Chapter Twenty Two: Behind the Six

Nine months later...

The day was perfect. Conditions were ideal for flat racing, the atmosphere was one of celebration, light decadence and optimism. The sun shone, the ground was firm, the paddocks were teeming with activity. Horse racing, a staple of British culture, followed by millions in betting shops all across the tired old island with small red pens and fingers crossed, witnessed by the privileged few. A day of dressing up and getting drunk on champagne, revelling in money and excitement. Monkeys were being placed, indeed bets upwards of ten grand were not at all rare. Amongst all this, a man dressed in classic country gentlemen gear moved through the crowds, occasionally being stopped by an enthusiastic greeting, responding in equal fashion.

"Hugo, you young whippersnapper! What a bloody day, eh?"

"Quite the day indeed, Jerry," he agreed, his smile wide and open. "Tell me, is Barbara here with you? I must congratulate her on that splendid dinner party last week."

"Left the ball and chain at home today," Jerry grinned conspiratorially. "Got my eye on this pretty young thing Marcus introduced me to a few weeks back. Speaking of, I best get back and refill her champagne glass. We must do that hunting trip some time! And remember, not a word to the wife dear boy. Not. A. Word."

"Get out of here, you old dog!"

Hugo continued on, heading to the paddock area, still smiling at the day's events. Just a few hours ago, he'd set in motion something big. He was waved through by the security with no questions asked, immediately given a glass of champers and a cigar to chomp on. Life was good. And it was going to get much better come next week. He had a plan, you see. A dastardly, genius plan.

Hugo Chamberlain liked to say he was part of the new 'posh and proud' generation. He was not ashamed of his background, not ashamed that his forebears had built the families fortune through tobacco sales. Why should he feel bad about it? People chose to smoke right, it was a conscious decision. Then they wanted to complain about lung cancer? No, fuck that. Also, it had nothing to do with him. Yes, he was the benefactor of a sizable fortune, a big trust fund, private schooling, top universities. What was he supposed to do, give it all to charity? No, you play the hand you're dealt in life, that's how he'd always looked at it, and he'd played his. And if he was being honest with himself, the favourable cards had not brought him the happiness most people thought it should. Nearing thirty, he found himself in what he could only describe as a rut. He had a job in the City, banking to be precise. Posh and a banker, oh how people must hate him, he often thought. That didn't bother him, no, what bothered him was the fact that it was now so mind numbingly boring. Working in the office day after day, walking on that same bit of carpet. Ok, so his office was on the top floor of a London skyscraper with panoramic views of the vast sprawl, but it was still an office. At first, fresh out of university with the arrogance of new money and youth, he'd loved his job, the adrenaline, the late nights, the boys club vibes. He was good at it as well, he worked as hard as anyone. But as the years rolled by, it began to become a chore, harder and harder to drag his feet into the building, pull those all nighters required. He needed something else, some reason to get up in the morning, fill the gaping chasm that is life.

The races had always been a passion of his ever since he was a young boy. Royal Ascot, Epsom Downs, Cheltenham. He loved the sheer beauty of it, the baseness of it, the crack of the whip and the buzz in the crowd. The pretty girls in their summer dresses and big hats, the champagne flutes, the way that even though appearances were still mostly maintained by the rich set, the masks slipped a little more often with the scent of decadence in the air. He'd seen things you wouldn't believe at these events, members of the royal family snorting cocaine from a woman's cleavage, sex in the most creative of places, obscene amounts of money being thrown around like it was nothing more than a nuisance to its owner. He'd even witnessed a gentleman's agreement to sell arms to both sides in some civil war taking place in one of those countries you couldn't pronounce. This was where it all happened. This was where he wanted and needed to be.

More than that, and perhaps more pure, was his love for the sport. For the horse as an animal, that majestic beast that galloped and powered down the field, surely fully aware of the expectation on it. The thrill you got when your horse, the one you backed and told others to, romped home at a canter, destroying the field. The smell of the place, the fresh cut grass, fuck, even the horse shit in the paddocks. He loved it, everything about it. But then on came Monday morning, he'd trudge back into his glass cage of an office and get back to the real world. Well, the real world for him. He was fully aware of how lucky he was to be in this position, that's the thing people often misunderstand about rich people. People like him weren't as socially blinded as they were often made out to be. But, as he said, you play the card you are dealt. He was playing his.

And now, he'd been dealt Blackjack.

