The paper was slippery, the ink was thickened by the cold weather of the winter months and he found that it flowed slowly from the nib of his pen. The office at the front of the house was warm, heated by the fire that spitted and crackled, throwing out the scent of woodsmoke and covering the books on the shelves closest to it in a fine layer of dust that was swept away once a day by one of their many housemaids. Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait of his wife that was painted a few months after they wed; he could remember the day so vividly, she had worn a simple yellow dress made from a daintily embroidered muslin that had been part of her wedding trousseau, as she posed for the Italian artist in the drawing room of their house in Grosvenor Square. He would have gladly paid for a grander selection of gowns but found that his new bride had chosen a modest selection of fabrics and dresses, all of which she looked beautiful in, and all of which he loved taking her out of. Thinking back to those first heady days of marriage, he could remember the scent of violet and bergamot – it was a fragrance that could immediately take him back to dancing with her on the front lawn, falling about laughing on the soft grass, lying there with her nestled in the crook of his arm looking up at the stars over Pemberley as they twinkled and shone in the night sky. A soft chuckle escaped from him as he continued to write his letter, thinking of those summer afternoons where they drank their fill and danced the dances of their youth on the grass, much to the hilarity of their children who would watch, laughing and teasing from the balcony.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was an old man now, nearly seventy-eight, and his hands – once firm and full of strength – were now mottled with spots of age and wrinkled more than his vanity liked. Even though his fingers were still agile enough to complete the letter despite the thickness of the ink, they ached with the fatigue of holding the quill so tightly. Elizabeth was always waiting for him in the drawing room, reading, or perhaps teaching their granddaughter how to play her instrument most ill, and then they took supper together in the intimacy of the stag parlour as they did every night when not entertaining. He had always been amazed at how much a look from her across the room thrilled him, how he loved to argue and debate with her on issues, still trusted her more than anyone else in the world and those eyes still shone brighter than any star in the sky.

The Darcys had grown up holding each other's hands – he had been the proud, arrogant gentleman, still fumbling around with insecurity and the weight of the greatest of expectations; she had been the impertinent Hertfordshire Miss whose main defect was to wilfully misunderstand everyone, but together they were an insurmountable force; an ideal match of love and intellect. There had been many triumphs in their marriage; his foresight to invest in the railway line that now ran across the northern edge of his estate had meant that the family coffers had continued to grow and, more importantly, had resulted in the family Dukedom being reinstated by the young Queen in a simple ceremony that took place with very little pomp at St James's Palace. Darcy smiled when he thought of how his Aunt would have reacted at having to call his wife 'your Grace'. Lady Catherine De Bourgh was long gone now, but he suspected that the thought of it alone was enough to make her turn in her grave. Together the Darcys had suffered the loss of three of their children, including his own namesake, who had crashed out of the world in an horrendous carriage incident that had also killed his wife and their unborn child. Their four older children survived and were conveyed to Pemberley into the arms of their grandparents who raised them as their own. Darcy had promised Elizabeth that he would stay in this world long enough to see Fitzwilliam, his grandson, come of age and this year the boy had graduated from Cambridge.

Sitting in his leather chair, Darcy found it harder to see the words that he had already written on the paper; he hated how his body was failing him now, his mind was as sharp and alert as it had always been, but he found that he ached more, struggled to walk and drag his old bones around the house that he loved. Outside the snow was getting deeper, covering the circle of lawn in the centre of the driveway with its obliterating whiteness. Mainly driven by the coldness that was pervading the room as the fire died down to embers, he finished his letter, folded it, sealed it with wax and placed it carefully in his drawer with a grand finality.

He slowly began his ascent up the north stairs; the cold wind penetrating the draughty house and spiralling up the staircase behind him and he felt icy to his core, unable to shake the chill which was enveloping his body and taking his breath away. He took a moment to admire the portraits, the artefacts and the objects they had lovingly collected in their home; each item on display held a special memory, each portrait was of someone who was loved or had been loved by them. He crossed the landing, the breath-taking sight of the grand staircase with the hand carved balustrade and the ornate plasterwork ceiling with the Darcy family escutcheon dominating the centre. He was taking it all in, as if he were viewing Pemberley for the first time; he walked towards the entrance hall, and felt lighter almost weightless, as he bounded down the small staircase. There was the first fleeting memory of his mother dancing in the hallway as she skipped along, holding his hands in her own, he could hear her gentle tinkling laughter and hear the noisy clack-clack of her pearl necklaces as they bounced up and down around her neck. He could hear his father's voice, quiet but authoritative, teaching him how to play billiards and the gentle thud of the cue ball hitting the red, and in the distance, the sweet trill of his sister Georgiana singing and playing joyfully, loudly for all to hear. Amidst the music was the joyous sound of children's giggles, the loud thumps of youngsters running towards him. His memories were becoming cloudy in his mind now, as if he was desperately trying to remember a dream, but he couldn't quite grasp it in his hands. The drawing room was warm and bright; he walked into his wife's embrace, holding her tightly as they danced and laughed. "Darcy," she whispered into his ear. "Welcome home."

