The corridors of Pemberley were quiet. No housemaids rushing around, no footmen busy lighting fires. The mood was sombre, silent as if the whole estate were holding its breath. Edward stood looking out at the lake in front of the house, the early morning mist still settling from the hills behind. It had been in the lake where his older brother had drowned in the midst of summer, laughing and joking on a raft they had built, standing balanced on the wooden planks, Peter had cheered from the centre of the lake, waving at Edward who was standing at the water's edge. He fell quickly, landing with a large splash, Edward laughing and watching for him to re-emerge with a gasp, but it took longer than he thought it would, and then too long. By the time they had all realised what had happened, it was too late. The sun was beginning to glint off the surface of the lake now, but all Edward could see when he looked at it were the cold, blank eyes of his brother staring into the distance. It sent a shiver down his spine, the same shiver that he felt the day before when the Prime Minister announced that the country was now at war with Germany.
Edward didn't have a taste for war. He had done his duty, of course, performed a basic office job during the fracas with the Boers, but his mother had written letters to his Uncle Wyndham in the War Office and there was never any chance that he would serve on the frontline. He was glad of it. He saw the eagerness of the faces of his sons the evening before, Bertie standing up as if he were already in uniform, ready to be shipped off to wherever his King needed him, Gig a little more reticent, knowing that he would be needed at Pemberley to manage things. Cecily, not usually hysterical, sobbing small quiet tears into her handkerchief and hoping that the dull glow of the electric lamps would hide her worry from the guests, even his mother Clementine retired early. It was only in his daughter that he caught recognition, and he watched as she slipped out of the room.
Millicent sat on the wall overlooking the tennis courts, legs dangling over the edge, the hint of cigarette smoke on the air. She pulled a long drag. Edward sat down beside her, similarly downcast as he looked out over the courtyard, the darkness of the countryside.
"Do you have a spare, Pen?"
She pushed the silver cigarette case along the rough-edged wall with a firm finger, a gentle push of the button, and it sprang open with a satisfying looseness. He remembered it well. The monogrammed case, a gift from his mother, had been taken with him to South Africa, carried it in his pocket as he had walked along the fences of the camps in Cape Town. It was the faces of the children he thought of. As he had walked past with Lord Kitchener there was a little blonde girl with the sad eyes who had reminded him too much of his young daughter at home. He didn't want to think of what might have happened to the child, but typhoid had run rife through the camp that summer, and he had never seen her again. Edward Darcy had always found Kitchener to be a cruel man, driven by ambition and a hardened determination to always be the victor, whatever the human cost.
"Now, don't waste it. I probably won't be getting any more French cigarettes for a while, Papa. I might have to give it up altogether."
"Stop smoking?" He said, as she leaned over and lit it for him, he inhaled with a sharp breath and a splutter, "surely you shouldn't deprive yourself of one of your only pleasures."
"Quite right," Millicent glanced over at her father, he was putting a brave face on, but she knew that he was terrified of what was to come. "It will all be alright, you know."
Edward sighed, "oh, I know. It will be horrendous for a few years, and we will suffer for a while, but everything will get back to normal. I doubt there will be many casualties, just a massive show of force by us before the Germans surrender."
"You think that it's all just political? That there will be no real fighting, but a lot of posturing and dramatics?"
"You know what the aristocracy are like, anything for a performance," he wasn't sure if he believed what he was saying, he knew war could be a frightful thing, "your mother is a brilliant example, I believe."
They both knew that he didn't believe it. Millicent stubbed out her cigarette on the wall, flicking the butt down into the shrubbery surrounding the tennis court.
"Mr Wetherby will have your guts for garters if he sees you doing that."
"Maybe," she smiled, "although, with four sons, I imagine his concerns may be elsewhere. There will be no aristocratic exemptions for them."
"Quite."
"What about Bertie?"
"What about him?" Edward knew what she meant, "you know he will go whether we like it or not."
"And can we not do anything? Can we not speak to Uncle Delancey? I'm sure his sway with Lord Kitchener will manage to keep Bertie from the front as long as possible."
"Uncle Delancey will be doing all he can to keep Kit from the front," he said, "he only has one son, I have two, and regardless of what I think about the military posturing, there is a lot to be said for the importance of one's heir."
"Gig won't go."
"No," he nodded, "he will be far more suited in an office in London than in a field in France."
"It won't come to that though, will it?"
"No."
Edward was lying, and Millicent knew it. Her heart had dropped the night before, she swore that she had felt it audibly clunk into her velvet evening pumps. A heavy weight that she had dragged around for hours now, pulling at her as she had trailed her fingers up the oak staircase bannisters, lay on top of her in the bedroom at the corner of the north front, put its hand around her neck and squeezed slowly until the tears had choked her in the middle of the night. This was why she was here now with her father, watching the summer sun slowly rising over the hills of Derbyshire.
"And there's Uncle Fitzwilliam, of course," Edward said solemnly, "all those sons."
He had said it on purpose, wanted to see if there was a reaction from her, but she stayed stoically looking out onto the parkland. Edward Darcy knew that Millicent's visits to the Darcy mansion on Grosvenor Street were nothing to do with her attendance at charity lunches, and everything to do with Rupert Fitzwilliam, the boy had shuffled and stuttered around Pemberley during the last shoot.
"There are a lot of families with a lot of sons, Papa. We cannot expect to be exempt because of the privilege of our rank."
"No," he said, 'but you know I will pull every string I can to keep your brothers safe. I have to."
"I know, Papa, and everything will be alright."
She tucked herself under his arm, as she used to do when she was younger, inhaling the familiar smell of him. The one that made her feel as if she were five years old again. Edward Darcy wrapped his arm around his daughter and exhaled, he didn't have the same level of confidence that everything would be alright. In fact, he didn't think they were going to be alright at all.
"I'm going to Waddingham on Friday, to see Uncle Fitzwilliam. Would you like to accompany me? Your mother is off to town with Granny, and I'm far too old now to travel stag…it's all been a bit dull there since Mabel died, Richard has lost his vim somewhat."
"Waddingham is too dull for words… why would I want to spend the weekend at Waddingham? You know full well that I have no taste for Yorkshire."
"Oh, I don't know," he said dismissively, "maybe there will be someone there to entertain you."
Looking up quickly, Millicent noticed the look on her father's face. She wondered if he knew. The hairs on her arm prickled, and she looked straight ahead, focusing on the distance. Millicent could never hide anything from her father as a general rule but matters of the heart were something different. Something only whispered about with Kitty in the quiet hours of the night, for lectured about by Aunt Agatha, or gently chastised by her mother, who wanted an excuse for a society wedding. There would be no weddings now though, she thought, not for as long as this lasted.
"Maybe," she sighed, "but you know not one of the Fitzwilliam boys are half useful for anything apart from gambling away their inheritance and playing polo. What good would any of them be on a battlefield?"
"I'm sure we'll soon find out," Edward said, "Matlock told me that all of his boys are signing up."
"Even Rupert? But he can barely hold a shotgun."
"Easier to shoot a German running towards you with a pistol than aim at a pheasant with a forty-year-old shotgun, I shouldn't wonder," he got to his feet, kissing her gently on the head, "you should come to Waddingham. Aunt Catriona always likes to see you, and it will do you good. Right, I'm off back to bed… best try and get an hour or so before your mother wakes up."
"Good idea," she smiled softly.
He turned and began the short journey inside, his slippers crunching against the gravel of the garden path. Millicent watched until he was safely inside, the soft click of the door into the Stag Parlour, and then she hid her face in the soft cotton of her dressing gown, and let the tears flow.