While they walked back towards the stairs, Liz wondered why he hadn’t instructed Mrs Ellis to show her around during the daytime. A busy man would have chosen to delegate the task but he had not, preferring to experience her delight for himself. Yes, that was it. William enjoyed seeing her curiosity and interest in his home.

He’d appreciated her knowledge of the families that had lived here in the past, but she sensed no vanity in him. He didn’t want to see her reaction to make him feel good about owning such a beautiful home, but because he wanted her to love Pemberley for itself ... because it was something he loved.

They reached the bottom of the main staircase, when he asked, “First or second?”

Liz stood back. “I’ll let you go first. It’s your house, after all.”

Laughing, he pointed upwards. “No. Did you want to start with the first floor, or the second?”

Liz felt the telltale heat in her cheeks as she grinned back at him. “Your choice.”

“In that case, we’ll do the top floor first. Most of those rooms are empty these days, because I haven’t needed them. I’ll save the best for last.”

They climbed the stairs together, William taking the side by the wall so she had access to the carved handrail. She felt no need to use it, knowing he was so close. They passed over the first landing before ascending the staircase that would lead them up onto the second floor.

Liz felt the draught return. The high ceilinged stair well was impossible to keep warm, and she trembled with the cold. The next minute she felt something warm and heavy around her shoulders. William’s black jacket.

She started to protest but he shook his head, ignoring her assertion that she wasn’t too cold. “Humour me,” was his only response.

There was something about his scent, wrapped around her almost as much as the jacket, which she found so difficult to resist. Liz turned her head away from him, inhaling quietly so he wouldn’t notice. “I imagine these rooms were used often during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The golden age of the house party.”

“That is true. The residents here found it more comfortable to be the host or hostess rather than a guest elsewhere so there were quite a number of house parties held at Pemberley, particularly when William and Mary were living here. Despite her dour appearance she was quite the … what would you call her? A party animal?”

“I wouldn’t call anyone a party animal if I could help it,” Liz said dryly.

“There was one year when, on at least ten occasions, every single room was occupied.” He opened one door on their left. The space beyond was empty but Liz could see shadows on the walls where pictures had been taken down, and the ghosts of wardrobes and drawers were visible, like echoes left behind in the dust.

“What happened to the furniture? The pictures?”

“Death duties, taxes, the Depression and the Wall Street crash, two world wars. Houses have their reverses of fortunes, just like people, and we have to weather the storms as best we can. Fortunately, we’ve never lost anything important.” He led her into the next room, which had suffered a similar fate.

One small table sat alone in a corner, its top caked in decades of dust. Liz crouched down, admiring the single central support, carved in a candy-twist, which split off into four ball and claw feet. “Poor table! It’s all alone here. It must be very lonely.”

“No doubt it feels better for your presence.”

Liz wiped a little of the dust away with her fingertips, revealing what should have been a polished wooden top inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s yours.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” She regretted opening her mouth, embarrassed at the ease with which he disposed of his personal possessions. “It belongs here.”

His lips twitched. “We’ll talk about it later.” He picked the table up with one hand and deposited it outside the door, presumably for them to collect on their way down.

They continued along the hallway, looking in the various rooms they passed. They were all smaller than hers, with lower ceilings, and the odd bits of furniture that remained seemed plain in comparison to the pieces in her room. They passed a narrow staircase leading upwards, its varnished treads well cared for against the faded grandeur of the empty rooms. “What’s up there?”

“The old servant’s quarters and storage space.”

“Don’t tell me … that’s where you keep the skeletons.”

William turned towards her, a frown etched deep on his forehead. “What?”

“You know. Your skeletons in the closet.”

“Ah, yes.” His brows lifted and he smiled. “There’s a whole family of them up there.”

He showed her into the last room on this side of the house. The old schoolroom had a Victorian map of the British Empire tacked to one wall. A discarded box of toy soldiers and a rather intimidating cane stood in a corner, while a dappled grey rocking horse looked silently through the window. “I don’t think this room has been used for a while.”

