Born in the dying embers of the industrial fire of the nineteenth century, Millicent Darcy was the youngest child of Edward and Cecily – he was the second son, who survived the boating accident that killed his brother, whilst she was the rich, American heiress of a railroad magnate, who had been sent over to England to marry a Duke with an ancient lineage, which she did. Having already provided themselves with an heir, George, and then a spare, Albert, two years later, the Darcys had not expected to become the parents of a girl. She was placed in the care of a succession of nannies and then squirrelled away in the schoolroom with her governess, Miss Evesham, who schooled her in music, literature and, secretly, on the suffragist movement of which she was a big supporter. As she got older, Millicent moved along the nursery corridor to the small bedroom at the end of the long gallery, with the crooked fireplace and uneven floorboards that creaked whenever she stepped too heavily. She badly stitched drapes for the centuries old bed with the dark wood and ominous figures carved into it; she knew that it had been made for a visit by Anne Boleyn, but the only Queen who had ever slept in it was Mary of Scots whilst she was a prisoner of the crown. It made her sad to think of Mary lying in the bed, looking up at the morbid carvings, knowing that the people who were meant to be her hosts were secretly looking for ways to implicate her in treason. Yet more women, she thought, whose position was defined by the men they married; even Queen Elizabeth depended on her male advisors and, despite ruling for sixty-four years, Millicent was convinced that the recently-deceased Victoria would only be remembered for her extreme grief and excessive waistline. At eighteen, she came out in society and was presented to the King who, even though he preferred a more curvaceous lady, viewed the tall, willowy girl with a lustful gaze. With her mother's exotic looks and her father's fortune, Lady Millicent Mary Darcy soon became one of the most eligible debutantes in London and was courted by several young gentlemen, none of whom caught her eye or her heart, because she had already decided that she would never marry, would never sacrifice her name and her identity to become the possession of another, not even someone whom she truly loved.

Edward Darcy, the mild-mannered Duke of Derbyshire, was reading his newspaper in the gentlemen's club on St James's Street when he heard that his daughter had been arrested for setting fire to a postbox in the name of Women's Suffrage. This was the second time that he had been summoned to the police station to bail her out and it was becoming tiresome. Despite this he was, despite his wife's disgust, secretly proud of Millicent's newfound infamy as one of the younger leaders of the suffragette movement in the north, along with the Pankhurst's, whom he had secretly funded with anonymous donations. He wasn't surprised, however, to find that instead of bailing out his daughter, he was faced with a working-class girl with red hair and a smattering of freckles who smiled up at him as she was released. Millicent would often switch identities with the poorer girls, knowing that her fate – as a member of the aristocracy – granted her a leniency not usually granted to women of a lower status. It would be three weeks before she was released, furious and hardened by the struggle and force-feedings, into the custody of her father who took her back to Pemberley for recuperation and fresh air.

"We are fighting for revolution!" the younger woman screamed at her Mother across the dining table, "why can you not understand that this is for all women, it's for you too!"

Cecily deep-sighed and continued with her onion soup; she looked over at her husband and rolled her eyes. Edward, failing to notice the cue, took a mouthful of the meal before being verbally accosted by his daughter.

"And you, Father, do you not think that it is ridiculous that women do not have any right or any say over what they do? A woman is her father's possession until she marries and then she is the property of her husband. What if she never marries…who does she belong to then? Does she finally belong to herself or does she get entailed away?"

"Erm," he stammered. "I'm not sure, Milly -"

"Well you should know!" Deflated, she sat down on her chair and calmly began to eat her soup. Edward shot a knowing glance at his wife, who deep-sighed and took a large mouthful of wine. She didn't know what she had done in a previous life to deserve such a boisterous and argumentative child and wished, most fervently, that Millicent would start to behave like the Lady she was, rather than running up and down the country causing havoc with this group of trouble-making women. Cecily hoped that it would all stop soon, the thought of it all gave her a headache.

