PART III

We've got to stop meeting like this

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: jazz-square

Subject: Gird your loins

Hey there.

So, good news and bad news.

First, the good:

I'm coming home. Not forever, and certainly not, as some old dog from war, to lick my wounds. That interview that Charles gave a few days ago has assured me that there are no wounds to lick. He took full responsibility for the whole him-collapsing-the-first-night-of-the-democratic-convention thing. Which, you know, there really was nothing I could do about, besides wanging him over the head with a cricket bat a few weeks earlier and forcing him to rest. So I am not plagued by guilt. A bit tired, and right now, ignoring the slew of messages I'm getting (I know, get me) but actually, for once, reasonably content, I guess. So, anyway, I'm coming home for the two weeks that we had very sketchily pencilled in with Mrs R ages ago. Tell her gently. It might fell her to know that I'm actually coming for more than, you know, a night. And I know you're still hideously ill. So pump yourself pull of Vitamin C and Lemsip, because your germiness will only dissuade me slightly from hugging your head off.

But now, the bad:

Well. It doesn't start off bad. Charles is going to come too, at least for the first week. I know we'd rather have the time just for us (although if you make me watch Hannah Montana again, you can't understand the wrath that will fall on you) but the poor guy is getting so impressively hounded right now, and while the UK has a terrible rep for the paparazzi, we can at least control the access a little easier to the house what with the massive fences. So, he'll come too. Someone else for you to teach the Hoe Down Throw Down. However, the bad-bad news:

His sister Louisa, her husband Mitch, and Caroline are all coming too. I'm not entirely sure how it happened, but they kind of invited themselves, and I'm really, really sorry. Please don't leave anything hideous in my bed. We can get away from them. It's a big house and even bigger gardens. Hey- you could try and convince them of the relative merits of that King Arthur experience thing and send them off for a day. With any luck they'll get trapped in the underground rivers, or whatever it is there. Or we could run off to Anglesey for the day. Or we could hide in the attic. I know it sucks, and I'm sorry, but I'm telling you now, this is not, not, not the sleight and clever way that I am going to introduce you to your new sister-in-law, whatever Caroline is deluding herself about. Be on your guard. She may possess evil powers.

OK, so, can't wait to see you and your ugly face.

I'll be the one with the harried expression which turns to relief when you put the kettle on and assure me that the lock on my door still works.

Love you,

Will xxx

Fr: jazz-square

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: You KNOW how much I hate the word loins. Just for that, there'll be something hideous in your bed.

Hey right back.

May I just say, you haven't sounded that chilled in YEARS. Not that I'm glad the campaign fell to pieces or that you were vilified in the press for a few days, but it is nice to have the old Wilbo back again. Or would you rather I didn't refer to you as Wilbo Baggins in front of your new friends? TOUGH.

So, can't wait to see you and your ugly face either.

Also can't wait to see you being fawned over by Caroline Formisano. Seriously Will. That's enough comedy for me. Leaving her and Charlie's troll-sister and dunce-brother-in-law in King Arthur's Labyrinth would not compare. Although her face if she won the solid gold dragon which the website is advertising would be priceless. OK, so maybe we will.

Give Charlie a kiss for me (and maybe photograph his horrified expression at you smooching him) and tell him to get better soon so that we can continue that game of beach-volley-frisbee-death that we started what, eight years ago?

Love you dude,

George xxx

"I have no idea what Jane was talking about. This Marmite is amazing!"

Philip and Aliz watch their niece with expressions of gentle disbelief. "Really?" asks Aliz as she shovels spoonfuls of porridge into Aggie's waiting mouth. "I tried to get the boys to like it years ago."

"What happened?"

"They threw it away when I was out of the room." She smiles wryly.

"Well yeah," says Phil. "That's because it's beyond disgusting."

"No," calls Aliz, as Lizzie vehemently shakes her head, eating the rest of her toast. "It's just an acquired taste." Lizzie waves her toast in agreement.

"Exactly," she says. "It's like when you try coffee the first time and think it's gross."

Her uncle eyes the large mug in front of her. "Not so much any more then?"