It had all happened by accident. He was a regular around the races, all the big events, his name was known by almost everyone in the game. What set him apart from his friends in the hospitality boxes was his desire to get to know every faucet of the event, every mechanism, how everything worked. He spent time with the trainers, the bookies, the jockeys, the stable boys. He remembered their names, asked them questions, made them like him. Tried to break down that barrier between us and them. Initially he'd met some resistance and caught the eye rolls as he approached in his fake country gentleman get up and plum accent. But he'd worn them down through his sheer enthusiasm for what they were all doing, forcing them to change their minds. It felt good. He was around his passion, he felt more alive than ever. But even then it took the nudge, took someone to mention oh so casually and in a jokey manner, that this could be a genuine career for him if he wasn't such a successful City boy. In that moment his life changed. Why shouldn't he do this? Follow his passions, his dreams, feel this alive every day of the week, not just on weekends, become a part of something that he actually cared about. He was going to start his own stable, his own horses, his own syndicate.

However, even for a man of his resources, it was not that simple. One did not simply walk into this business. You didn't just buy a few horses and hope for the best. It took time, connections and patience. Money, yes, but that alone wasn't enough to succeed here. He soon realised it would take years, decades even, to make this work for him. He liked to think of himself as a patient man, but not to that extent. He wasn't going to wait around, watch his sizeable, but certainly not bottomless, fortune drain away. He became despondent as he realised that this dream was perhaps out of reach, even for him. Just as he'd resigned himself, just as the dream began to slip away into the realms of fantasy to only be revisited when asleep or after a few too many drinks, his moment came. The cards were turned.

It turned out that all those hours spent around the racecourses with everyone from the minor Royals in attendance down to the stable hands had been the key to starting this journey. The key to achieving what he longed for. A couple of months back, he'd been hanging around the holding areas talking to a few of the trainers when he'd overheard a conversation between a man and what he later found out was his wife. They were talking about their daughter's schooling fees, so far so dull. The conversation was slightly heated. Hugo had said his goodbyes and was about to go and put a few hundred pounds on one of his inside tips, but he was stopped in his tracks as the conversation took an interesting turn.

"Look," the unknown man had said. "It's only a matter of time. You've seen the times on this Thoroughbred, you know that we're sitting on a goldmine with him."

"Exactly!" the woman had hissed. "Sitting on! He's a great horse, could be the best, I've never seen anything like him before, but all we can do is sit on it. You need money in this game, and we don't have any thanks to you!"

"I'll have backers queuing up as soon as I put it about."

"And who's going to listen to you?" the woman spat. "We're blacklisted, Peter, all thanks to your stupidity! I'm surprised we haven't been chucked out of here yet. No-one will touch us, not after you took the fall. I told you to never get involved in that syndicate, told you that they would get caught. Printing off winning tickets before the race had even finished? How obvious could they be! And of course, the trail led straight to us, not any of them."

"I was trying to save this family!" the man counterattacked, Hugo growing more and more curious from his position. "That bloody school you insisted on sending Anna to and all your holidays were killing us financially. We were in deep trouble. I had to do something!"

"All you did was get us in worse trouble. Now we have legal fees, they're threatening to repossess the stables. If we don't find some money within three months, we are out on the street, Peter!"

"This horse can run the mile in one minute, thirty nine seconds, a furlong in less than eleven and he's not even been race tested! You've seen it with your own eyes. He's only going to get better. He's the next Frankel, I know it. And he's ours. We bred him, we trained him, we own him. Any black marks against our names will not matter when they see him. We'll get a backer and then…."

"The problem is, Peter," the woman interrupted with a sigh. "No-one's going to want to see him. You have no friends left, no connections, no-one is going to drive all the way up to Yorkshire on your word. You're a cheat, that's the end of it for everyone. So, no, we're not going to get a backer. And we can't do it on our own. We only have one option…."

"I won't sell him!" the man erupted. "He's priceless!"

"But a house isn't. A mortgage repayment isn't. Our daughter's future isn't. We need money, Peter, and we need it fast. So unless a miracle appears from nowhere, that's exactly what you are going to do."

The woman stormed out the stables, not noticing Hugo. He snuck a glance as she brushed past. She looked about forty maybe, blonde hair not as immaculate and vibrant as it used to be he'd wager, but she held herself straight and with pride. The man came out not long after, again too lost in his own thoughts to notice Hugo. He was a little older than her, his face was tired, his hair prematurely grey and thinning. He oozed desperation.

