The Elizabeth Papers (12 page)

Chapter 17

April 2, 1821, Pemberley

“Elizabeth, I shall not have this.”

“You shall not have what, sir?”

He paced the room, his slim figure throwing a shadow on the deep pile of the carpet. In moments such as these, I was tempted to call him “Mr. Darcy,” for it never suited him as well as when he was angry.

“This—this
distance
between us. Your manner with me. I will not have you moving away from me.”

I looked away from him and turned the ribbon from my sleeve about my finger.

“Nobody observed me.”

“
I
observed you.”

My eyes closed, and I felt the sting of early tears building. Anger jostled with despair inside me. If he knew that I was thus undone, then he did not show it but continued to turn about the room in a distracted fashion.

“You avoid conversing with me. You walk out on your own or with the girls. Since Beatrice was born, I have barely seen you.”

“You have seen me in bed every night, sir. I have denied you nothing.”

“What on earth are you suggesting?”

With this, he looked straight at me, and his face blanched. It was a challenge but not one that I was afraid of. My courage rose, and I resolved to speak the truth and live with the consequences. I moved towards him, and he stood stock still, a query playing about his face.

“You know very well what I am suggesting. I have been a good wife to you, Fitzwilliam. You cannot deny that. I have loved you and your family. I have borne you four children. I have been mistress of this house. You have wanted for nothing…save for—well…”

“Save for what?”

“You know. How can you force me to say it when you know?”

“I do not know. I do not have the pleasure of understanding you. Speak plainly, Elizabeth.”

The cruelty of it choked me, but I forced the words out like bile.

“You have wanted for nothing save a son.”

With that, he opened his mouth slightly and turned away, apparently silenced.

“And now, this business with Archibald is all around me, and you expect me to continue with you as if nothing has changed. You expect me to smile and laugh and play your favourite music on the pianoforte when you have betrayed me thus.”

He turned back to me, but as I spoke, his expression changed somewhat.

“Betrayed you?
Now,
I am utterly lost, Elizabeth.”

“I have never shown Archibald any unkindness, and I shall not. He is only a child, and it is not his fault that I have failed you and you have given up hope. But you cannot expect me to rejoice in it, Fitzwilliam.”

“Rejoice in what? What ‘business with Archibald’?”

“Is this a night for forcing me to speak painful truths when you already know them, sir?”

“No, it is not. Elizabeth, if I knew what you were talking about, I would not be asking.”

“I am talking of your plan for Archibald.”

“
What
plan?”

He jerked his arms out questioningly, demandingly. I could not stop.

“Your plan, sir, to make him your heir. You think I do not know, but I see it. I see that you must have a son, and I have not given you one. I know that there have always been Darcys at Pemberley, and so do you. Archibald is your father’s grandson, and he is a better candidate for your estate than our daughters are. I can guess your reasoning, and I hope that, in time, I can accept it. I grew up in a household in which daughters were the regret of their parents, and I can do so again, but you cannot expect me not to be hurt, Fitzwilliam. It is quite impossible.”

I considered, in the aching silence that followed, the magnitude of my words and strained not to blink as he stared at me, fixedly. His voice, when it came, was rather quieter than mine had been.

“
You
are impossible.” He paced about before me. “Is this what has been in your mind? Is this the reason for your manner with me of late? No wonder you have been out of sorts. It is nonsense, Elizabeth. It is fiction. It is the creature of your imaginings, nothing more. I have never had a plan to make Archibald my heir, and I never will. You are my wife. The girls are my children. How could you suggest that I would dismiss their claims in favour of Archibald? It is ridiculous.”

“It is not ridiculous. It has been done by other men.”

“I am not other men.”

He looked at me hard, and I could not look away.

“I never thought to hear anything so risible from your lips. Archibald is no more a Darcy than any of our other nephews. And he is not my child.”

Anxiety raced with relief inside me, and I could keep neither from bubbling up by way of tears.

“Then why have you been so odd with me of late? Why did you not name Beatrice? I thought you were ashamed of her.”

“Ashamed? Certainly not. I thought you wanted to name her. I did not comprehend that I
was
being odd with you. I have been attempting to care for you. I know that the birthing was…difficult.”

“How do you know that?”

“Mrs. Bennet told me. She thought that you may be unwell in yourself as a consequence and that I should know of it.”

I wanted to speak, but my mind reeled to think of such a conversation as must have taken place. The thought of Mama discussing such a subject with my husband, whom she found most intimidating, was one that my mind could hardly manage.