“No, and from the look of the cane I’m quite glad about that.”

William picked up one of the soldiers, turning it between his fingers. “You were never physically punished at school?”

“No, of course not. Were you?”

“Once or twice.”

“That’s awful. Which school did you go to?”

He stood the soldier on the mantel. “Oh, the usual. Eton, then Cambridge.”

Liz walked across to the window and touched one of the horse’s battered ears. It rocked forwards, kissing the glass. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but that isn’t the usual for most people.”

“Oh? What is? Where were you educated?”

“St. George’s Primary then the local comprehensive.” She brushed some of the dust from the ragged mane. “There wasn’t a lot of choice where I lived.”

He leaned his shoulders against the wall, his head inclined. “Tell me something else about you.”

Liz wiped her hand. “Oh, I’m not that interesting.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.” When William’s eyebrows rose, she said, “What? Do I look so much older?”

“No, actually, I thought you were younger than that.”

“I suppose I should be grateful. Some women squander small fortunes trying to hold back time.”

William laughed. “And in most cases it makes no difference. What about your family? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Bearing in mind the questions she’d asked earlier she could hardly refuse to talk about her own background now. “No, not really. Mum died when I was born. Some complication they hadn’t expected.”

“I’m sorry. I imagine you and your father are close.”

“We were, until he married again. I was eight and my new stepmother already had a daughter a year younger than me. Things between me and Dad were never the same afterwards. He passed on two years later.”

“So you’re on your own as well?”

It took a moment for Liz to realise what he meant. They were both technically orphans. “Yes. After that, Amanda began to treat me differently. I ended up doing all the jobs she hated—the washing and ironing, the cleaning and mending—while she went to bingo every night and doted on her darling daughter. By the time I turned eighteen I’d had enough so I moved to Bristol to study history.”

“Why Bristol?”

“It was as far from home as I could get.” She’d regretted the decision many times. The move had also separated her from her few childhood friends.

“I take it you didn’t get on with your step mother.”

Memories of the bitter arguments and blatant favouritism surfaced before she’d had the chance to brace herself against them. “You could say that.”

“But she supported your further education, I assume.”

Liz couldn’t hold back her bitter laugh. “Are you serious? She thought I was leaving just to make her life more difficult. She wouldn’t have thrown me a coin if I’d been begging on the street. That’s why I ended up with two jobs.” She wrapped William’s jacket closer, recalling the moment she’d left her father’s home for the last time. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Amanda had thrown a party to celebrate.

As they retraced their steps to the grand staircase Liz heard footsteps coming down the attic stairs. Seconds later Mrs Ellis appeared. “Mr. Bingley! I did not realise you were up here … with Miss Bennett.” The secretary sent her a look so pointed Liz wondered whether she might bleed to death. It seemed the older woman saw her presence—in an empty part of the house, alone with her boss—in the worst possible light.  

William appeared not to notice the woman’s animosity, barely sparing her a glance. “Ah, Mrs Ellis. Can you have that small table at the end there cleaned and placed in Miss Bennett’s room please?”

More daggers flew towards Liz as Mrs Ellis noticed his jacket around her shoulders. “Yes, Sir.”

He seemed oblivious to the cold stare now directed towards Liz and confident that his secretary would do as he asked.

When Mrs Ellis left them, they walked back down the stairs at a slower pace and Liz soon found herself in the now familiar corridor leading to her own room. Having seen upstairs she could appreciate the grandeur of the cornice, the height of the ceilings and the elaborate carving of the woodwork. Someone had designed these rooms to impress, more so than those above.

There were two bedrooms before hers. William introduced the first as the Crimson Room. The red and gold wallpaper reminded her of a picture she had once seen of the throne room at Buckingham Palace. “Fit for a queen,” she murmured.

“It looks fancy, but its all image and no substance. It has never been anything more than a room to impress guests. Personally, I’ve never liked it much. Mary Bingley chose the colour scheme in 1856.”

“I’m glad I’m not sleeping in here. The blood red on the walls might have given me nightmares. I much prefer my room. It’s more subtle … friendlier.”