My Dearest Elizabeth,

If this poorly formed letter is now in your hands, then I have taken my last breath on this earth and left you alone in it. Do not cry, my dearest, for I would hate to think that sad thoughts of me would cause a frown upon your face when our love walks around in each of our children – the wonderful inheritance that we have bequeathed to Pemberley, and our grandchildren who will continue the legacy that we created.

Ours has been a wonderful life together, through the best of times and the saddest of times, but everything bad was easier to overcome with you by my side, and every beautiful occasion was made sweeter knowing that I had your hand to hold.

I am so grateful that you gave me the opportunity to prove to you every day that I was the gentleman worthy of you, and I sincerely hope that this life of ours has been as wondrous for you as it has been for me. We have built a strong family who have known what it is to grow up in a house filled with love, and my dearest wish is that there will always be Darcys at Pemberley, in the home we have loved so dearly.

Please know that however my end has occurred, my last thought will have been of you – of you dancing and laughing with a fire in your heart and a spark in your eyes. You may now be a grand duchess, but to me you will always be the impertinent girl with the fine eyes who captured my heart across a crowded assembly room.

Elizabeth Bennet, I have loved you until the end of my days and will continue to love you for all time and eternity.

Until, by the grace of God, we meet again, my heart always has been and always will be yours.

Darcy

It was February when the roof in the West Wing started to leak, the water trickling down the interior walls and causing the wo od in the Mahogany Room to swell and crack. The offices of the HHS also suffered, with three rooms being off limits due to plaster falling from the ceiling; superficial symptoms of a larger and more dangerous hole in the leaded roof that was threatening the very structure of Pemberley itself. Joyce had blamed herself for what she saw as a terrible failing, but it was more due to the huge budget required to keep the house in tip-top condition. Matthew Wickham's 'Pride and Prejudice' had been delayed by another month and wasn't due to be released in cinemas until summer, which meant that all the promotional material that they were relying on to drive visitors to the house couldn't be used until at least July. Even though the West wing wasn't as strategically important as other areas of the house, it still housed some keys parts on the visitor trail and was currently closed off to all but the most senior of HHS staff.

Joyce sat in the leather chair in her office at the front of the house with her eyes focused on the spreadsheet on her computer screen. Whatever she thought of, wherever she clicked, there was just simply not enough money to fix this right now, she looked at the small portrait of Mary Darcy that hung in the corner of the room. What would she do, Joyce thought to herself as the stress of the last few months bubbled to the surface. There was a small knock on the door, she took a breath – inhaling deeply, before dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and then throwing it away quickly. "Come in," she took a large mouthful of tea from the mug on her desk, it had gone cold and she grimaced as she swallowed.

"Joyce, can I have a word?" Lizzy Darcy stood at the doorway, dressed in navy blue with her hair scraped back into a tighter than usual bun. The older woman gestured for her to come in and take a seat.

"Would you like a drink?" She got up from her desk and walked over to the kettle next to the fireplace.

She took a seat on one of the blue upholstered chairs that she knew used to live in the Bright Gallery. It was always a strange experience coming into Joyce's office, which had once been Winston's inner sanctuary – where he had prepped her for GCSE's and her A-Levels, where she had found him one evening keeled over and suffering and unable to breathe, the place where the paramedics had rushed in and connected him to machines and taken him away on a stretcher as she followed behind closely with Staughton in the ancient maroon Jaguar. It was also the room where she had listened to Uncle Jeremy's partner from the firm read out the last will and testament of her beloved grandfather a few months later. It was always strange to come back here and see the room looking so different – filled with all the accoutrements required to run a massive estate – but so similar. The walls were still the same colour, the windows still letting in draughts and, if she closed her eyes, she could still smell sugared almonds and cigar smoke. Lizzy shook her head, "actually, I've come in a more official capacity. I think I have something that could help us with the roof."

"Is it half a million pounds in cash?" Joyce said with a heavy sarcasm.

Lizzy looked Joyce in the eye, she had never known how to approach this woman who had poked and prodded and challenged her in every aspect of her life over the past seventeen years. She eyed her blonde highlights, the soft creases on her face next to her eyes, the way in which she held herself as the true Mistress of Pemberley, and then she spoke firmly. "I know that we don't have the money to fix the roof, and I know we need to fix it. If water is coming in like that, then we need a structural engineer and repairs -"

"Lady Elizabeth," Joyce started. "I don't need you to tell me how to do my job."

"No," Lizzy countered, "but you need me to help you. You need me to help fix the house and I have a plan that I think might work." She reached into her bag and pulled out a folder, then another folder inside that folder and then a plastic wallet. In it was a piece of old paper, it was a letter written in faded ink.