For the rest of the day, Hugo had been distracted by what he had overheard. A Thoroughbred, not even race tested, raised by those two, running the mile in 1.39? Surely it couldn't be. That was ridiculous, quicker than most regular winners. The next Frankel? No, come on, people were always saying that rubbish about their new horse, showing off. But these two weren't showing off to anyone. They hadn't known he was there, for all they knew they were having a private conversation. So were they just so desperate and deluded that they had to tell these lies to each other? It couldn't be ruled out. But what if, just what if, it was true. What if by some miracle, some disgraced trainer had managed to breed a horse that was potentially one of the greatest of all time? Wasn't that worth at least a look?

He kept his eye out for the rest of the afternoon, but he didn't see the two again. Somehow, he felt like this was an opportunity being missed. Logic and reason said it was a goose chase, he was probably wasting his time. But so what? His curiosity had been pricked, and he wanted to believe it. This could be his chance. If this horse was as good as they said he was and nobody else would touch them, what was stopping him from swooping in? Just imagine, Hugo Chamberlain, the man behind one of the best racing horses in history. Something to get up for in the morning indeed…..

However, he wasn't going to get carried away, after all, this was more than likely to be wasted time. When he didn't see the two again, he decided to ask around. He had a vague description, had the name Peter and the name of his daughter, Anna. The logical place to start was the trainers. So, the next Saturday at Aintree, he went through his usual routine, meeting and greeting everyone in sight, whatever their background, only this time asking the questions that were about to change his life. The first few people he talked to were no help at all and he became despondent, coming to the realisation that this was indeed just a goose chase.

Just as he was giving up hope, he struck gold.

"Say, Jacko, I overheard a little bit of chatter the other day and wondered if you could help me out?" he asked Jack Crownley, a working class trainer who was always friendly to him. He wasn't the best in the business, but he made a decent living out of the occasional placing and Hugo liked him, liked that he never seemed to hold any of that lingering class antipathy towards him.

"Sticking yer nose in where it don't belong again, Chambo?" Jack laughed, Hugo revelling in his new nickname. It was proof that he was being accepted.

"Nothing like that, I assure you. Just something that piqued the old curiosity is all. Probably nothing….."

"Ask away, mate." Jacko invited, slowly walking around his horse who would run later in the day. This one didn't stand a chance, but Hugo knew that Jack took pride in his work, if the horse was going to race, it was going to race to the best of its ability, even if that still meant it placed last.

"Something about some dodgy dealings. Yorkshireman, Peter something, got a daughter called Anna. Maybe caught up in some dodgy syndicate, printing off winning tickets before the race had even begun. You hear any whispers?"

Hugo could tell that Jack was uncomfortable straight away. Maybe, just maybe….

"'eard nuffin my end, pal." Jacko replied, not making eye contact, seemingly fascinated suddenly by his horse's saddle arrangement.

"Come on, Jacko," Hugo pressed, knowing he may well finally be on to something. "It's just us talking here. Nothing bloody sinister or anything, I heard a rumour, that's all. I want to know just how dirty some of these races I've been at have been."

Jack stiffened again, before letting out a snort and continuing his circling.

"Alright, alright," he sighed. "It's not like I hold the man in particular esteem. You're talking about Peter Hayward. Used to be a trainer like me, same kind of standing, you know, good but not the best. Got by alright. It weren't enough for that piece of shit though."

"What do you mean?" Hugo asked, barely concealing the excitement in his voice.

"Wasn't content with just being in the sport like the rest of us, playing it clean and honest. Nah, Peter, he wanted more, got greedy. Dunno how it happened, but suddenly he was running around with this Russian syndicate, turning up at the events all dolled up with that bloody daughter of his. Started to get some wins too, at the smaller races. Only, it turned out that this syndicate wasn't quite as good as he thought it was. Only took em about three months to get caught doing what you said they were. Printing of winning tickets before the race. Fuckin amateurs. I mean, if you're going to cheat, at least have the decency to do it properly."

"How'd they do it?"

"Thinking of getting involved, Chambo?" Jack laughed. "Just messing, I'll be fair to you, you love the sport too much. That's why I talk to you."

"I've asked around a bit, but no-one's known any of this," Hugo frowned. "Why is that?"

Jack looked at him, with a hint of amusement and worse, condescension.

"Look, Chambo," he began diplomatically. "I like you, I've said that already. I don't hold no grudges against people like you…"

"People like me?"