“I suspect that she exaggerated.”

“I do not know whether she exaggerated. I am minded to think not. I never thought to see your mother embarrassed in discussion, but I believe she was. She came to my study the day after Beatrice was born. She was acting in your best interests, Elizabeth, and so was I. I have been worrying about you night and day. If I have seemed ‘odd,’ then that is the reason.”

He blinked and straightened slightly, and I could not but smile. How could we have misunderstood one another in this manner after so many years? The occasion called for some straightforward questions.

“Well, why have you been visiting so much at Broughton Park? Georgiana tells me that you are there every week and closeted with Lord Avery for hours at a time and taking Archibald riding when you are not so engaged. What is it that keeps you there?”

“I have been helping him with some estate business. My God, if you had asked me, I would have told you, but I thought you would find it dull. If I had imagined that you would invent this sort of torture for yourself out of my absences, then I never would leave the house.”

He looked at me, and his face softened slightly.

“But, maybe I have been in error not to confide in you more. I confess that there are some areas of life that I have seen as my domain—my responsibility to resolve without embroiling you and making you anxious. Perhaps I have done wrong?”

His eyes were questioning, and he began his customary pacing about the room before me. After a short silence, he began to explain himself.

“Avery, you know, is not as wealthy as he looks. His estate has been poorly managed by previous generations of his family. They have made bad investments, and they have been reckless husbands of their land. Avery is paying the price. There are all manner of problems arising from old decisions that he has inherited from his father and grandfather—great problems—problems so great that he was faced with the possibility that the whole estate may have to be sold.”

“Sold?”

“In its entirety.”

“Poor Georgiana.”

“Well, I hope that now it will not come to that. I have made a small loan to him that has allowed him the opportunity to make some changes. I have been helping the man to take charge of his own property, Elizabeth, in order that he and his family, including our sister, can stay there.”

“You should have told me before.”

“I did not want to worry you when you have had so much with which to concern yourself. In any case, I have never wanted my time with you to be shared with my business affairs. When I am with you, I want to be only with you. The sparkle of your company is too good for talk of money and land and tenants and shares.”

“But it concerned Georgiana. What if she had lost her home while I did not even know they were in crisis?”

“I suppose when you put it like that, you are right. Have I been high-handed again, Mrs. Darcy?”

He looked at me sideways, and I saw his body relax with the acknowledgement.

“Maybe a little, Mr. Darcy. But I have been worse, and I am sorry for it.”

“Do not be.” He moved towards me, and his strong hands came about my waist. “But understand this: I love you every moment as ardently as I did when I married you. More. Nothing can dull it, still less extinguish it. And as for our children, I by no means believe that their number is complete, do you not agree?”

I smiled, and as he went to kiss my neck, the thing I least expected to occur took place. A light tap came upon the door, and after an unusually long pause, Hannah entered, bobbed a rather flustered curtsy, and said, “I am sorry for the intrusion at this late hour, sir, madam, but Mrs. Wickham is in the drawing room.”

Chapter 18

On the road to Pemberley, 17 September 2014

The engine of Charlie’s car gave a low, expensive rumble, and the M1 stretched out ahead like a gleaming carpet of jet with green fields on each side, sun shining above like a firework. They had set out at 6:00 a.m. and had been going for three hours, cutting up the country at speed, putting London behind them in favour of an unknown, unpredictable landscape. There had been a little chatter at the beginning, but for some time now, she had been asleep, curled slightly in the capacious leather seat beside him. He glanced at her and saw that she was stirring. She juddered into wakefulness and sat forward, rubbing her eyes.

“Oh God, sorry. How long was I asleep?”

“Only a couple of hours.”

She smiled at this. “How embarrassing. I hope I didn’t snore or dribble or loll my head around in a way that made it look like it might fall off or anything like that.”

“No—no snoring, no dribbling, and no lolling—just sleeping, and you must have needed it. Go back to sleep if you want, Evie. The Sat Nav says it is still over an hour to Pemberley, and you will need to be on form when we get there.”

He could tell from looking at her that she would not go back to sleep now. She straightened herself jerkily and had that wired look of the recently rested, caged animal. He could feel the worry seeping off her. The sun through the windscreen caught the gold in her hair as she turned to speak.

“I’ve never pretended to be anyone I’m not before. I hope I’m up to it.”

