Katie Oliver - What Would Lizzy Bennet Do?

‘Why not? Like you said, we’ve known each other for yonks, practically since we were in nappies. No one’s ever understood me the way Hugh does. No one ever will.’

‘The Darcys move in different circles than us, Lizzy,’ he said gently. ‘Surely you see that.’

‘I can’t believe you just said that,’ she exclaimed. ‘What a snob you are, Daddy.’

‘Not a snob, Lizzy, just a realist. Holly’s much more suited to marry into the Darcy family… with all that entails.’

‘Meaning that I’m not?’ Her eyes snapped.

‘Meaning that Holly comes from a wealthy family herself.’

Lizzy sniffed. ‘Department store wealth,’ she said in dismissal. ‘Trade, as they would’ve said in the old days. It’s not inherited.’

‘Now who’s the snob?’ he chided her. ‘Listen to yourself.’

After a moment, she relented, and gave him a grudging smile. ‘You’re right, of course. You’re always right.’

‘Not always. I was wrong about the last Premier Cup.’ He frowned. ‘Ah, well.’ He reached out to take her hands in his. ‘Eight years is a long time. People change. Their feelings change. Darcy never made you any promises, did he?’

She sighed. ‘No. I’m afraid his feelings for me exist only in my head.’

‘Give Holly a chance, Lizzy. You’ve taken a dislike to her and you don’t even know the girl. She seems like a nice enough person, and she’s obviously in love with Hugh. Make an effort to be pleasant to her at the garden party on Sunday, that’s all I’m suggesting.’

Lizzy grimaced but squeezed his hands in reassurance. ‘I make no promises that the two of us will ever become friends,’ she said, her words decided, ‘but I’ll make an honest effort to welcome her to Litchfield Manor, and be the perfect hostess.’

Mr Bennet shoved back his chair and beamed. ‘More than that, my darling Lizzy, I cannot ask.’

***

The next morning, the thump of the newspapers landing on the doorstep distracted Mr Bennet from the preparation of his tea.

He paused and glanced up at the ceiling. The girls were still upstairs sleeping and the house was blissfully quiet; with any luck, it would stay that way for a time. He looked forward to enjoying his tea and papers outside on the terrace in luxurious and uninterrupted solitude.

Humming the Te Deum absently under his breath, he went down the hallway and past the stairs to the front door, and opened it to survey the doorstep.

Was there any better moment, he thought happily as he bent down to retrieve the newspapers, than settling down with a cup of lemon tea and a pile of the latest newsprint to read?

But as he shut the door behind him and glanced down at the front page of the topmost paper, the Longbourne Tattler , his smile abruptly vanished, and his eyes widened behind his spectacles.

It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be.

Yet there it was, right before his eyes in grainy black and white. His youngest daughter, Charlotte – who, for some inexplicable reason, was on Ciaran Duncan’s private yacht, the Meryton – stood by in wide-eyed shock as the film star reared back and punched Harry Darcy squarely in the jaw.

But worse than that – if such a thing were possible – was a second, smaller photograph, of the film star kissing his youngest daughter…

…for the Tattler’s readers, not to mention all of South Devon, to see.

Chapter 12

‘”WICKHAM CLOCKS DARCY”,’ Mr Bennet muttered, retracing his steps back down the hallway to the kitchen as he read the headline aloud. ‘”BENNET BEAUTY TO BLAME?”’

All thoughts of a cup of tea and a quiet perusal of the day’s news vanished in the wake of the 36-point tabloid headline. This was as unexpected – and every bit as unwelcome – as the crack of Ciaran’s fist into young Harry’s jaw must have been.

He picked up his tea and tossed the paper on the kitchen table, and with a grim expression he sat down and began to read.

***

On Monday morning the sun woke Holly, penetrating a gap in the brocade drapes, and turned the blue toile that papered her bedroom a warm, golden hue.

She yawned and opened her eyes. Everything in the room was white and blue and very feminine, with a shabby chic sensibility. The only difference being that nothing in Cleremont was remotely ‘shabby’ – every stick of furniture, every candlestick and cushion, was an authentic (and undoubtedly priceless) antique.

She had to hand it to Lady Darcy – the woman knew how to decorate a room.

Holly stretched her arms over her head, luxuriating in the ridiculously high thread count of the Egyptian cotton sheets, the broderie anglaise coverlet and matelassé blanket piled on her bed. Nights in these old English houses, even in summer, could get chilly.

How much nicer it would be, she thought grumpily as she sat up and swung her legs out of bed, to spend those chilly nights wrapped up in Hugh’s arms…

Oh, well. Lady D had put paid to that notion.

It wouldn’t be proper for her and Hugh to sleep together (at least, not at Cleremont) before marriage, after all; the proprieties must be observed. At least, that’s what Hugh said. Personally, Holly thought it was all a lot of old-fashioned nonsense and wished the proprieties would go straight to hell.

Today Hugh had told her they were going horseback riding on the property with Lizzy. She stood now in front of the wardrobe and flung open the doors to survey her clothes in an effort to find something suitable to wear.

How on earth did one dress to go riding when one hadn’t the proper clothing for it?

Holly frowned. She didn’t have a pair of breeches, or boots, or even a proper hacking jacket… unless you counted that Barbour jacket she’d once borrowed from her sister, and accidentally torn the lining.

Five years on, and Hannah still mentioned it every year at Christmas dinner.

There was a discreet knock on the door. ‘Miss James? Are you awake?’

Holly froze. It was Hugh’s mother. She hurried to the door and opened it. ‘Good morning, Lady Darcy. Yes. Please, come in.’

‘Hugh mentioned late yesterday that the two of you are going riding today.’ She strode in, and Holly noticed she had several items of clothing draped over her arm. She eyed her future daughter-in-law expectantly.

‘Erm, yes. That’s the plan.’ Dear God , Holly thought, I hope Lady D doesn’t decide to come along with us as a bloody chaperone, or something .

‘It occurred to me that you might not have the proper riding attire. So I brought these’ – she held out her arm – ‘in hopes they might prove useful. There’s a pair of Phoebe’s old jodhpurs, and a hacking jacket. I think you’re both about the same size. If you need boots,’ she added before Holly could open her mouth to thank her, ‘there’s an assortment of wellies and riding boots by the back kitchen door. Help yourself.’

‘Oh, thank you! I was just wondering what to wear-’

‘Don’t mention it. I’ll see you both at breakfast?’

Holly nodded, and without another word Hugh’s mother deposited the clothes on the bed and took her leave.

‘Well,’ Holly muttered as she picked up the discarded jodhpurs and eyed them in relief, ‘at least that’s one problem sorted.’

With a bit more enthusiasm, she began to get dressed.

***

The dining room was empty when Hugh and Holly entered for breakfast.

‘Looks like we’re the first ones down this morning,’ he observed as he went to the sideboard and picked up a plate. ‘More eggs for me.’

‘Not if I get there first. I’m starving.’ Holly lifted the silver-domed chafing dish of scrambled eggs and piled her plate high.