“I prefer your room too. It was originally Georgiana Darcy’s room. Although we’ve decorated it since, we’ve always kept it in the same colours. I’ve been told it’s restful and calming.”

“Yes, that’s a perfect way to describe it.”

The next room was predominantly yellow and white. It felt like spring had arrived early, or stayed late. There were no heavy hangings surrounding the bed. Instead, a Victorian brass frame was decorated with leaves twining around the upright posts and brass knobs shaped like pineapples. The room felt sunny and friendly and Liz half wished she was sleeping in here. “This is lovely!”

“This room was Charles and Jane Bingley’s.”

“I thought they’d use the Master suite.”

“No, the house belonged to their son Thomas, if you remember. He slept in the main suite of rooms when he was here.”

“Where did he go?”

“He travelled a lot.” They moved on, reaching the door to her room. “Do you need me to show you this room?”

Liz grinned. “No, I think I know what that one looks like.” She wasn’t sure she could trust herself after some of the dreams she’d been having lately.

A little further down, on the opposite side, he opened a set of double doors. Instead of another bedroom, they led to the long gallery running almost the whole width of the house.

“This is the only remaining part of the early Jacobean structure,” William said, inviting her to join him on the oak parquet. “You can see the windows are a different shape from the others.”

Liz looked down the range, counting the six square bay windows. For a moment, if she closed her eyes, she almost felt as though she’d been here before. Three fireplaces sat on the opposite wall, the centre one grander than the others. She imagined a party, figures strolling down the room, the ladies in their long dresses, the gentlemen in morning coats. She was probably remembering something from a film or a TV programme. All these houses looked very similar after all.

She turned her attention to the walls. There were a few small portraits and the odd large landscape dotted here and there, but most of the pictures were smaller, intimate watercolours showing scenes of Pemberley or its grounds.

“I thought galleries usually had lots of family portraits. Somewhere to show off your ancestors.”

“There were once many more portraits lining these walls. Some have been moved downstairs.”

“Wasn’t the gallery also where people used to exercise when it was too wet to go out?”

“Yes. They would walk up and down, or perhaps dance or even fence.”

“With swords?”

William glanced at her, grinning. “You can’t fence without them.”

“People fence with words as well.”

“Ah, yes. There’s been plenty of that in here too over the years.”

Liz moved down the room, feeling a little strange. An air of expectation grew inside her. It reminded her of her birthdays as a child, when she knew her father had bought a wonderful present and she had to wait until he came home from work before she could open it.

Her steps quickened until she reached almost to the end and she raised her eyes to the high panelling, expecting to find something particular there. She wasn’t sure if she was imagining the slightly darker rectangle, as though a painting had once hung in that space shielding the panelling from the sun. Shaking her head she moved into the last window bay, looking out across the park to the dark ridge of trees beyond.

Why did she feel as though she’d opened her gift to find nothing but an empty box?

“The ceiling plaster is mostly original. We had to repair one section, just there in the corner, when someone left a tap running upstairs.”

Liz looked where he’d pointed, but before her eyes reached the ceiling they found William, standing closer than she’d realised. She glanced past him, studying the interlocked geometric shapes, searching for any sign of the new work. Whoever had repaired the damage had done an excellent job. “I can’t tell. It all looks great.”

As her gaze slid back to William their eyes met once again. He stared at her in silence, holding her captive with a peculiar intensity, as though he could penetrate her outer shell and see the person she was within. She tried to speak, to break the spell that enveloped them, but words were beyond her.

He sighed then, looking away, leaving Liz wondering why he looked so disappointed.

She followed him from the gallery into another corridor that mirrored the one they’d walked down earlier. They reached a pair of carved oak doors, looking much grander than any other door she’d seen. “The Master Suite?”

William nodded. He took a ring of keys from his pocket and fit one into the lock. As he turned it the click echoed off the walls.