"Yeah, people like you," Jack smirked. "All 'weekend at the farmers market' clothes and proper Queens English. But, you gotta understand, it rubs some people up the wrong way, you know? Now, I ain't saying people don't like you, somehow you've become quite popular down amongst the plebs, but they ain't gonna start opening their mouths about one of their own. They ain't gonna trust you, I'm afraid to say, not for a while, anyway."

"But, I thought…." Hugo trailed off with a whine, disappointed that he hadn't made the inroads that he thought, that he was the victim of this kind of reverse snobbery.

"Thought what, that you were one of us?" Jack said, gently. "It ain't ever gonna be the case, mate, it's just not true, never will be. This is the British way, a system built on class, they'll always be that divide. Never underestimate the working class resentment towards you privileged folk."

"So," Hugo recovered. "Why are you breaking down these barriers by talking to me?"

"Perhaps I'm just more enlightened," Jack chuckled. "Nah, as I said, I like you, Hugo. You live and breathe this sport, I respect that regardless of where you come from. Ain't your fucking fault is it? But, if I'm being honest, if you'd have brought up someone that I didn't despise so much I would have kept my mouth shut like the rest. It ain't good for our sport, ain't good for our livelihoods for the onlookers to ask these types of questions. It was an embarrassing affair all round, one that we don't like to chat about. It got dealt with, Peter got kicked out, the end. Why you askin anyway?"

"As I said, just piqued my curiosity, that's all. I appreciate you breaking ranks for me, Jacko. Nice to know I've got a few friends around….."

"Oh, don't go all fuckin poor me," Jacko laughed. "These things take time, Chambo. You're doing the right things, you're different from all those mates you drink the champers with, we all know that. It just takes more time to build up that trust."

"Of course," Hugo nodded, feeling slightly better about the whole thing. "Good luck with it today, Jacko."

"I'm gonna fucking need it with this piece of shit." Jacko muttered, patting the horse more aggressively than he probably should, causing Hugo to laugh as he walked away, his mind alight with possibilities.

So, that was how it began. Jacko's story was confirmed by a bookie at Sandown Park later in the month, and Hugo's excitement began to build. Here was a disgraced trainer, someone who had alienated his entire profession, potentially in possession of a Thoroughbred that could be a champion. And he was the only one who knew, and probably the only one who would be willing to give this man the time of day. It could be the opportunity of a lifetime, the opportunity to make something entirely his own. The plan began to form. Knew he was getting ahead of himself, knew that there was still a massive likelihood that the horse was nowhere near as good as he had overheard, but what if it was? He couldn't let it slip. He'd find these people, he'd flatter them, charm them, let them know subtly that he was interested in investing in stables with talent. See the horse and see if this was worth it. He'd get into bed with them, back them financially for a while, before cutting them out completely, buying them out as fast as he could, bringing in his own men, his own trainers, his own ideas, starting his own syndicate with this Thoroughbred at the head. Racing gold. He could actually do this. Felt a slight twinge of guilt at his plan, but then again, this Peter fellow was a cheat, had brought the sport into disrepute. No, he deserved it.

It turned out that it took no effort on his part to come into contact with the people he was looking for again. Early May found him at Newmarket, taking in the atmosphere from the stands amongst the paying public. His friends often laughed at him for this, after all he had access to the hospitality suites and boxes. But he liked to be in the thick of it. He was watching one of the earlier races when he heard a crash and felt the sensation of liquid seeping into his shirt.

"Oh, gosh!" a young woman with long red hair exclaimed, frantically steadying herself and looking at him with horror. "I'm so sorry, I'm such a bloody klutz!"

Hugo felt a flash of annoyance as he looked down at his ruined shirt. He was dressed more formally today as he'd had a business meeting before the races kicked off, and his expensive gear was now ruined.

"For God sake," he muttered, doing his best to clean himself up with his handkerchief.

"Here, let me help you." the woman began dabbing at his shirt with her own cloth, Hugo pushing her away gently, looking at her for the first time.

In some ways, she was exactly the type of young woman you'd expect to find at these types of events on first impressions. She was dressed immaculately, her hat was big and colourful, her dress was light and summery. Her red hair was straight and sleek. He'd always liked redheads. But as she stepped back and wrung her hands together in nervous embarrassment, Hugo realised she was different from the others. He got the impression that here was a girl who was, deep down, uncomfortable in her own skin. She just didn't hold it together as well as the other well bred girls. She was nervous instead of confident, looking down instead of straight ahead, somehow stooped as if she was trying to make herself smaller. These were not mannerisms that were common here. He felt his heart soften slightly.

