It was a crisp October morning at the top of Cage Hill, the countryside below was turning from soft green to burnished orange, the change of the seasons cascading throughout the landscape. Harriet had been there since before six taking pictures of The Cage for her college project. She loved the way that it stood on the skyline, sometimes looking gigantic, and other times miniscule, and she had walked around the edges of the park taking photographs from different angles trying to capture the grand majesty of the ancient building that had dominated the skyline since Henry VIII was King. Walking past Mr Darcy's horse chestnut tree, she noticed some conkers lying on the floor, snatching at them she peeled off the spiky shell to reveal the beautiful soft seed inside. Darcy conkers had always been the best ones, even better than the ones from the massive old horse chestnut tree in Lambton, which is where the cutting from this tree had come from, apparently. Harriet smoothed the conkers in her hand until they looked like polished gems, satisfied with their prettiness she began her descent towards Pemberley.

At the edge of the hill there was a large protruding rock which came up to her shoulder; when Harriet had been younger Lizzy had lifted her up to it and swung her down to the ground, it felt like flying as she had been spun round and round, the horizon fading to a blur before they fell about giggling on the hillside. It had also been in this spot on a cold, cruel December night that Fitzwilliam Darcy had died; his body being found the next morning by servants from the house who had been sent up the hill to look for him in the waist deep snow. Harriet hoped that, wherever he was in spirit, her six times great grandfather approved of her superior conkers, soaked in vinegar and baked in the oven, which had thrashed everyone else's. She took a moment to look at the tributes written on the rock; quotes from Pride and Prejudice, drawings of the various actors who had played Mr Darcy, was that a bra? Harriet thought it was crazy how people were so in love with the fictional version of him as depicted on stage, screen and in a copious number of books – most of which you could buy in the Pemberley gift shop. She pulled the two conkers from her pocket and gently placed them next to a postcard of the real Fitzwilliam; her own small tribute to Mr Darcy, the very real man who was responsible for so much more than simply being rude to women at parties.

The doors of Pemberley were now closed to the public for eight weeks, however it would reopen for the whole of December to accommodate the Regency Christmas and a special exhibition about Mabel Darcy. The production team had returned to film the Netherfield Ball inside the grandeur of Pemberley's banqueting hall, and were currently setting up and resizing and lighting and balancing, all under the watchful eye of Joyce and the conservation team who were there to ensure that there was no further damage to the precious and priceless interiors. Harriet loitered at the north front gate, observing the dozens of people milling about like ants all over the house, before walking down the hill to the car park and knocking on the door of her dad's trailer. There was no answer, so she stepped up to the large door of the Winnebago and popped her head in.

"Dad?" She looked to the left and right but could not see him. She put her bag down on the seats in front of her, before making a hot chocolate at the brew station behind her – location filming always had the best hot chocolate, and she had never known why, but drinking it in the relative luxury of her dad's trailer had always been one of the highlights of being on location. This time had been much more fun than usual as she had got to do something; usually it was about as much fun as sitting in the offices of Winchester, Sparrow and Jones, playing with the photocopier and waiting for her mum to finish with a client. Her friends from school didn't understand how visiting a film set could be so boring, but most summers her dad's filming schedule dominated holiday plans; last year she ended up spending three whole weeks playing Minecraft with Oleander at some grotty little industrial estate in Kent rather than going to Florida like they had been promised. Sitting down and taking her copy of 'Persuasion' out of her bag she slurped on her drink and read a few pages before, frustrated by Captain Wentworth, she decided to text her dad to see where he was. He was usually on set by now, especially on days like this when his full control freak mode set in and everybody walked on eggshells until he was happy. Somewhere she could hear his distinctive text tone – his own voice at his Oscar acceptance speech – sounding somewhere in the trailer. She decided to ring; the theme music from Ubiquitous sounded out loudly, emanating from the bathroom, the deep bass vibrating against the wall and the pitchy violins sounding sharp and shrill.

"Dad, are you on the loo?"

"Harriet, can I meet you up at the house in about ten minutes?"

He sounded strange and she felt that she must question it.

"Are you alright in there?" she pushed, "is this like when we went to Mexico and you were wee-pooing for three days?"