Rupert Fitzwilliam always adored Millicent. From childhood they had played together in the grounds at Pemberley, hiding in the Killtime ravine with the gardeners as Cecily demanded fresh flowers for her parties, or sneaking onto the top landing and looking down on the fancy ladies and handsome gentlemen getting drunk in the saloon. It was a blissful era and every time Rupert returned to the big old house in Derbyshire, he fell a little bit more in love with his second cousin, who didn't care about fighting him on the lawn or falling about in the lake, splashing him in the sweltering heat of the summer sun, despite her mother's yells that it was decidedly unladylike. She taught him how to fire a shotgun, already knowing better than the boy who permanently lived in London where to aim and what to shoot. When she was twenty-one and he was newly graduated from Oxford, they attended one of the Duchess's house parties as invited guests and ended up bored by the tiresome conversation and restrained dancing, although they did enjoy the copious amounts of alcohol. Falling about laughing sitting on the top step of the staircase, they continued drinking their stealthily procured champagne from the stirrup glasses that Rupert had given her for her birthday. The house was alive with music and laughter, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes filling the house with an aroma that Millicent found comforting. She leaned over and put her arm around his shoulder, teasing the combed and waxed hair at the nape of his neck into an unruly twirl. He was so close now that she could smell the hint of his cologne, it smelled like leather and cognac. She had never noticed before how green his eyes were, or how his moustache curled at the ends, she caught him looking at her in the same way, as if he had never seen her before – people always look so different when you are inches away from them, your body tingling with anticipation and each breath taking a lifetime. Rupert tentatively leaned towards her and she moved back, primarily out of fear, sensing this he traced his fingertips over the back of her hand, causing goosebumps to race up her arm. Slowly and with a great trepidation, he ran the flat of his palm up her arm and to her shoulder, as she watched still and silent, unsure what he would do next. His fingers continued their slow journey up to her face and as he placed his hand on the back of her neck and brought her mouth slowly to his own Millicent thought that she might explode with the myriad of sensations enveloping her. She knew at that moment that she had always been in love with Rupert Fitzwilliam; emboldened by a brazen disregard for society's rules and social etiquette, she took his hand and they walked the short journey to her room, where he proclaimed he loved her under the badly embroidered sheets, whilst kissing every inch of her body.

Pemberley lost more than most great houses during the War to End All Wars. The younger male servants were the first to leave, parading to Lambton in their smart khaki uniforms, after photographs were taken on the courtyard steps of the Pemberley Pals; twenty three footmen, under-butlers, gardeners, stable hands and the middle Darcy child, Albert, had signed up to fight the Hun. Only two of them would return. Later, as the war continued longer than the world anticipated, more of the estate workers were conscripted, including George who although scared about what was before was determined to do his duty for King and country. Even Officers could be casualties of war, and the eldest Darcy boy would lose his life in the Battle of the Somme alongside his cousin, Rupert, who fought bravely to save a fallen comrade before taking a bullet to the head. He had died instantly. In his possession was an addressed envelope containing a small seed pearl on a silver band.

The buff-coloured telegram that arrived in the car of an important war official caused Cecily Darcy to scream and fall into a hysterical fit in the entrance hall of the great house. The gentleman called for help, but nothing that anyone could say or do prevented the manic sobs that fell from the Duchess of Derbyshire's face. Edward retreated to his study, to drink through his grief, leaving his daughter to comfort her mother, something that proved impossible to do. Cecily Darcy went to her rooms and did not come out of them for three months; when she did she was a husk of a woman, living in her heartache until she gave up on life a month before the end of the war. Albert Darcy returned at that start of 1919, but he wasn't the same as he was before. The sights and sounds he had seen had permanently scarred him and even music and laughter caused his heart to race and his body to shake with fear. He disappeared into the woods one freezing cold night, searches were fruitless until Albert was found dead three days later by Peter, the private who had served with him on the front, the last surviving Pemberley Pal.

Millicent Darcy had never expected to be the unofficial heir to Pemberley and she had certainly never wanted it under such horrific circumstances. Most of the house was now closed and shuttered, with cloths covering the fine furniture and as she viewed her family home from her sanctuary in the folly at Lantern Wood, she thought that Pemberley looked as if it was falling asleep, drifting away into history; with few staff and her father drinking himself half to death, Millicent knew that it fell on her to try and fix things as best she could. As the world moved into the twenties, she sold the house on Grosvenor Square to an American hotel magnate who remembered her mother with fondness, she negotiated a deal that allowed the family to maintain a residence in the hotel in perpetuity once it was completed. Furniture from the house was auctioned off, with people from across the world eager to own a piece of Mr Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, even if the pieces they bought were refurbished, reupholstered fragments of what was once there. She always found the story fascinating and despite not caring for the tale, she retained a portrait of Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy in a yellow dress painted a few months after her wedding, it held a special place in her heart and she hung it in her bedroom at Pemberley where it provided a comforting presence.