She grins. "Maybe not." Finishing her toast, she picks up the said coffee and takes a sip. "So," she asks, "what are we doing today?"

Phil claps his hands together, a little too exuberantly. "Well," he says, "I think today would be the perfect day to go to, now wait a minute…" He leafs through the pages of his notebook which he filled with researched days out, Abbeys and forests, famous tea rooms and sites of historical interest. Not surprisingly, the page he is searching for is very near the front of the notebook. "Ah, here," he says. "Brynhaidd Llannerch…no, wait…" He leaves the notebook, propped open with the marmalade jar on it, and also picks up his Welsh pronunciation guide. "Ah," he says. "Yes…" and proceeds to pronounce it again, this time with much more of a Welsh spin. "Or something like that," he says, catching his wife's cynical eye.

"And what about this place is of historical interest?" asks Lizzie. "Did Conan Doyle perhaps write here, or maybe a great battle take place?"

Philip shoots his niece a stern look. "No," he says, pointedly, "although you have been very interested by all the other places I've taken you so far."

"Yes Uncle Phil," she says, grinning into her coffee. "Actually, I really have," she concedes.

"Well it's all in a little planning," mutters Phil as he removes the marmalade, attempts to brush off some of the sticky residue, then examines the pages of close notes. Aliz grins at her husband, but says nothing, too busy wiping the oaty remains of Aggie's breakfast off her face.

"It is," says Phil after a few seconds of reading, "the ancestral home of the Gryffudd family, situated on the coast with beautiful views across the sea." He runs a finger along lines of writing. "Oh, and it's a great example of building over time, displaying Baroque architecture, a Palladian façade, and new renovations of the old working buildings."

"That does sound interesting, love," says Aliz, who, having wiped off Aggie, now sets her down on the floor to crawl, her new found and very dangerous hobby.

"And of course, there is more interest for you, Lizzie."

"Really?"

He smiles superciliously, clearly thrilled to pass on interesting news.

"Why yes. In the early eighteen hundreds, the family name changed through marriage, from Gryffudd, to Darcy."

Lizzie's smile drops. "Oh," she says, and then takes an overly long sip of coffee.

"Is that all right, sweetheart?" asks Aliz, turning to her rapidly cooling coffee and toast. "We don't have to go if you don't want to."

"Oh, but Aliz…"

She shoots Phil a warning look. "If there has been any difficulty between you two, then of course you might not want to see him."

"But he won't be there," says Phil, petulantly. "Worst luck," he adds. "The house isn't open when the family is there. That's why today is the day. It closes either tomorrow or the day after…"

Aliz turns back to Lizzie. "Would that be all right? I suppose we could always leave you doing something else. At that bookshop again perhaps?"

Lizzie takes a deep, steadying breath, and smiles. "No, it's fine. I'm just being silly. We've talked a few times since we…er…fought, and it would be fine anyway, I'm sure."

Phil leans over, his notes forgotten. "You fought with William Darcy?"

Lizzie shrugs. "Pretty much."

"Really?"

"There was some yelling involved."

He leans back. "Sheesh. Well, good thing he won't be there, eh?" He grins. "So we're on?"

Aliz gives Lizzie a careful look, who smiles slightly, and nods. "Sure" she says, and disappears behind her mug of coffee.

"…here is the music room, which, unlike many stately homes, is still used by the family to this day. While very involved in medicine and politics, the Darcy family has always kept a keen interest in the arts, especially the present generation. Georgiana Darcy is currently studying for an MA in Dance Performance in London."

"And is this the room where she practices?" asks a pushy member of our party.

"No," says the housekeeper, our tour guide. "I'm afraid that it isn't included on the tour, but Miss Georgiana uses the long gallery of the old house for practice."

A discontented murmur whispers around various members of our party. Why, I'm not sure. Give the poor family some privacy. Going round someone's house, especially someone you know, who's not there, feels like riffling through their underwear drawer. I'm sure I'm about to discover something that I should not know.

"And now, if you'll follow me, we'll continue on."