"Hey, look, don't worry about it," he said softly, causing her to make eye contact. He was struck by her big brown eyes. "I've got plenty more at home."

"I really am sorry," the girl apologised again, but she was smiling shyly. "My mother's always telling me I need to concentrate more. 'Always off with the fairies, you', that's what she says."

"Nothing wrong with that at all," Hugo smiled, feeling a certain warmth inside him. "Much better to be a dreamer in my opinion. If we all lived completely in the here and now, I think we'd be quite depressed, don't you?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, an adorable crease appearing on her forehead.

"Never mind," he shook his head, not keen to expand on his viewpoint. Society dictates that you shouldn't get into philosophical debates on a first meeting, it tends to put people off you. A shame really. Instead, he extended his hand. "I'm Hugo Chamberlain by the way."

"A pleasure," she grasped his hand lightly. "Anna Hayward, gold medal winner in awkwardness."

Hugo laughed at her joke before it suddenly clicked. Anna Hayward. Peter Hayward. This was who he'd been looking for, the disgraced trainer that was going to make his dreams come true. This was meant to be, he smiled up to the heavens. Today., God was most certainly on his side.

"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Hayward," he charmed, rewarded with a slight blush. "How about we go and replace that drink that's all down my shirt?"

It was remarkably easy to insert himself into the Haywards lives. It had only been two months since his first meeting with Anna, and he was already treated like family. It was sad really, they were so desperate for friends. Anna, who confided in him that she had always been picked on by the other girls around the races and stables, latched onto him as if he was Jesus Christ himself. And Peter and Rosa were only a little less enthusiastic. They'd spent months as lepers, shunned by the racing community, and they were grateful that Hugo didn't judge them. Peter had admitted what he'd done over a few late night brandy's after the Goodwood meet. Hugo had acted with surprise, but had quickly reassured his friend that he wasn't at all bothered about his past. That was when the horse had first been brought up. Peter was vague with the details, reluctant to admit too much, but Hugo managed to wheedle the details out of him. Soon enough, he had a viewing arranged at their Yorkshire stables.

He'd decided what he was going to do if this horse was genuine. The Hayward's were in dire financial straits, they were even more desperate for money than they were friends. Initially he'd planned to string them along for a bit, investing a little at a time until he'd built up enough trust. Then he'd planned to sting them completely. But now, he'd realised that it was unnecessary, overcomplicated, the solution was simple. He was going to buy the horse outright. He'd run the figures, losses against potential earnings, and had come up with the quarter of a million figure. That's what he was going to offer them to sign over the horse to him. They were in no position to turn it down. Peter had approached all his former friends about his Thoroughbred, but they all laughed him out the room. No-one would give him the time of day. They needed this, and they needed it now. Hugo was going to oblige. Of course, he was ripping them off. If this horse was that good, then they could become millionaires off of it, if they had the contacts. But they didn't. What they had was the wolves at the door and nothing to bargain with, except for that one precious beast that no-one, except for Hugo, would even look at. His dreams were alive, he was going to become the owner of his own champion.

Imagine his delight when it turned out to all be true. He'd gone up to Yorkshire for three days, using some of his precious holiday. Totally worth it. He watched as this remarkable stallion did the mile in one minute, forty two seconds. Then one minute, forty five. Then one minute forty two again. Ok, so not the under one forty promised, but still an amazing achievement for such a young horse. Race winning times. It was funny how time seemed to slow down when Hugo was watching his future gallop down the field. He could have sworn that it was taking longer for the horse to get to the finish, but every time he looked down at Peter or Anna's stopwatch, the time was quicker than he'd ever have expected. Put it down to the importance of these moments. His brain was trying to preserve the memory for the future, when he could look back and say this was where it all started.

The decision was made. He was going to do this. He and a few pals were heading up to Edinburgh in a few weeks for the Musselburgh meet, not the most glamorous events, but always worth it for the weekend away, and he decided that was where he would do it. He would treat the Hayward's to a weekend of absolute luxury, the best hotels, the best country clubs, the best box at the races. Butter them up. And then, over some late night drinks, the plotting would begin. He'd come straight out with it, sympathise with their plight, say he just wanted to help, and then hit them with his offer. A quarter of a million. Not a measly sum, but he could just about afford it and still be comfortable. He knew Peter's insistence about not selling the horse was growing more and more hollow, his wife was getting to him, Hugo had seen it with his own eyes. No, there was no way the Haywards could turn this down. It was more than they could ever expect to get out of this whole debacle. Indeed, Hugo was being slightly generous, he could probably get the horse for half that. But he liked them, particularly the daughter. She was so innocently sweet, so adorably awkward. He saw her almost like the little sister he never had. He was being devious towards them yes, but he was also being over generous at the same time. It helped him sleep at night.