"Are you suggesting a treasure hunt again, because last time Steve got sick of pulling kids out of the lake?" Joyce shot Lizzy a withering look, whilst she appreciated her attempts to help with Pemberley, Lizzy really had no idea what it was like to run a visitor attraction with all the red tape, ramifications and wrangling it entailed.

"Joyce, please look." She pushed the letter towards her, the script was small, but tight; elegant cursive regimentally written across the page. "It's Fitzwilliam's last letter to Elizabeth"

"Last letter? But he outlived her, why would he have written her a letter?"

"He liked to be prepared. I don't think this was ever meant to be found, it had been placed in a copy of an atlas that Winston used to have – it was old, we found it in the attic exploring when I was about ten. It was hidden between the pages, the seal had been broken so someone had read it, but obviously not Elizabeth."

Lizzy nodded, as Joyce's eyes scoured the letter, speed reading at first and then her eyes going back up the page, absorbing the words that he had written. She placed the letter down respectfully in the centre of the desk that belonged to the man himself, in the room where he wrote it.

"I have more letters."
"How many?"

"All of them," she whispered. "I was saving them for myself because I didn't want anyone to see them, I wanted to keep Elizabeth and Darcy all for myself." She shook her head, realising now the selfishness of that notion. "But if you are part of one of the greatest love stories, then you owe it to people to tell them the whole truth, even the bits that are hard or scary or the parts that could break your heart, you need to show people that. Show them that no love, no matter how great or wonderful, is ever perfect."

"What are you planning to do with them?" Joyce questioned, "I'm confused as to how this helps?"

"I've been editing the letters and putting them in some kind of order that tells a story, and then we can sell the book." It was a shot in the dark, but Lizzy had a feeling that people would buy it. "Maggie has spoken to the Head of Austenation and we have a meeting with them next week"

"I see," Joyce pursed her lips. "That's all very well and good, Elizabeth," she snapped, "but what about now?"

Lizzy looked at Joyce, she never understood why this woman hated her so much, how she always rejected every suggestion, always dismissed her, possibly thinking that she was silly and frivolous. Lizzy had never cared for the necklace that had been given to her mother on the birth of Charles, and she knew that whilst the Darcy family traditions and customs were special, Pemberley itself was far more valuable and she was utterly focused now on preserving what she could. She sold her Darcy Pearls pendant to a fanatical Austen fan in Utah, who had paid her eighty thousand pounds for this unique piece of family history.

"There is a structural engineer coming tomorrow, who is already paid for out of the estate funds. My dad authorised it when I explained to him how much you were worrying about it. And then there is this," she took an envelope out of her folder. "This should help with any immediate costs."

She slid over the cheque, Joyce looked at it incredulously before walking over to Lizzy and giving her the biggest hug. "I don't know how you have managed this, Lizzy… How have you managed this?"

"I'm a Darcy," she said firmly. "Pemberley is in our blood."

Joyce spent the rest of the afternoon contacting the HHS Head Office and the engineer, started putting into action the plans that she had arranged in her head when she was praying for a miracle. Lizzy stayed in the office and started to arrange the precious letters on the large round table; it stood in the corner of the room and was where she had studied endlessly for her Maths GCSE, which she only passed by the skin of her teeth and to avoid endless rebukes from Winston over her lack of study. Looking over at Joyce, efficient and passionate, she realised what her dad saw in her as she arranged and organised and planned.

"You should call him, you know," she said as nonchalantly as she could whilst making a pot of tea. Joyce turned around sharply from the whiteboard, where she was plotting her schedule. "My dad, you should call him. He thinks you've fallen out with him because he didn't call you after what happened with my sister."

Joyce shook her head, pushed her glasses up her nose and shook her head, "I don't think that. I know that it was a hard time for you all. I'm glad that she's better now and she seems to enjoy living here."

Lizzy eyed the older woman out of the corner of her vision, as she poured the tea and walked over to hand her a cup. The teacup clattered in the saucer.

"Do you love him?" She asked, passing her the cup, "because I think he is very much in love with you. I think he is simply waiting for you to say it's okay for him to feel that way."

Joyce laughed nervously, "Lizzy, what I feel for your father is of no concern really. Nothing is going to happen from it, we are merely two old friends spending time together."

Lizzy sipped her tea, quietly observing the slight flush on Joyce's face, the way she distractedly fiddled with the silver ring on her finger, the way she picked at the skin around her thumb trying to release nervous energy. "Don't be scared of the weight of it," she said. "The name, the legacy… Whatever you think it will be like, it will be better. It will be so much better. My father is a man who is capable of loving people deeply and with great passion, but he has always picked the wrong women… until now." She put down her cup in the saucer and placed it on the table, "I think he has found the right woman now." Then she continued, "you will, of course, have a truly hideous stepdaughter who you totally hate, so that will be the cause of your first big fight."
Joyce smiled and then looked at the younger woman, her hair down now, her eyes a little watery "Hideous? Lizzy, do you think I don't like you?"