The room beyond sat almost in the middle of the west side of the house. The sitting room contained carved furniture covered with gold leaf and upholstered in creams and pale shades of green. Tall windows set into the outside wall would flood the space with light during the daytime. Long gilt mirrors hung between them and a narrow grandmother clock stood in the corner, its regular tick soothing.

William walked across to one of the windows, but Liz sensed he was not examining the landscape beyond. His attention seemed fixed on a much closer point: the reflection of the room—and her—in the glass.

Two more doors led from the sitting room, one on either side. Liz remembered from the plans that one was the master’s chamber while the other would be for the mistress of the house. She had always assumed that the separate bedrooms were required because of all those loveless arranged marriages that were common in the 18th century. Had Fitzwilliam Darcy and his Elizabeth slept in these separate rooms?

Liz moved closer to one of the doors, putting her hand up to touch the smooth paintwork. She looked across to her host who watched her, his face now impassive. “May I?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Opening the door she peeked around it. The oak panelling extended three quarters of the way up the wall. Around the top of the room a series of tapestries depicted a hunting scene. The bed hangings, suspended from one of the largest beds Liz had ever seen, picked out the rich greens, golds and russets of the needlework. The arms of the Darcy family stood proudly, carved in relief at the head of the bed.

Unlike many of the rooms she’d seen, this one bore evidence of recent use. A riding crop and a pair of leather gloves lay on one end of the dressing table. A newspaper sat on the arm of a chair by the fire, as though someone had discarded it halfway through reading.

William followed her into the room, leaning against the wall.

Liz tightened her grip on his jacket. “You sleep here?”

“Sometimes.”

She turned away to inspect the pictures hanging on the walls. He’d looked very comfortable there, and so accessible. She resisted the pull towards him, but it wasn’t easy. All she wanted was to walk into his embrace and twine her arms around his neck. Just imagining it made her pulse quicken.

Instead, she studied a trio of small watercolours in simple gilt frames, similar in style to those she’d noticed in the gallery. No bigger than a magazine, they seemed oddly incongruous in a house where many of the pictures stood taller than she was. The three images were all recognisable. The first had captured the stone bridge over the river, the second was a scene of the village green in spring, with a maypole in the centre, while the third view showed the stables, where a white horse stood calmly as it received the ministrations of a farrier. She noticed the artist’s initials in the corner and moved closer to make them out.

“Do you like them?”

Liz jumped as William’s question came from just behind her. She hadn’t even heard him move. Her heart began to beat loudly in her ears, but whether from the surprise or his proximity was difficult to tell. She couldn’t turn around, because she knew she’d embarrass herself. She felt like a magnet, inexorably drawn to him, as though he were solid iron. Or perhaps she was the metal and he the lodestone? She could no longer deny to herself that she was attracted to him and felt annoyed that she’d finally fallen for someone so inaccessible, like a star out of her reach.

“… so I hung them in here.”

She belatedly realised that he’d been telling her about the paintings. She’d been so busy trying to resist him that she’d missed what he’d said. How embarrassing. Liz couldn’t believe it would take all her concentration to keep her hands off him. She’d never experienced anything like this kind of reaction to another human being before.

Was the simple act of being in a man’s bedroom enough to release a monster that had previously lain dormant? Or was it more to do with his scent wrapped around her like an embrace.

To be on the safe side Liz shrugged out of the coat and draped it on the chair at the end of the bed.

Keeping her eyes on the beautifully woven carpet, she made her way back to the central sitting room without another word. As soon as she reached the middle the compunction to throw herself at him dissipated. Yes, there must have been something about his smell that had affected her. She felt much better now.

Liz pushed open the other set of doors without asking his permission. She couldn’t drum up the courage to look at him again right now. Because she was trying hard not to think about William it took a moment before she really looked at the second bedroom.

The mistress’s room was very different from the master’s, of course, not only in the style of decoration but also because it had been many years since anyone had slept there. White sheets shrouded the furniture and the bed was bare of all linen and hangings.

She risked a glance at William. He’d followed her and now stood by the window, gazing out across the garden. For a brief moment she saw two figures. One was the man who had shown her around his house. The second was William as she’d only seen him once before, in a dream. As Liz blinked and shook her head the illusion vanished.

