John William Darcy surveyed the scene in from of him. Glittering with diamonds, smothered in satin and powdered to perfection was his beautiful wife, Isabella, bent over the wooden table in the quiet fragrance of the still room, and being roughly taken from behind by one of their dinner guests, his wig was tilted to one side, his cravat loose and his breeches flapping around his ankles. He watched for moment, unseen, before returning to the dining room, the dancing and their waiting company.

The son of Richard Darcy, the man who took the fortunes built by his ancestors and frittered them away at the gambling tables of St James Palace, John William Darcy was not a romantic man. At twenty-two, he had inherited a near bankrupt estate, a dilapidated house and was tied to paying a crippling annuity to the Royal Household. Pemberley had suffered greatly after the death of his grandfather, Cyril, his own father having neither the aptitude for estate management or the desire to live in the country, especially when the pull of London society was so great.

John William Darcy was a respectable and somewhat god-fearing gentleman of twenty-eight years of age, and he realised that his responsibility was to restore the family fortunes in the only way currently open to him; marrying rich. Embarking on the hunt for suitable bride, Darcy was feted by gentlemen of trade – newly monied and fashionable - who longed to see their daughters lauded in higher social circles and as mothers to heirs of venerable old family estates. One such gentleman was Roger De Stratton, a merchant from the far North, who had made his fortune in cotton. He had invested wisely in new processes and procedures, his wealth and new business empire continuing to grow.

Isabella Stratton was beautiful, and whilst John thought that he could have eventually found himself in love with her pretty features, smart retorts and ability to laugh heartily at herself, it was clear that her affections and her heart lay elsewhere, although unfortunately with a gentleman already in possession of a wife. Their wedding was a grand and lavish affair, with her father footing the bill for the banquet and the wedding jewels. The new Mrs Darcy was as smart as her father, and had times been different she may have eventually found herself in charge of Stratton Mills, rather than as mistress of Pemberley. Holding up her end of the bargain, she was faithful to John and bore him three children – two sons and a daughter – before promptly abandoning them to live in Paris with her French aristocratic lover, who had promised her the moon on a stick and a ribbon wrapped around it. It would have been most agreeable for this forthright woman of fortune to have lived a long and happy life on the continent, however, she was found dead in her bed seven years later, her jewels stolen, her purse emptied and her lover nowhere to be found.

John William Darcy raised his children as best he could – he taught them always that their duty was to Pemberley first and to their own wants and desires second. He hoped that they could find a path in life that would be a perfect blend of the two. With his wife now returned to England and placed in the family mausoleum at Lambton, John tried to fight the waves of depression and grief that washed over him with increasing regularity. His family coffers were now restored, and he boosted them by selling parcels of land from the far ends of the estate and investing his money wisely. He continued to repeat to himself, over and over, that he was not a romantic man, that he did not need the pull of a wife to distract him from his duty to his estate and his responsibilities as an MP for the local area. He pushed on with his parliamentary work, never inattentive, and focusing on anything other than looking for a new bride, but John William Darcy realised too late that a life without love is a miserable one indeed. One late February morning, a few days before his fiftieth birthday, he walked into the oldest part of the woods and blew his brains out. It was classed as a hunting accident for purposes of report, even though it was deemed peculiar – the shot being close range and hunting out of season.

Joyce Hutchinson loved telling the tale of John William Darcy to her audience in the small chapel at Pemberley. She thought he was such an interesting and tragic figure that it was pity his efforts and achievements were mainly overlooked by the fictional version of his grandson, Fitzwilliam. As much as she loved telling people the real story of Darcy and Elizabeth, she wished that sometimes they would ask about some of the other characters who had walked down these halls and been married in this very chapel, rather than having to point them in the direction of Mr Darcy's Lake. Usually the room was packed full of part-time historians and everyday visitors who were eager to learn more about this elusive gentleman, especially after The Guardian ran an article on him a few months back, but today the room was mainly empty, apart from a plump, eager girl was here every weekend pretty much mouthing the words, and two German tourists who looked confused. She suspected that they had been looking for the toilets and were too polite to just walk out.

Today though she knew that her usual audience were all outside watching filming; the house and grounds had been closed for the past two weeks as the bulk of the outdoor shoot was completed, however, for this final part – an additional scene where a newly married Mr and Mrs Darcy returned to Pemberley – the production team had allowed public viewing and publicity shots were being taken by the local and national press. Joyce was also eagerly anticipating the spike in visitor numbers that would follow in the next few weeks as they reached the height of summer, the house desperately needed a new roof and they relied upon guest numbers to provide the much-needed revenue for repairs

Harriet slumped into the large couch which dominated the flat, she had been on set since 5am, trussed up in her maid's costume and performing the same action a hundred times. Her dad had been in complete tosser mode all day – she knew that it was what he did for a job, and he was really good at it, but he was so bossy and demanding that she had wished she had gone to work at the souvenir shop in Lambton, where she could sell Mr Darcy magnets and Lady Catherine's Lemon Curd to foreign tourists all day. At least she could tell him to bog off later when they went out for dinner. She felt sorry for the other 'supporting artists' who he had been bollocking for most of the day, and for poor Jenny Graves – who despite being ridiculously gorgeous and super skinny – was really stupid. It had been her fault, really, that the whole day had been wasted. Firstly, she couldn't remember her lines and then she fell out of the coach and ripped her dress, then her phone went off in the middle of the scene; Harriet had never seen her dad so angry, shouting and screaming about unprofessionalism and demanding that everyone leave the set, before storming off to his trailer. Her mum had always said that she got her temper from her dad, but Harriet had never recognised it before.

Walking up the grand staircase and through the door at the left, Harriet pushed her way through the door to the flat she shared with her mum. It would be nice, she thought, to have a house where you could put out a deckchair when it was nice and sit out on the garden during the day, rather than having to wait until everyone had gone home and then sneak out like some kind of rebel. She peered out onto the courtyard below from the tall windows; crew members were busy resetting for the 'return to Pemberley' scene that her dad was so excited about, she guessed that they would be having another go at it tomorrow. It was now seven o'clock and she was knackered.

"Mum!," she shouted. Nothing. "Mum?"

Harriet turned up the stairs and flopped into her bed – stuffed full of catering truck tacos she fell asleep within minutes.