“Of course, you’re up to it. Try not to sweat it too much. It sounds wrong, but in a way, you can be yourself. You are not pretending to be a different personality; you are just pretending to have a different life. For the next couple of days, you are Evie Jones, studying for your PhD on the work of Alfred Clerkenman. You are studying through the Open University, and I am your supervisor. Simple. Don’t let it become a big thing in your head. Evie Jones has the same personality as Evie Pemberton, she just does different things. It’s like…you are just being a different version of yourself for a while.”

“A different version of myself? Feels like a barefaced lie to me. This is normal for you, isn’t it?”

He smiled and glanced at her. She was right, of course, that when it came to using cover stories and false identities, he was a veteran. He had claimed more names to more people than he could number, and it had never been a problem. As for the rest of this situation, there was nothing “normal” about it. Charlie could not remember an occasion when he had taken three days off work for the sake of a possibly fruitless and certainly unpaid expedition to Derbyshire with a beautiful woman who hated him and was only tagging along out of self-interest. Even Maureen had not been able to hide her surprise when he mentioned it the previous week.

“Holiday
is it, Mr. Haywood?”

He had never taken a holiday except over Christmas in all the years she had been his secretary. Until recently, he had never cancelled a meeting, failed to meet a deadline, or sacked a client. He considered telling Maureen the truth, but it was too complex to contemplate.

“Yes, Mau. I guess it is.”

It didn’t feel like a holiday. The worry of the ways in which it could go wrong gnawed away at him. They might be found out. They might find that Cressida was already there. They might find nothing and go away empty handed, then she would be in the same position as before, and Charlie would have failed her. He had thought carefully about how best to get into Pemberley, and it had been a challenge to come up with a plausible story that would get them both in for an overnight stay, together. He knew that Evie could not pretend to be anything wildly different from what she was. She was too honest, and he hated the thought of compromising her with more lies. Eventually, he recalled the elusive painting of
Mrs. Darcy and Her Daughters
and hatched the idea of posing as art historians.

He had quickly discovered that Pemberley was still in the private hands of the Darcy family. It had not been gifted to the National Trust or opened up to the public as so many great houses had. The Darcys simply didn’t need the money. So there could be no casual visiting, no taking of tea in the vintage style café or hanging about in the gardens, no posing as an engaged couple looking for a wedding venue. It was a sealed box. If he wanted to get in, Charlie would have to engineer an invitation. When he wrote to the current Mr. Darcy, he claimed that they were both at the Open University, knowing that it was difficult to check, and he was amazed at his luck when he had a call only days later.

“Hello? Is that Mr. Haywood? This is James Darcy. You wrote to me.” He sounded old and somewhat distracted.

“Hello, Mr. Darcy. Yes, I did. Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”

“Yes, well, don’t like to keep people hanging on. Not fair, you know? Anyhow, thank you for your interest in the Clerkenman painting. It’s a bloody great thing, hanging up in our drawing room. My wife tells me that we also have some of the sketches that the fellow made when he was painting it, but you might have to hunt about for them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I would love to see those. That sounds very interesting and valuable for my work.”

“Yes, well…you are welcome to come up and bring this…this Evie Jones with you. It is a long way from London, and my wife is still looking for the sketches, so why don’t you stay a couple of nights? We’ve enough bedrooms to billet an army here, and it is just Mrs. Darcy and me.”

“That is most generous of you, and we would like that very much.”

They arranged it there and then, and Charlie could hardly believe his luck. Now, here he was, driving to Pemberley with Evie in the passenger seat, their overnight bags slung in the boot. Following the Sat Nav, he came off the motorway, and the landscape around them changed. Villages with dry, stone walls and low cottages with hanging baskets sprung up around every corner. The roads narrowed and wound like coils between patchwork fields, and cows watched lazily from the sides. When, forty minutes later, they reached the village of Lambton, Charlie pulled into a parking space in front of the pub.

“We are nearly there. Pemberley is five miles away but I thought you could do with a coffee?”

“I could.” She smiled at him for the first time that morning. “Thank you.”

It was a dark, cosy kind of place with a dog curled up by the bar and a mishmash of unconvincing,
olde-worlde
odds and ends hung on the walls. Evie sipped her coffee and shivered slightly to be out of the sun.

“I’m feeling so nervous.”

“Try not to worry. I’ll do as much of the talking as I can. It will be fine. Just remember: you’re an academic. If you are a bit standoffish, then that will be no more than they expect. They are two old people. They probably won’t be paying that much attention anyway. Just look at the paintings, get out your notebook, and try to relax. You will charm them, Evie.”

“Hmm. I’m not so sure. What if they rumble us?”