Her eyes flitted around the room, taking in the positions of the furniture and their size and shape under the covers. She looked properly at the walls for the first time. The paper had faded where exposed to the sun but away from the windows the colours were as bright as she remembered; the birds vibrantly painted in yellow, green and blue, set against the darker greens and browns of the branches growing wild across the walls.

Liz moved to one of the shrouded shapes. Lifting the cover, she found an oriental lacquered armoire just like the one in her dream, the black chased with gold.

The room began to spin and Liz reached out for something to hold on to. She was vaguely aware of strong arms wrapping around her before everything sank into darkness.

~~<>@<>~~

Chapter eight

Liz knew it was a dream this time. She was lying in bed, her eyes closed, yet she heard William’s voice so clearly, as though he was whispering in her ear.

“… I don’t know.”

“I’m only asking you to be careful. You think you know this girl but what do you really know about her? She could be anyone.”

Ugh. If she was dreaming about Mrs Ellis, then surely it was no dream at all, but a nightmare.

William’s voice sounded softer in the silence. “I don’t care. I need her.”

“It’s too dangerous. What about her family?”

“Don’t worry, they’re not close. From what Liz has said, her stepmother wouldn’t care if she never saw her again.”

“This is your life we’re talking about. I can’t believe you’d risk everything for a pretty face.”

“You’re wrong. She is my life. Liz is the one, I know it.”

Mrs Ellis sighed. “What happens when you tell her the truth? You can’t afford to have her running off to the newspapers or the Police. What would you do then?”

William didn’t reply, and after a moment her dream drifted away again.

* * *

When Liz woke, the first thing she noticed was the familiar scent enveloping her. She opened her eyes and looked around. Why was she lying in William’s bed? It took a few seconds before she realised she was still dressed, apart from her shoes, and she was alone.

She remembered being in this room and feeling the need to escape his presence before she embarrassed herself. She’d returned to the sitting room and continued through into the other bedroom.

The mistress’s room. It all came back to her. The beautiful and unique birds painted on the wall, just as she’d seen in her dream. The same dream where she’d welcomed a naked William into her bed and her arms, the place where he’d belonged. No doubt she’d fainted from sheer embarrassment.

If it had been wishful thinking why hadn’t Liz dreamed about being in her own room? She wondered if she’d perhaps experienced some kind of precognition. Was she destined to replay that same scene at some point in her future?

The only light in William’s room came from the sitting room beyond the open door. Although Liz knew she should feel awkward being here, it was strangely comforting. It took a moment before she recognised the similarity between being in William’s bed and snuggling under the covers in her father’s room when she’d had nightmares. As a child, it had been the castle and he the king. He’d given her a warm, safe place, protected from all the dragons and demons.

William’s bed felt very similar, only instead of being the protective king he was the brave prince rescuing her from danger and carrying her off into the sunset on the back of his white charger before asking her to be his princess.

Liz laughed at herself. She must have hit her head when she fell. That was one of the most soppy, lovesick things she’d ever thought. As she rolled onto her side she briefly buried her face in his pillow. It smelled like William and reminded her of chocolate. One whiff made her hungry for more.

Dragging the heavy covers to one side she slid her legs over the edge of the mattress, finding the floor further away than she’d expected. For a second the room spun but she fixed her attention on the door handle until it stopped. Liz slipped her feet into her shoes then paused in the doorway, searching the room beyond for William.

Mrs Ellis looked up from a pile of papers. “Miss Bennett.”

Liz glanced at her watch. It was almost ten o’clock and she’d been out less than an hour. “I’m sorry …” She had no idea why she should apologise for fainting, but it seemed appropriate.

The secretary accepted it with a shrug of her cashmere covered shoulders. She collected her papers, leaving them on the table as she waited at the door for Liz to join her. “I’ll escort you to your room. I wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

They walked back through the gallery, the secretary’s heels clicking on the wooden floor. Liz could only imagine what Mrs Ellis thought of her now. Her demeanour, never warm to begin with, was now positively glacial. Turning the corner, she paused outside Liz’s door.