She leads us through a long gallery, presumably not the one used for dance practice, several bedrooms which are so perfectly period-drama-esque that I can't imagine anyone sleeping in them, past painting upon painting of people with Will's eyes, and finally into large, airy room, with views past the terrace, down the gardens and across the sea.

"Here is the final room on this floor," announces Mrs Reynolds. "After this are the old kitchens and servants hall, which are no longer used by the present family. This, however, is as far removed from the servants quarters as could be imagined. This is the drawing room."

It is stunning, with high ceilings and large paintings across the walls, although, unlike some of the other places we've been, none of hunts or beheadings, or general carnage. Large couches are drawn around an impressive fire, all looking remarkably comfortable, cosy and used. Bookcases, crammed full, offer a brilliantly weird collection, with first editions of Dickens sitting snugly next to Mrs Frisby and the Rats of Nimh, and the odd Nancy Drew rammed in on the ends.

"Please feel free to linger here a little while," says Mrs Reynolds, standing by the door, "and when you are ready, take the stairs down at the end of the hall."

"Lizzie, love, would you take Aggie for a second?" Aunt Al passes me my very sleepy, warm and heavy cousin. She immediately clings to my side, her head nestled against my neck.

"No, not at all," I murmur, reasonably ineffectually, given that Aggie's already clinging to me like a spider monkey.

Aliz and Phil have a quick word with Mrs Reynolds, who looks like she's flagging a little, and then they dart back into the room before. Still visible through the open door, they pore over the open books in the library, Aliz pointing and exclaiming at the tiny illustrations across old notebooks, Phil ignoring her completely as he soaks up all of the past political missives that have flowed from this house. I hate to admit it, but he was right in wanting to come here. It really is amazing.

"Are you all right dear?" asks Mrs Reynolds, suddenly at my elbow as she sits down next to me on the window seat.

"Oh, yes," I say. "It's all just so much to take in."

She smiles warmly. "It was clearly too much for…" she hesitates, "your niece?"

"Cousin," I correct. "Absolutely. She's seen more chandeliers and flocked wallpaper today than she has in her entire life."

She smiles again. "The same could probably be said of most people who visit." She looks around the room fondly, as it slowly empties of people.

"Have you worked here long?" I ask, breaking the silence.

"The present Mr Darcy's grandparents employed me when I was sixteen," she says. "I started out as a maid, and worked until after I was married, to the head gardener," she adds, with a smile. "Then when my children were at school, they employed me again in the holidays to look after their grandson."

"Will?" I ask, and at her raised eyebrows, suddenly realise what I may have betrayed.

She smiles a little. "Yes, Master William."

I grimace a little. I really don't want to be seen as one of those people who have fantasised and become friendly with someone I've never met, all in my head. "I know him," I admit. "I worked with Will on the recent campaign."

Her expression of confusion and slight fear of the crazy woman, clears. "Oh," she says, clearly relieved. "And you're going to miss seeing him! You know he arrives tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" My voice is squeaky, and I cough in an attempt to calm it down. Aggie shifts a little against my shoulder, my arm quickly losing all feeling.

She pats my non-dead arm. "Yes. I could let him know that you're in the area. Leave your phone number and…"

"Oh I'm sure he doesn't want to see me," I interrupt.

She frowns and shakes her head. "Nonsense. He loves to see people."

Will? Will loves to see people? Will the hermit non-talking non-expressive Will? "Really?"

She smiles. "I've heard from his cousin that it's not entirely how he is when he's working, but back here? He's a regular chatterbox."

I smile. "I'm not sure we're talking about the same Will Darcy here."

She grins back, stands up stiffly, then walks over to a desk, and picks up a heavy framed photograph. She holds it up for me to see, my hands rather full of Aggie. It's the same Will. Younger, messier, and scrawnier, a two year old girl in a poofy white dress standing on his lap, clearly trying to reach for something out of the picture, but there he is. Will. "Same Will," I say, quietly, and she smiles again.

"That's him as a little boy, above the fire."