“They won’t. Why would they?”

“What if we don’t find anything? We don’t even know what we’re looking for after all.”

That, he knew, was a far more likely outcome, and he paused before answering her.

“Well, we’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. But let’s be optimistic. If there was anything that could have revealed the truth about Victoria Darcy, then it must have been a document of some sort. Looking at it from first principles, it has to have been either a letter or a series of letters, or a confession of some sort. I guess that it could have been longer—a diary maybe. Whatever it was, Hannah Tavener hid it, and as far as we know, nobody has ever disturbed it. So, we have to get into her head. Try to think like Hannah, and ask yourself: Where would she have hidden her mistress’s dirty secret in an emergency?”

He noticed how she bristled at his words.

“And how are we supposed to do that?”

“We are about to go to the place where she lived and died. Think about it. You will sleep in rooms where she worked and look at the views she saw every day. We’re going to eat at a table she served at, see the face of her mistress. Whatever it was, she knew she had to get rid of it. Her mistress, whom she had served for many years, was dead, and Hannah may already have been sickening with the fever that killed her. She was desperate. But judging from the letters, she was levelheaded and trustworthy. Try to think yourself into her life. What would she have done?”

“You know, you are actually quite creative. Have you ever thought about acting?”

“No way. I don’t have the ego for it.”

She smiled quietly and drank the last of her coffee, placing the cup back on the saucer before looking straight at him.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true.”

“Okay. Well you can’t have grown up wanting to be a private detective. You must have thought about doing other jobs?”

“Not really. I sort of fell into it when I was quite young. I didn’t go to university because…well, I didn’t go, and I got a job and did well. Before long, I was too busy to think about other things. It just happened and carried on happening.”

Across the room, the barmaid leaned on the bar and caught his eye. He looked away just in time to observe what many might have missed. Evie’s eyes flashed between him and the unknown woman before she began to blow unnecessarily on her coffee. Charlie inwardly cursed. Now was not the time to start telling Evie about his life or allowing her to see things for herself. He dreaded to think what Peter may have said to her, knowing perfectly well that his family disapproved of his business. They didn’t know the half of it.

“What did your parents do?”

There was a moment of silence as he looked at the table, blindsided.

“My mum was a primary school teacher.”

“And your dad?”

“Vicar.”

“You’re kidding!”

Having said it, he recovered some of his composure.

“No, I’m completely serious. He was a vicar in an inner city parish in London.”

“Wow.”

His eyebrows twitched up as he looked her, wanting to laugh from relief.

“Why ‘wow’?”

“Why ‘
wow’
? Because I’m wondering by what kind of crazy path the son of a vicar and a primary school teacher winds up not going to university when he obviously could and running a high-class snooping agency. It is just so…”

“Just so what?”

“Unlikely. You are a very unlikely man.”

“If you say so.” He shrugged. “But who wants to be a likely man? Come on, Evie. Let’s go and find your fifth great grandmother’s document.”

The road that led to Pemberley was narrow and undulating. The Sat Nav had got confused, and Evie had the map out on her lap and had been calling out contradictory instructions as the greens and yellows of the fields whipped past the windows. It was obvious that she was not one of life’s navigators, but Charlie couldn’t be annoyed with her. The road began to skirt a wood, and he wondered how long to let her continue before he took the map and actually found the house. Just then, the sunshine that had been shaded by the trees broke through in a clearing, and right before them in the green of the valley stood the gleaming, grey stone of Pemberley. He had seen pictures, but they had not done the place justice. The light seemed to shine on it and through it like a piece of porcelain. Almost involuntarily, he stopped the car.

“My word,” said Evie. “Is that it?”

“Sure is.”

“Did my ancestors really live here? Something must have gone wrong in our branch of the family.”

They laughed and continued on the winding road past woods and thickets and along streams to the massive turning circle in the front of the house. As they had turned into the great drive, he had seen a tiny figure appear at the top of the swooping stone staircase in front of the main door. By the time they got close, they could see that there were two people waiting for them.

James and Honoria Darcy came down the steps to greet them as they got out of the car. James walked with the aid of a stick and squinted through spectacles that slid down the bridge of his nose. Honoria’s tweed skirt moved stiffly in the breeze, and although she was the wrong side of seventy, she was very pretty. She held out her hand.

“Mr. Haywood, Miss Jones. I am Honoria Darcy, and this is my husband, James. Welcome to Pemberley.”

True to his promise, Charlie did the talking.

