Katie Oliver - What Would Lizzy Bennet Do?

The drawing room was immense, larger than the entire first floor of her parents’ house in Chipping Norton.

And it was stunningly, breathtakingly… gorgeous. Muted sunlight came in through tall mullioned windows and illuminated the rich velvets and faded chintz of the various settees, cushioned club chairs, and tables with clawed feet arranged throughout the room; a pair of King Charles spaniels lay on the rug, sleeping near the hearth. The walls were covered with portraits.

‘That,’ Lady Darcy said, following Holly’s gaze to one of the largest and most striking of the paintings on display, ‘is a van Dyck. It’s a portrait of the first earl.’

Holly nodded. ‘It’s lovely. I’ve only seen photographs of paintings like this. And what a beautiful room,’ she added. ‘How very lucky you all are to live in such a place.’

‘Lucky?’ Lady Sarah’s eyebrow rose skyward as she sat down on the edge of a sofa angled near the fireplace. ‘Believe me, my dear girl, luck has nothing to do with it. It’s a privilege to live here at Cleremont.’

Holly paled. ‘Oh – of course it is. I didn’t mean –’

‘Would you care for refreshment?’ Her ladyship turned to Hugh and patted the cushion next to her. ‘Sit, darling,’ she commanded. ‘You must be famished after that long drive down from London.’ She glanced at Holly. ‘Both of you.’

As Hugh and Holly assented that they could definitely do with something, Harry took a tray of drinks from a servant who appeared at the door and came forward to hand them out.

‘Pimm’s Cup,’ he said in a low voice as he handed a glass, adorned with a slice of lemon and a wedge of cucumber, to Holly. ‘Drink up,’ he added with a wink and a quick glance at his mother. ‘I’ve a feeling you’ll be needing it.’

Chapter 3

‘I’m back,’ Lizzy called out as she sailed through the front door of Litchfield Manor, shutting it behind her.

There was no reply.

‘Emma? Charlotte? Is anyone home?’ Still receiving no answer, she paused by the half-moon table in the front hall and picked up the morning’s post, riffling absently through it. Bills and more bills, she noted, including one from Charlotte’s sixth-form college, as well as the latest issues of Town & Country (Emma), the Church Times (Daddy), and the Literary Review (hers).

Lizzy sighed and set the post aside. Of her family – and, more importantly, of lunch – there was no sign. She knew her father at least was home, however, as she’d seen his bicycle propped against the garden shed outside.

She wandered into the kitchen, her favourite room in the house, with its cheery yellow paint and Welsh cupboard crowded with blue-and-white-patterned china, and saw a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses on the counter.

The pitcher was half-empty, and the glasses contained only melting ice and a bit of watery pale-yellow liquid. A jar of maraschino cherries sat next to the pitcher. She fetched a clean glass and some ice, threw in a couple of cherries, and filled it with lemonade.

Glass in hand, she wandered down the hall and out the back door.

She found Emma and her father on the terrace overlooking what passed for a garden, its profusion of wild roses and blackthorn bushes bounded by a low, stone wall. An oak, older than Litchfield Manor itself, shaded one side of the house and part of the terrace from the midday sun.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Lizzy announced, and dropped into a chair across from them. Unfortunately, her seat bore the full brunt of the sun. She wished she’d thought to grab one of the sunhats hanging on pegs by the back door. Oh, well…

Emma barely looked up from her book. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she enquired, although it was plain from her focus on the page that she didn’t really care.

‘I’ve just come back from Cleremont. Harry invited me over to watch the filming of the last scene of Pride and Prejudice .’

‘The last scene?’ Emma deigned to lift her head and look at her younger sister in surprise. ‘Do you mean to say the film crew are finished already? I thought they were meant to stay on until at least July.’

‘They are. But they filmed the last scene just now. They don’t film things in sequence, you know.’ She said the last bit just a trace smugly, proud of her inside knowledge.

‘Lady Darcy despises production companies. All of them,’ Emma said, and returned to her book. ‘She told me so.’

‘I don’t imagine she despises the money they bring to Cleremont,’ Mr Bennet observed mildly from behind his newspaper.

‘Harry isn’t bothered.’ Lizzy took a sip of lemonade and savoured the tart-sweet taste. ‘He likes watching them film.’

‘He likes flirting with the actresses,’ Emma said, and sniffed. ‘They’re like a flock of gaudy butterflies flitting around. Someone like Harry can hardly resist.’

‘What do you mean, “someone like Harry”?’ Lizzy demanded, and set her glass down to frown at her sister.

‘I mean that he’s an incorrigible flirt, of course,’ she retorted. ‘It’s no secret. And don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.’

Lizzy knew the entire female population of South Devon fancied Harry Darcy – and not only for his charm and rakish good looks.

While it was true that, unlike his elder brother, he wouldn’t inherit Cleremont, he’d eventually come into a fortune – and the combination of his handsome face along with a healthy bank balance made him catnip to the ladies of Litchfield and Longbourne.

‘Isn’t that actress, Cara Winslow, playing Elizabeth Bennet?’ their father asked.

Lizzy nodded. ‘Yes, and she’s very pretty.’ She made no mention of her demanding behaviour on set. ‘It sounds like a cliché, but her skin really is like porcelain. Although,’ she mused, ‘the make-up lady put rather a lot of foundation on her left cheek. I think she might’ve had a blemish or something.’

‘I imagine those cameras are unforgiving,’ Mr Bennet murmured.

Emma set her book aside and stood. ‘Well, with all of this chatter, it’s quite impossible to read. I might as well go and start lunch. I’m making egg and cress sandwiches and a fruit salad if anyone’s interested.’

‘Shall I come along and help?’ Lizzy asked.

‘No, the salad’s already done. Besides, I can manage the rest quite well on my own.’

And with that, Emma took up her book and left.

Lizzy dropped into the chair she’d vacated. ‘Why is Em always so moody? I can’t put a foot right with her lately.’

Mr Bennet folded his newspaper and put it aside. ‘It’s all to do with her breakup with Jeremy. To use another cliché – it took the wind out of her sails. It hit your sister hard, I’m afraid, and rightly so. So you must try and find a bit of understanding and compassion for her situation.’

With a sigh, Lizzy slumped back in her chair. Emma and Jeremy North had planned to be married last summer. The wedding gown, the flowers, the music, even the sit-down dinner menu for their guests – all had been chosen (mostly by Emma), arranged, and paid for. Mr Bennet was to come out of retirement and officiate at the wedding in the village church.

The night before the wedding, Jeremy came to Litchfield Manor and, after spending time with Emma behind the closed doors of the library, emerged with a grim face, and left.

Emma followed, her own face equally grim, and informed them that the wedding was cancelled. Mr North had changed his mind. Then she retreated to her room and did not come out for a week.

It fell to Lizzy and her father to call everyone on Emma’s list to explain that the wedding was cancelled. The caterers were called, the organist, the florist, and the photographer.