The large painting shows an old couple, a formidable looking man with snowy hair and moustache, and a comfortable looking woman, and sitting on her knee, a small boy with tousled curls and a sailor suit with a distinctly disgruntled expression, despite the toy rabbit clutched tightly in his hand. Behind them stands three people, one slightly older man with a dark beard, and a couple, a man who is so much Will's double as to undoubtedly be his father, and a woman with what I never thought I'd recognise, I saw it so little, Will's smile.

"The late Mr Darcy never expected to inherit the house," confides Mrs Reynolds, also looking up at the painting. "It was supposed to go to his older brother there, Mister Ioan Darcy, but then he sadly died very shortly after this painting was finished, in a car accident."

"How awful!" I find myself murmuring, and she nods.

"Well I think this house was a blessing in the long run for Mister Rhys. He moved here soon after his wife died, and lived here until his death, a few years ago."

"I never knew…" I say, and then stop myself. Well of course I never knew. Will never told me anything personal. Why on earth would he have opened with a list of family tragedies?

Mrs Reynolds nods. "They don't talk a lot about it," she agrees, "and it sounds terrible when you list it like that, but we all got through it."

"I'm sure they were grateful for having you here," I say, turning back to Mrs Reynolds.

She smiles. "Thank you, dear," she says, a little croakily, and pats my hand. "Right," she says, standing up, and bustling back to the desk to replace the photo. "I should be getting on. Stay here as long as you like." With that, she walks out of the room, and down the corridor, disappearing down the twisty stairs. I glance back. Phil and Aliz are still exclaiming to each other about the books, so I stay where I am, and look again at that painting.

After a while of silent musing, and slow wonderings of how my aunt and uncle could possibly take so long looking at books which we have, actually, already looked at, I stand up carefully, walk over to the door and tell them in an under tone, that I'm heading downstairs to see the servants quarters. Rather than, as I expected, them saying 'yes, yes, of course, we've been so long', both Al and Phil look up briefly, grunt at me, and then turn back to the things they were studying, Aliz even to the point of copying sketches into her notepad. I sigh, turn back, and walk Aggie down the stairs, across a small hallway and into a yard with old buildings along one side, a few members of our party still milling around the entrance to the gardens. I look in at the servant's hall, but little remains beyond some rough furniture and a few beer tankards scattered around for character, so I walk into the gardens. Roses curl invitingly over arches, surrounded at their feet by lavender bushes, bumped with clouds of butterflies. Mock orange blossom scents the whole path as I walk to a seat surrounding a tree, and drop to it gratefully. It will be a happy day for all when my cousin can walk. I tuck my feet up onto the seat, so that her weight now rests on my knee, not my arm, and she settles again, eyelids fluttering on rosy cheeks. Sitting now, quietly, I look down the garden over flower beds in bloom, fountains with people gathered around, throwing in coins, and beyond all that expanse of garden and lawn, the sea, stretching out as far as I can see. This is pretty much idyllic. I'm not sure that it could really get any better.

My attention on the sea and gardens is drawn suddenly however by an exultant whoop in the house, following a tell tale scrunch of gravel and the shutting off of an engine. Doors from within the house slam, and feet pound along corridors with open windows right behind me, before more scrunching gravel, more feet, laughter, and Mrs Reynolds, visible through the arch by the house, standing with her hands on her hips, laughing.

"You said you weren't getting here today!"

"He always was bad on time management," says a new, excited voice.

And then "well I'm here now." And stepping forward to hug Mrs Reynolds, a younger girl prancing behind them, he freezes, looking over her shoulder, and sees what is no doubt my equally horrified expression, as I look right back into Will's eyes.

And SHAZAM. We're in Pemberley. And yes, I changed the name. It didn't sound Welsh enough. And, although I can't for the life of me remember the details, I did work it out to mean the same thing because, yes, I am a massive nerd.

Thank you massively, yet again, for all the reviewing, particularly Jelly Babes 101 and MiToesesRTotallyRoses. Such specific and enthusiastic reviewing is hugely appreciated. Also, Ayannamoonmaiden -you are so good for my ego.

Thank you so much.