Edward Darcy never knew how his daughter had managed to keep her son a secret for so long, but he was pleased to meet the young boy who stood before him. He was five years old and had the light colouring of his mother and the furrowed brow of the Darcy men; he was clever too – reading aloud from Moby Dick and playing a recognisable tune on the pianoforte. Edward Darcy never asked Millicent who Winston's father was, but he had his suspicions and was sad for her loss – that she had not received the recognition of her grief, or the badge of sympathy worn by widows of the war. He made plans to contact his attorney in Lambton, Edward was going to legitimise his grandson and provide Pemberley with an heir. Women might have won the vote, but they still couldn't inherit a dukedom and he was determined to keep it within the Darcy family and at Pemberley.

Imogen Penny Darcy had hair the colour of wheat and eyes as blue as the July sky she was born under, she was of such a pleasant temperament that she delighted everyone she met – she would dance across the state rooms at Pemberley during the Duke's Christmas visit, her little voice singing a song by Elton John as she twirled next to the ten foot tall Christmas tree as her mother watched proudly and various members of staff clapped and took photos of Lady Isobel beaming widely and curtseying on their disposable cameras. As she grew older, family members commented on how much she looked like her great-grandma Millicent; Imogen, who had only ever seen the faded black and white pictures of a grumpy old lady dressed in buttoned down jackets and starched hats, was immediately offended by this until her sister Lizzy took her to see the portrait everyone was referring to. Imogen, only just eleven and a gangly, tall, girl, could not see how she even resembled the magnificent creature in the portrait before her. Painted when Millicent had been in her late twenties and done by a respected society artist, Imogen could not see how her own lip pouted in the same way – the gentle crease of the cupids bow on her top lip – her hands, long and tapered were almost the same, she could see that, but it was only when she squinted her eyes and tilted her head that she saw a face that resembled her own. It was the eyes, she thought. Most of the Darcys had slate grey eyes, which could be cold and dull, but Imogen had eyes like sapphires that sparkled even when she was sad, and everyone commented on how she was the least Darcy-like of all of Winston's grandchildren.

"Can you see it now, Imo?" Lizzy asked softly, as the two Darcy girls sat on the carpet in front of the painting, blocking the pathway for any paying guests.

"Yes," she nodded, still transfixed by the image of the Lady Darcy dressed in soft blue satin and posing against a table.

"Here," Lizzy handed her sister a small soft blue velvet box. "This is for you, I thought you would like it."

Imogen opened it to find inside a seed pearl ring, it was small and delicate and fit her perfectly.

"Look at the picture," Lizzy smiled, watching her younger sister recognise that the ring on her own finger was the same one gracing the hand of her great-grandmother in the ninety year-old oil painting. Imogen grinned and hugged her sister tightly, maybe she was more Darcy than everyone thought.

Lizzy sat by her sister's bedside in the private room of the Chelsea and Westminster hospital. It had been early morning when she had reached London, dumping her car in the car park as she had no change and not caring what the cost or fines would be. She felt guilt, so much guilt for not talking to her sister as much, for not making the effort. It had been easy to watch Imogen go off the rails, especially when she seemed to have so much fun doing it, but now as she looked at the pale face of the young girl, she knew that she needed to take care of her, to make this right. Her hair was a ratty bleached blonde and even though her face had been cleaned, traces of eyeliner remained in the corner of her eyes. There was a tattoo of a bee on her wrist, which was new. Lizzy found herself studying Imogen as she waited for any sign of movement, any sign of normalcy that would signal to her that this was all going to be okay, but she had been there for nearly twelve hours now and there had been no change.

Imogen was in a white room, she felt weightless and free. Ahead of her was a bright light, but there was a noise behind her. It sounded like music, a tune that she could recognise but couldn't quite remember… there was the faint sound of piano keys being hit and she followed it, as she did the room became grey, became black and there was darkness. She could hear the words, could hear them ever so softly… 'Lying here with no one near…' They became louder now – 'Only you and you can hear me…' She recognised the voice, it was the soft northern voice that she loved – 'when I say softly, slowly…' As she fell into the voice, there was a rush of weight and heaviness and she coughed loudly, choking now, struggling, couldn't breathe, noises, voices, beeps, shouts, light, alive, sounds, smells, air, breath, gasp. Tiny Dancer.

Imogen woke up.