“Thank you, Mrs. Darcy. It is a pleasure to be here. My colleague and I are excited to see the work you have. And it is such a lovely day; we were hoping for a walk through your grounds as well.”

“Yes, of course. You can’t leave without having a potter about the gardens. I love them. My husband isn’t so good on his pins, as you see”—James Darcy smiled weakly and looked at his stick—“but I would love to show you around. First of all, let’s get your things in and get you settled. You are with us for two nights, I believe?”

“Yes, that is what I arranged when I spoke to Mr. Darcy. It is very generous of you to put us up.”

“Oh, don’t be silly! You can see that we don’t want for space.” She gestured to the vast Palladian mansion behind her, and Evie stifled a laugh.

“Now,” continued Mrs. Darcy, “let us get you inside. We have put you both on the guest corridor, which is very comfortable. Miss Jones, we have given you our best guest bedroom.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Darcy,” said Evie.

“You are welcome. It has a wonderful aspect, and I hope that you enjoy staying in it.”

***

The four of them trooped through the great house like a band of ants, Charlie and Evie carrying their bags, their feet tapping on tiled floors and their eyes flying up to colossal oils and tapestries upon the walls. The staircase was laid with a carpet so thick that Evie could feel its luxury through the thin sole of her ballet pumps. On all sides, faces in antiquated costumes stared out at them. Men, young and old, were pictured holding books or sitting atop horses or standing in fields and brandishing guns. Amongst the women, there were wigs, beauty spots, bustles, ruffs, and skirts so wide they looked like sails. There were ringlets, buns, and creamy shoulders rising above shiny bodices of all colours. Where is Fitzwilliam? Evie found herself wondering. Where is Elizabeth?

She had been in her room for about ten minutes when there came a knock on the door. She jumped up.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Charlie’s face appeared. His eyes widened as he looked around the room.

“Wow, you lucked out here. This is twice the size of my room…more than.”

“I know, it’s huge, isn’t it?” She glanced up to the great, silk paper-clad walls and the vast curtains. “And as for the bed…” Pausing, she looked at the enormous, mahogany four-poster and wondered that it didn’t have a stepladder to help her into it. Charlie’s eyes rested on the massive pillows and layers of blanket and counterpane. They each stared for a second too long before turning to each other and then, blinking, turned away. Evie’s face felt hot as she watched him walk towards the long windows and gaze out. Before him was a perfect view of the back of the estate: a lake glistening in the sunshine, rippled by ducks, a folly, wood bordering green.

“And this is quite a view as well.”

“I know. The colours here are amazing. Makes me want to do some painting.” She moved to the window and stood beside him. “Do you think we should go down and start pretending to be interested in this painting?”

“We
are
interested in this painting,” he replied.

They smiled at one another and were gone.

***

The main drawing room at Pemberley was light and airy. The walls were hung with a fine, green silk paper and an enormous, pale Chinese carpet covered the floor beneath their feet. Honoria Darcy was pouring out tea from a delicate teapot and offering sugar lumps and milk. She was laughing quietly and chattering away, but Evie could hardly hear her. She had been staring at
Mrs. Darcy and Her Daughters
ever since she entered the room, and she was in danger of looking peculiar if she did not turn away. Charlie seemed to understand that she was stunned by it and had been busy deflecting attention, turning on the charm for the Darcys and asking them about their sons and grandsons and the history of the house and garden. It wasn’t enough to blind Honoria Darcy to Evie’s admiration.

“It’s a lovely painting, isn’t it, Miss Jones? I’ve always thought it rather striking.”

“Yes, Mrs. Darcy. It’s beautiful. It’s so characterful. All of them look like real personalities, and the detail is amazing.”

Honoria Darcy clutched her pearls and nodded her agreement. “Yes, well, I think that we had better leave you young people to it. I hope that you have everything you need. Come along, James.” She helped her husband to stand, and they left.

Evie looked back at the painting. It was a vast board of colour and character. At its centre stood Elizabeth Darcy: “My late beloved Elizabeth.” She was slim and good looking with curly, chestnut brown hair around her face and wearing a dress of dove grey and white. Her eyes jumped out of the picture, and Evie tried to fix the expression that danced in them. Those were eyes that a person could know and laugh with. Around her slender waist was a band of teal so silky in appearance that one wanted to reach out and touch it. She held a small folded-up fan in her hand. It occurred to Evie that, whoever her fifth great grandfather may be, Elizabeth was her fifth great grandmother. She felt an unexpected loyalty welling up inside her.