“I hope Mr. Bingley wasn’t too angry with me.” When the older woman’s eyes narrowed, Liz realised it might sound like she was confessing to something shameful. “I mean, I didn’t …”

Mrs Ellis exhaled through her nose. For a moment Liz wondered if she would breathe fire and roar like every other dragon. Instead, the older woman muttered a curt “Good Night” and left her standing alone in the hallway.

    
* * *

Liz didn’t expect to see William the following day, but when she entered the breakfast room she found him by the window, looking out onto the garden.

He turned, smiling when he saw her. “Good morning. Feeling better?”

“Yes, thanks.” Liz paused, biting her lip. Did he think her strange after her fainting spell? “I’m sorry if last night … erm, caused you any inconvenience.”

William moved to join her, his hand squeezing her shoulder. “On the contrary. You only worried me. Do you faint often?”

Her heart began to beat a little faster at his touch. “No, never.”

He frowned. “Have you any idea what caused it? Have you been ill recently or felt a little odd?”

Liz considered mentioning her strange dream but quickly realised how impossible that would be. Not only might it cause him to question her sanity but it could also sound as though a naked William in her bed was something she wanted. She blushed at the thought. “No, I can’t imagine why it happened.”

At that moment they heard the sound of Kelly’s trolley rattling beyond the door and William stepped away from her to take his place at the table. They ate in silence but William’s gaze often strayed in her direction. “You’re still looking pale. Are you sure you’re alright? I can call a doctor…”

She put her hands to her cheeks. “I’m fine, really.”

He looked down at her plate, still more than half full, her knife and fork discarded. “You’ve not eaten much.”

“I’m not hungry.” Liz rubbed the back of her neck where a potential headache brewed.

“You could do with some fresh air before you shut yourself in that stuffy office. Come for a walk with me. We won’t go far.”

A short stroll in the chill autumn air with William sounded like a good way to focus her concentration. “Okay. I think I can spare twenty minutes.” 

This time he escorted her upstairs, hovering in the doorway while she pulled her warmest jumper over her head and threw her jacket on top. Leaving by the main door, William headed down the gravel drive towards the bridge. Half way across the shallow span he stopped, resting his hands upon the low stone parapet as he looked down into the water.

“You know, I used to play on this bridge when I was a child. My cousin and I turned it into all sorts of different things; a fort, a ship, the humped back of a whale…”

“A whale?”

“Yes, we’d dangle our legs on either side of this wall and pretend we were riding it through the waves. If we went under the bridge it would be a dragon’s cave, or the gateway to Hell. Children have the most marvellous imagination, don’t you think?”

Liz agreed, telling him about the games she’d played as a child, where her dad had indulged her fantasy as the princess in the tower.

“He sounds like a wonderful father. I imagine you miss him.”

“Yes, very much.” The memory tugged on her heart. Even now, thinking about it caused her pain.

He turned to face her, his hand tracing a line of mortar in the stone between them. “It’s not easy to lose a parent so early in life. I know. You can only remember those good times you shared.”

Liz wished it was that easy. Disappointment clouded too many of her memories. There were some things she didn’t want to recall, like her tug-of-love fights with Amanda—her dad stuck in the middle—or his gullibility in the face of her stepmother’s twisted lies.

And in particular, she wished she could forget the last day of her father’s life.

She’d tried to focus her memories back to earlier, happier times in her childhood but her brain behaved like an old radio. No matter how she tried to tune it to one station the signal would slip, leaving her with the distorted interference of recrimination and remorse. Tears welled in her eyes and she turned her head away from him, blinking furiously.

He remained silent, waiting.  

She took in a deep breath, filling her lungs before releasing it, the expelled air forming a cloud in front of her. She’d always avoided talking about her father but perhaps William would understand better than most. “Not all my memories are good ones. I argued with my dad the day before he died.”

At first she wasn’t sure he’d heard her. Then he whispered, “Tell me.”