He steeled himself, about to make the most important move of his life, and turned to Peter and his family just as he was about to take his leave.

"Thank you so much for your hospitality Peter, Rosa and Anna. It's been a delightful few days, I'm sad to be leaving."

"It's been a treat having you here," Rosa said warmly, before her eyes betrayed sadness. "We don't get many visitors these days…"

"Well, it's their bloody loss!" Hugo embraced her warmly, causing her to laugh.

"Such a bloody charmer!"

"You know it," he winked at Anna, causing her to blush prettily. "I'll have to repay the favour one day soon. Actually, I'll tell you what, there might well be something….."

He put his plan into action, pretending the thought had just struck him like lightning. These people were putty in his hands. The adrenaline was coursing, the great game was afoot.

"Me and a couple of friends are heading up to Edinburgh the weekend after next, maybe you could join us?" he asked earnestly.

There was a pause.

"It's not great timing, Hugo," Peter sighed, his pride about to be dented. "Can't afford to be off gallivanting at the moment."

"Oh no, no. All on me, dear friend. My treat for all. A few have cancelled so I'm left with extra rooms and tickets that I need to fill. All inclusive, all paid for."

"We wouldn't want to impose…."

"You'll be doing me a favour," Hugo claimed, knowing he had to play it carefully. Prideful families did not accept charity lightly. "Would be a shame to see it go to waste, and I think it'd be good for you. Some of that Highland air!"

"If you're sure….."

"Of course! Tell you what, I'll even pick you up, it's only a slight detour. Bring your gladrags, Rosa, Anna. We'll be dancing the night away!"

"It sounds wonderful!" Anna exclaimed. "Can we go, Daddy? Please?"

Peter paused again, before his eyes softened as he looked at his daughter's enthusiasm.

"We'd be delighted." he smiled at Hugo.

"Excellent! Ok then, weekend after next, I'll text you the details. We'll be staying just outside Edinburgh, a place a friend recommended. Hotel and casino type thing, supposed to be the best. Pemberley or something…"

"Pemberley?" Anna asked sharply, almost as if the name held significance to her.

"I think so. You know it?"

"No, no," she replied sweetly, seeming to recover. "Never heard of it. Funny name is all…."

"Oh, Anna," Hugo laughed, brushing it off as one of her strange quirks. "I'll never understand what goes on in that head of yours, will I?"

"Not much, I imagine…." Peter muttered, earning a glare from his wife and causing Anna to look at her feet. He did that a fair bit, put his daughter down. Hugo understood why he did it, Anna wasn't the sharpest tool and she didn't exactly do a lot, but still, it was a bit harsh. Not his business though.

"Well, I best be off," he tipped his hat and opened his car door. "Check your phone for the details, Peter, and I'll see all of you the weekend after next. And again, thank you so much for your hospitality. I've had a grand old time! Quite the horse you've got as well….."

"It is indeed," Peter nodded. "Safe journey home now!"

The car door was slammed shut and Hugo was away down the gravel track. He looked back briefly and offered a wave which was reciprocated until he was out of sight. Leant back, hand on the wheel and allowed himself a grin of triumph. He was going to do this. He was going to follow his dream. He was going to become a legend.

Peter, Rosa and Anna Hayward waved as the car snaked down the country road, until it disappeared from sight. When they were sure he had gone, they turned to each other.

"What was all that about then?" Peter asked Anna, who was busy scratching uncomfortably at her head.

"This bloody wig!" she exclaimed, ignoring him. "Why was it necessary?"

"He likes redheads," Rosa replied. "Answer the question. Why did you react to that place? Pemberley? You're lucky the boy's a bit dim otherwise he might have sensed something was up."

Anna shook her head.

"It doesn't matter, it won't affect us."

"I'll be the judge of that." Peter said, with a stern expression.

"Ok, fine," Anna sighed. "Do you know who used to run Pemberley?"

"Afraid not." Rosa narrowed her eyes.

Lizzy Bennet removed her red wig, letting her brown hair cascade down at last, and then turned to Edward and Stacy Gardiner.

"So, what do you lot know about a certain Will Darcy?"

AN: Thanks for reading, hope you're well! This one was a lot of fun to write at the time and go back over, let me know what you think!