Thanks to years of practice, Mabel Anne Darcy was accomplished in a great deal of things deemed suitable for a girl of her rank and age. Her singing was delectable, her drawing and painting refined; she could play both the pianoforte and the harp, as spoke French and Italian to a high degree of fluency, although she could never quite perfect needlework or anything to do with hats. Ribbons were a curse, and she was happy to leave trimming hats to her Bingley cousins, who were frequent visitors. Mabel loved to hide away in the hidden spot under the grand staircase with a pile of books – the special kidskin bound tomes of Shakespeare that had come from her grandfather's library at Longbourn, or the smooth leather hardbacks filled with history and science, sometimes even the sensually gothic novels of Ann Radcliffe that she enjoyed reading in secret during the dark, deep hours of the night.
The house was busy with people – it was the week of preparation before Lady Anne's Ball, and everywhere there was hustle and bustle and noise. Her father had already ridden out early this morning; pretending that he had urgent business to attend to, when really, he was hiding up in the woods until the cacophony had abated, whilst her brothers were all away at school leaving Mabel to entertain herself for the most part. Fitzwilliam had an easy-going nature and reminded her of their mother. He delighted in anything fun, and loved balls, dancing and the company of ladies. He was in his last year at Cambridge, although everyone knew that his real education would come from Papa as he learned to run the Darcy estates in their entirety once his formal education was completed. Francis had been sent to Eton for Michaelmas Half and then returned at least six inches taller than he went; he had always been serious, but school had made him more so, and he stomped around the house with a frown on his face – only deigning to speak to her through gritted teeth, as though her very presence grieved him a great deal. She was grateful when the carriage carried him back from whence he came, and she did not have to avoid his foul moods and horrendous temper.
She ran her finger up and down the lines of regimented books in the library, each ordered by size and then alphabetically, each book rebound to her father's exacting standards and each manuscript stamped with a tiny golden bull on the spine before it was admitted entry. She picked up a thin, tightly bound novel and flicked through its pages quickly before tucking it into her pocket; with the red leather-bound book carefully stowed away, Mabel danced up the grand staircase, lightly stepping on each of the wide, shallow steps, twirling past the aspidistra that dangled over the edge of the bannisters, saluting General George and trying to avoid becoming a nuisance to the hordes of servants that were scuttling about the corridors and staircases. At last she stowed away in her hideaway at the far end of the long gallery, where she could see the smoky haze of Manchester in the distance – the great Stratton-Darcy cotton mills of Ancoats pumping soot and steam into the atmosphere. Taking out the half-inch wide book, she didn't have to read too far into it to realise that this story was something very close to home. It had begun with the names – Elizabeth, Jane, Kitty – common names, aye, but Bennet? And then the places – Meryton, Rosings, Pemberley… Mabel closed the book quickly, her hands holding the red bound novel tightly shut. She flicked back through the smooth paper pages to the front of the novel, then closed it again, then opened it again. She had been enjoying the story very much, and even though she was almost certain that she knew how the narrative would end, she wanted to see how the author arrived at the conclusion. At the end of the first volume she danced back down to the library, eager to complete the remaining two.
Elizabeth Darcy was getting ready for dinner when there was a loud knock and her door opened. Mabel. Even though there were definite hints of herself in her daughter – the impertinence, the obstinance and the sharp remarks – she was, for the most part, the epitome of Fitzwilliam Darcy in the form of a sixteen-year-old girl and was usually a fearsome thing to behold; but tonight, she was softer, understanding, looking at her mother with an almost dreamy expression. She threw herself onto the bed, causing the wood to creak and Helen, the lady's maid, to exit the room with undue haste and a knowing look to her mistress. Elizabeth remained perched at her dresser, continuing her toilette and eyeing the figure lying on the bed.
"Mother," came the sigh. "I need to question you about a novel I came across today in the library." She removed the book from the pocket of her dress, before placing it on the embroidered coverlet. Elizabeth picked the leather-bound volume up and eyed the spine, she inadvertently raised an eyebrow and an amused smile crossed her lips.
"Why are you smiling, Mother?" Mabel folded her arms and looked at her mother questioningly, "this book is all about you… and Papa… and our Aunt and Uncle Bingley…." Mabel had read all about how her father had tried to stop the marriage of her favourite Aunt, how he had arranged the marriage of her third favourite Aunt, and how he had loved her mother most ardently, so much so that he proposed twice.
Elizabeth flicked through the pages of the book, eyeing a passage and looking amused as she did so. "Pray, child," she soothed. "If you have read all of this novel," her eyes questioning her, "tell me, which is your favourite part?"
"I like all of the parts, Mama." She picked up the book and flicked through the pages, pulling at her dark curls, before finding the page she was looking for. "I think Elizabeth Bennet is the most wonderful character in all of English literature."
"I find that I must agree with you on this point," Elizabeth said as she finished pinning her hair. "I think my favourite part is when she tells Mr Darcy that he is the last man on earth that she could ever possibly marry."
Mabel rolled her eyes and deep sighed again, "ever be prevailed upon to marry, Mama." She grabbed the book and turned the pages vigorously until she reached the correct chapter. "Look, you are quoting it incorrectly."
"Oh yes," she smiled. "How very foolish of me."
"Mama," the younger woman prodded. "Are you the Miss Bennet of this story?"
Elizabeth eyed her daughter carefully, "what is your own opinion of this? Do you think that I am the Miss Bennet of this story?"
"Aye," she nodded, "I do. There are far too many similarities for it to be purely coincidental, and she talks like you do. She has your same… manner."
"My same impertinent manner."
Mabel blushed slightly, her cheeks reddening. She was still so young in so many ways, Elizabeth thought, and so like her parents in both the good ways and the bad. She didn't suffer from the restrictive shyness which had been a key flaw in Darcy's own character, and she was much less likely to judge other's on first impressions, always taking everything and everyone at face value; she was a wonderfully warm, loving girl whose personality was painted in vivid colours, contrasting with those of her brothers; her mother knew, that from the curl of her hair to the pout of her lip to the jut of her chin, she was a Darcy through and through.
"Well then, that is settled; I am firmly of the belief that once any of the Darcys – be it you, your father or any one of your brothers has decided upon an opinion then there is naught I can do to persuade you otherwise," she stood up. "Although, if one were the Miss Bennet of the story, then it may be a very foolish thing indeed to have the story of one's own courtship – hindered through pride and conceit – lying about for their daughter to read, do you not agree, Mabel?" Elizabeth rose to her feet, smoothing the soft yellow satin of her gown, "That is, if I were the Miss Bennet of your story." She eyed her daughter mischievously before walking out into the softly lit bright gallery.
Mabel smiled softly to herself, before holding the book close to her heart and falling back on the bed in her mother's chambers, fully believing herself to have been let into the confidence of a great secret.
The lights were low after supper when the distant sound of the piano being played less than adequately by her mother, followed by the sound of her father singing and then laughter, so much laughter. She softly stepped down the staircase, peeping into the drawing room, where her mother was sitting at the pianoforte; her father stood to one side turning the page as she fudged and slurred through the hard passages of the work, and he looked at her adoringly, a sparkle in his eyes as she smiled and laughed at his off-key singing and forgetting of the words. She slipped along past the edge of the drawing room, and through into the library; she placed the book back in its spot on the shelf, ensuring that it was perfectly aligned, and returned to the drawing room, where her mother stopped playing and called her over with a warm smile, and her father beckoned her towards him, pulling her into the firmest of embraces.
As she stood with the hero and heroine of her story, the daughter of Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet realised that, along with her brothers, she was the epilogue to a beautiful tale – one that was still being written.