Liz felt as though he’d given her permission to unburden her soul. Wiping away a treacherous tear, she turned to face him. “It was over something stupid. I was only ten and no matter how much he tried to reassure me I felt as though he had abandoned me when he’d married Amanda.”

Liz pulled herself up to sit on the wall, her hands braced behind her so she wouldn’t tip backwards into the water. “When they met he fell hard for her. It seemed to me that she’d cast some kind of spell over him. He couldn’t bear to be out of her company. Within three months they’d married and she’d moved in with us, bringing her daughter Michelle with her.”

“That must have been hard for a ten year old to deal with.”

“At first I thought it would be great to have a sister but it didn’t take long for the two of them to gang up on me, making me out to be the trouble maker. It was their word against mine and Dad believed them. He thought I was going through a phase, that I’d grow out of it and we’d become one big happy family.”

William straightened and took a step closer, his leg brushing against her knee, but he made no comment.

Liz remembered the frustration and helplessness; the lonely nights banished to her bedroom and her father’s inability to recognise truth from lie. “He tried to explain that he still loved me—that he had enough love for all three of us—but I couldn’t accept it.” She replayed the scene, biting her bottom lip to quell the tremors. “The day before his death Amanda and I had a huge row. I spent the evening sulking in my room, hoping he would visit me after work. I wanted him to say how much he missed the games we used to play together and how he regretted not having as much time for me as we’d had before.”

“You were a child, craving reassurance and love. It wasn’t an unreasonable desire.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t get what I wanted. The following morning, he came to my room to say goodbye before leaving for work, but my resentment had grown by then and I pretended to be asleep.

“He died that day. He had a heart attack at his desk and was gone before the ambulance arrived. I missed my only chance to say goodbye.”

Although her father’s death had occurred over a decade earlier, the rift with her stepmother had continued long after she’d left home. Now, the strength of those memories and her regret for that lost farewell overwhelmed her. The tears she’d long denied herself broke through her barriers, streaming down her cheeks.

William wrapped his arms around her shoulders and she buried her face in his chest, sobbing as though someone had torn her heart in two.

For a few minutes the desolation overrode every other sensation but gradually Liz began to regain control, feeling the comforting caress of William’s hands across her back, holding her close. She squirmed out of his arms and jumped to the ground, wiping the sleeve of her jacket across her face.

He caught her before she could walk away. Placing his hands on either side of her head, William brushed away the last of her tears with his thumbs. “So the princess was left alone with her wicked stepmother. You never had the chance to grieve properly, did you?”

Liz pursed her lips and tried to shake her head, relieved she didn’t need to speak. He pulled her close again and she sank gratefully into his embrace, refusing for the moment to consider it anything more than comfort from a friend. She felt his warm breath in her hair, so close. Leaning against his chest, she could hear the sound of his heart, strong and steady. Its rhythm sounded quicker than she would have expected, as though he’d been running.

She sensed a gentle pressure on the top of her head as he pressed a kiss into her hair. She held her breath and closed her eyes, grabbing onto the lapel of his jacket. Liz wondered how their closeness could feel so right when she’d known William such a short time. It wasn’t like being held by a stranger, more like reuniting with an old friend.

Liz could have stayed in that position for hours if she hadn’t felt a drop of rain on the back of her hand.

William’s chest rose and fell as he blew a soft sigh across her scalp. “It’s going to come down heavy, I can tell. We’d better get inside before we’re completely drenched.”

Despite the dark storm clouds rolling across the valley, she heard a hint of reluctance in his tone. Liz stepped back, wondering whether her eyes were still red. “Yes, of course. I have some work to do.” She couldn’t hold back the blush when she noticed a damp patch on his shirt where her tears had soaked through.

“No you don’t. Not today, at least.”

“But, I—”

“No. Whatever you’re working on, it can wait until tomorrow.” He cast a glance at the growing darkness above them as the rain began to fall harder. “Come on, let’s go.”