"Of course, you don't like me! I'm a complete burden to your job here – Darcy in Residence? Pain in the arse in residence more like!"

Joyce recalled the occasions in the past where she had severely reprimanded Lizzy for her behaviour; the stern, official letters that she had written about her tenancy in the house; the rejection of her offers for help when they were busy, and she suddenly felt a tremendous wave of guilt. "Oh my god, I am so sorry…"

The two women talked long into the night; about past misunderstandings, about love and life and everything in between, filling in the gaps of a relationship that had spanned over thirty years.

"I remember when you first arrived here," Joyce smiled. "I was over from Dunham, helping Winston out with some conservation work in the library. You were so small, so scared and so alone. My heart cried out to run over and hug you, this little mass of curls with a sulky lip and a suitcase bigger than she was."

"That day was so scary; I had only ever spent Christmas and Easter here. Winston was so angry-looking, that first night I just remember crying until it was time to get up," she looked up at the Joyce up under her curls. The room was softly lit now, the fire was crackling in the hearth, outside the first snowflakes of the year began to fall softly on the ground.

"Mrs Reynolds sent me to Lambton the next day to buy some fairy lights to wrap around your bed, and then spent the next three months complaining about them."
"She was very grumpy, but she always made amazing cake."

"Trust you to think about cake, Lizzy."

Lizzy grinned, "why would you ever think about anything else?"

There was comfortable silence and the two women took deep gulps of tea and warmed their toes by the fire.

"I never hated you, you know, I think I was jealous a little bit. I spent my childhood coming here – I have always been totally in love with the place – and you got to live here, you were Elizabeth Darcy – that's something really special!" She took her hand in her own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "If I was ever mean, or horrible to you, I want to apologise. You Darcys have a stiff upper lip and when you shout at someone, you mean it. When I shout or scold it's my way of showing affection, ask my boys! I was always trying to protect you; you never had a mother, not really, and I always wanted a girl." Joyce looked up at her and Lizzy glanced over quickly, returning the squeeze and looking at the fire.

"Please phone my dad," Lizzy said softly. "He actually is your Mr Darcy – well his middle name is Fitzwilliam at least - and I am fairly convinced that he will have no objections to your family or your social standing, despite what you might think."
Joyce could feel her heartbeat in her fingertips, "I don't think I would want to be Duchess."

"I think you would a brilliant Duchess," Lizzy smiled. "You're the Mistress of Pemberley in all but name as it is."

"What about you," Joyce asked. "What about your Mr Darcy? Don't try and tell me that you weren't a little bit in love with Benn Williams, because I could see it written all over your face when I saw you dancing in the entrance hall that night"

Lizzy wasn't sure if she was ready to talk to anyone about Benn Williams. It had been three months since she had failed to meet him at the airport, had failed to answer his calls, had disappeared off the face of the earth. Then she saw the television interviews where he confirmed that he was very much single and very much on the hunt for someone to settle down with, and the print interviews where he was photographed, looking sad and sullen, musing on his divorce and life after love. She had watched from the comfort of social media as he posted pictures of London, LA, Paris, Chicago, Sydney, Brisbane, all accompanied by a bevy of women; who were polished, perfect and everything she wasn't. As much as she had wanted to let herself succumb to the wonderful abandonment of falling in love, she had to take a step back and think about it logically, and whilst her heart told her to throw it at him with everything she could muster, her head told her that he couldn't possibly be interested in her in that way, that she would be a temporary distraction.

But that feeling, though, that feeling hadn't gone away. When she thought about the way he looked at her, it sent shivers up and down her spine; remembering the gentle rub of his stubble against her chin, the gentleness of his kiss, the way his body felt when he was laughing and she was holding him close; then there was the way he had comforted her over the phone when she was convinced that her sister wasn't going to make it, how he had stayed up all night listening to her sob never once faltering in his steadfastness. Lizzy looked at Joyce with a haunted expression on her face, as if she had realised too late that she had left something precious and irreplaceable on a railway station platform. Joyce recognised that look; it was the look she had seen across her own face every morning when, married with four children, she had realised that not only had she married the wrong man, but that she had purposely, wilfully, let the right man slip through her fingers.

"Do you still think about him?" Joyce's voice was firm.

"Everyday."

xXx

New York was too cold at this time of year, he thought. Sitting on a bench in Central Park, he closed his eyes and thought back to the previous summer, a small smile traced across his lips as he remembered laughter like sunshine and the smell of coconut; in his pocket his fingers played with the small, golden pineapple that he still carried with him. He would stop thinking about her eventually, he thought, he would have to.