There was a noise that she thought was someone stifling a laugh; there was someone here.

"No, H, it's okay… I'll see you up there, okay?"

The forced joviality in his voice was an obvious sign that he was trying to get rid of her now. There was definitely someone else here. She quickly scouted around the room looking for clues, but there was nothing obvious, which meant that he was getting much cleverer at hiding his various infidelities. Harriet wasn't one to judge her father, but she wished that he tried a little bit. It made sense now that he had been away on location since June, and that neither Cara or the boys would answer her FaceTime calls, she had probably already caught him and was busy working out her next move, not needing the hassle of his other random child to confuse things.

"Okay, I'll meet you at the shop. You can buy me some fudge."

"Yeah, course!" She was convinced his voice had raised an octave. "See you in a bit!"

Harriet grabbed her bag, stomped over to the door, opened it and then closed it again before sitting on the sofa, just hidden from the view of the bathroom. It only took a minute or two before her father emerged, dishevelled and post-coital, followed by Tamsin McLeod, who was smiling until she saw the frowning face of Harriet Darcy in the corner of the room.

"Are you actually kidding me, Dad?"

"Harriet, I... Uhm... you said you were… uhm," his eyes darted from Harriet to Tamsin. "I can explain this, please don't tell Cara… or your mother…"

"You know he's married, right?" she addressed Tamsin directly, the tiny blonde looking incredibly young without her professional make-up. "He's like twenty years older than you, you could do much better… what happened to Rowan? He's gorgeous! Please don't tell me you sacked off Rowan Morris for my dad, because you would need your head checking if you have. Look at him, he's ancient!"

She pointed at her dad, seeing a man who was nearly forty and, in her eyes, super old. Tamsin didn't see what Harriet saw, instead she saw a deeply attractive man in his late thirties who was in a bad marriage, and she knew that she could put all of his broken pieces back together, even if that meant moving to LA and living in his big house for a while, and whilst she was there she was certain she would be able to pick up some work, surely that would be much easier if she was sleeping with Matthew Wickham, even if he was fifteen years older than her. The role of Lydia should prove to be her breakout one, finally she would get away from playing studious nerds and could finally aim for the Manic Pixie Dream Girl roles that had so far eluded her. Tamsin, her blonde hair rumpled and her eyes like saucers, looked from Harriet to Matthew, then grabbed her shoes and bag, which she had hidden in a cupboard, before quietly exiting the trailer. Harriet stood looking at the father with her hand on her hips.

"You look exactly like your mother when you do that."

"I expected better of you – she's like twelve!"

"She's twenty-three, Harry, I think you're being slightly judgmental."

"Slightly judgmental? Are you not slightly married?"

Matthew sighed, "I wouldn't expect you to understand adult relationships. They're more complicated than changing your Facebook status, you know."

Harriet rolled her eyes at her dad, "wow, that's not patronising at all, is it?" She picked up her bag and began to walk towards the door of the trailer. "Nobody uses Facebook anymore."

"Don't come in here and speak to me like that," he protested. "Things haven't been great with Cara and me for ages now, she barely tolerates me being there."

"Get divorced then," she sighed, "and grow up!"

Harriet slammed out of the trailer and Matthew slumped down on the hard leather seats of the Winnebago. He should feel remorse, but he didn't. He liked the way Tamsin looked at him as if he was the greatest thing since sliced bread; how she had flirted and flattered his ego, pandering to the underlying arrogance that came with success that the other woman in his life – Lizzy, Cara and now Harriet – refused to do. It's not as if he made a habit of cheating on his wife, but the occasional dalliance away on location made him feel desired and wanted in a way that his wife of fifteen years didn't. Harriet didn't understand adult relationships, didn't understand the hard work that it took to align your life with someone else's, the dreary monotony of monogamy. He had married too young, too fast, too foolishly and these little trysts were his way of rewarding himself for not having a permanent girlfriend on the East Coast like so many of his peers. No, Harriet could sod off – she was the one who needed to grow up and realise that life wasn't a romantic comedy where everyone got what they wanted and lived happily ever after. Sitting in the shadow of the great house where he had grown up, Matthew Wickham was beginning to wish that he hadn't come back to Derbyshire.