Grabbing her hand he pulled her along, running to avoid the downpour. William pushed open the heavy doors, surprising Mr. Reynolds as they burst into the foyer.

The heel of Liz’s damp shoe slipped on the marble and she would have ended up on her back if William hadn’t caught her in time. His quick reflexes knocked the air from her lungs, leaving her literally breathless.

Fate seemed determined to get her into his arms one way or the other.

He held her there as their eyes met, then William began to laugh. “Falling for me, Lizzy?”

She paused before answering, trying to read between the double meaning as her heart fluttered. “No.” There was no way she would admit to something that might make him run a mile in the opposite direction.

He set her on her feet again before sending Mr. Reynolds for towels. After helping Liz to remove her coat he shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over a nearby chair. When the towel arrived she dried her hair before following him into the salon.

A log fire burned in the hearth, sending a flickering orange glow across the room. Liz looked at the chairs arranged in a loose semi-circle. A couple of them were too far from the warmth to interest her. She assumed William would sit in the worn high-back armchair, so she sank onto one end of a settee on the opposite side of the fire, nearer to the window.

The rain now battered against the glass and Liz thanked her stars they hadn’t gone further from the house. They would have been soaked through in minutes. She would have needed more than a towel for her hair then. Her gaze drifted across the salon to the door, where William spoke to Mr. Reynolds. The butler nodded once and left.

Despite being larger than her whole flat, the salon still felt cosy regardless of the weather outside. As her gaze travelled around the room Liz spotted a side table by the wall covered in black and white photographs of children. Thinking they must be Bingley children from earlier generations, she wondered whether pictures of a young William were included in the group.

He came to join her then, choosing to sit at the opposite end of the settee. He faced her, his leg bent on the cushion, resting his elbow against the back of the chair. “Feel better now?” he said, running his fingers through his still damp hair.

Liz nodded. She did feel better, as though she’d unburdened herself of a guilt she hadn’t realised she’d been carrying. It had felt good to talk about her father. Even mentioning his name had been taboo for far too long.

They remained in the salon for hours, covering every subject from politics and sport to art and music. Mr. Reynolds served them creamy hot chocolate, closing the curtains when the light began to fade. When William slipped in an innocuous question about her mother, Liz answered it, and then found herself documenting almost every moment of her childhood she could remember. From school sports days to favourite birthday presents, William seemed curious about each of her memories.

It took a while before she realised the subject had once again moved to her father, as he encouraged her to remember the happy times they had shared before Amanda had come along to spoil things.

When her stomach began to rumble William rang the bell, ordering dinner for them both. Liz and William moved across to the south parlour, their conversation changing from childhood tales to school meals and favourite foods.

They remained at the table long after they’d finished and no one was more surprised than Liz when the clock struck ten. They’d spent all day together and she hadn’t done a minute’s research. Despite that, she couldn’t regret the lost opportunity. “I really should be going to bed. I have a full day’s work to catch up on in the morning.”

William sat back in his chair, spinning the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “Those dusty old books have been there a long time. They won’t disappear overnight, you know.”

“They might not, but I only have two more days here.”

“You could stay longer.”

Liz considered that idea for a second but knew she had to refuse, no matter how tempted she might be. “I’m sorry but I can’t. My friend needs her car back on Saturday.”

When she got up from the table he stood too. “If you don’t get everything done by Friday, you’re more than welcome to return.”

“I appreciate the offer. Perhaps I will.”

William moved closer, his fingers running along the back of the chair she’d just vacated. “And I’m free tomorrow if you need an assistant.” His dark eyes met hers and he grinned. “You know, someone to fetch the tea and lift things down from the top shelves. I’ll do as I’m told … I promise.”

She stroked her chin, pretending to consider his plan. “Well, they do say two heads are better than one, and I have missed a day. Okay, it’s a deal.” Liz held out her hand.

Instead of shaking hands William lifted it to his lips, brushing a kiss across the back of her fingers. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

Ignoring the rapid beating of her heart, Liz wished him a quick goodnight and left the room, almost running across the hall and up the stairs.

~~<>@<>~~

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