Darcy's Redemption

by M. A. Sandiford

  Alone with Mrs Norton, Elizabeth asked, ‘Are you all right? Really?’

  ‘Upset of course.’ She sighed. ‘One has to struggle on. How is Mr Darcy, whom you do not love?’

  ‘Generous, as always.’ Elizabeth hesitated. ‘I had better not talk of it.’

  ‘Very wise. I have come to trust you, but I would not confide, for example, what has transpired between myself and Lord Melbourne.’

  ‘I am in bad trouble, Caroline.’ Haltingly she described Lydia’s return, and the painful encounter with Fredo.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear.’ Caroline paused, thinking. ‘I believe the Act may pass next year. It will not help you directly since your children are older than seven years. It might, however, contribute to a shift in public opinion. The law will still grant exclusive rights to the father, but if your husband persists in separating you from your children, he will lose esteem among his colleagues.’

  ‘What I find infuriating is that Fredo feels no obligation to discuss the problem. He cannot defend his behaviour logically or even theologically. But apparently there is no need. He is a man of God, so his opinions must be true whether or not he can justify them. I am a woman, so my opinions are irrelevant.’

  ‘He is humiliated, Elizabeth, because he cannot best you. Kind as you are, you are so acute that you will always get under people’s skin. You got under mine, once.’

  ‘Sometimes I think I must be wrong. Perhaps men really are intellectually superior. We may think we know better, but we are deluded.’

  ‘You must distinguish the individual from the general. Some women are superior to some men. But in general, I have never thought the sexes equal. One need only look at the achievements of men in philosophy, science, literature, music, art, with which we cannot compare.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Elizabeth grimaced. ‘At present I am unwilling to admit male superiority in any attribute except pompous self-importance.’

  ‘Even Mr Darcy?’

  ‘Shush. We agreed not to talk about him.’

  ‘All right, but in return you must read my pamphlet.’

  Elizabeth took the notebook. ‘You are heroic, Caroline. Generations of mothers will be in your debt.’

  ‘Are you teasing me?’

  ‘For once I am serious.’

  On returning to Mountjoy House, Elizabeth found a dinner invitation from Georgiana. No Lady Sarah these days: she had given up Darcy as a hopeless case and returned to Bath. The party listened in fascinated horror as Elizabeth described conditions on the convict ship. Their sympathetic support was bittersweet, reminding her that she had thrown away her chance of belonging to this wonderful family. During the dessert, Philip Molyneux passed round his latest efforts at photogenic drawing, including a portrait of Georgiana at the pianoforte.

  As usual, Darcy saw Elizabeth safely back to Mountjoy House—a five-minute walk. The dark streets were almost deserted. He listened gravely as she confided her anxiety over the children. Darcy’s advice was to wait. Fredo had given way before. He might have over-reacted to the sudden news of Lydia’s return.

  Elizabeth did not invite Darcy to enter. The drawing room would be free for a tête-à-tête: Julia and Henry were usually abed early. But it had become in her mind a shrine to their declaration of love. The memory would be disturbed if they sat there again, trying to make conversation while longing to re-enact that precious hour of passion.

  The man watching Darcy House shivered in the darkness of an alley. He had taken a horse bus from St Paul’s after making a little money from the market. A careless coster had allowed him to abscond with a pair of boots, which he had sold cheaply in a back-street to a rival stall. Earlier he had acquired a lady’s purse after finding her alone in an alley, drawing his knife, and politely asking her to hand over her valuables. Sooner or later a bobby would catch him in the act, but what could a man do? He needed a pie and a glass of ale for dinner. He also needed a room for the night, having been let down by Mrs Younge.

  The good news was that the former Georgiana Darcy was in residence. He had spotted her face at the window. Unfortunately he could not risk knocking on the door while the master was at home.

  The door opened, and a woman came out, followed by a man. Darcy! But the lady? Not Georgiana. He squinted for a better look. She moved lightly down the steps on Darcy’s arm. She spoke and they both laughed. The voice was familiar. So was the gait. He retreated into the shadows, watching them walk away.

  Where had he seen her before?

  He would never get a better chance.

  He edged across the street, looking left and right in case Darcy returned. Paused in the doorway to straighten his coat and scarf. He hoped his appearance would pass muster, after investing precious pennies in a shave.

  A young footman answered. ‘Good evening, sir?’

  Another furtive look round. ‘I would like to speak to the mistress, if she is available?’

  ‘Mrs Molyneux?’

  So that was her name. ‘I knew her when she was Miss Darcy.’

  ‘Very good sir, and what name should I give?’

  He hesitated. If he gave his name, it would be mentioned to Darcy.

  ‘Um, Mr Smith.’

  The footman eyed him up and down. ‘Your real name please, sir.’

  Footsteps sounded further along the road. A tall gentleman approached.

  ‘Never mind. I’ll call another day.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  He misjudged the last step, turned his ankle, and hobbled into the safety of an alley. The tall gentleman crossed the street and entered another house.

  Not Darcy. But it would do no good to try again.

  He recalled the woman, and light finally dawned. Meryton. One of the Bennet girls. The dark lively one. Lydia’s sister. Elizabeth.

  But with Darcy? How could that be?

  He continued down the alley, making his way towards Piccadilly.

  23

  Two weeks later

  The storm following Lydia’s return had given way to eerie silence. No more outings with the children. No requests for revisions. No letters from Fredo, pleasant or unpleasant. Elizabeth sent a birthday greeting for Grace, knowing it would probably be intercepted. This would be the first birthday party she had missed.

  Meanwhile, Elizabeth continued dividing her time between Mayfair and Chandos Street. Lydia and Peter were happy in what they saw as their palatial home. Their accents were changing as they mixed with Londoners. They dropped in often at Gracechurch Street, where letters arrived for Lydia: she had given this address to people met during the voyage, including a Lieutenant Horrocks who invited her to join a party at the Lamb and Flag in nearby Rose Street. Elizabeth passed the evening reading to Peter from Grimm’s Fairy Tales. It was encouraging that the boy tried to make out the words himself; she was reminded sadly of reading the same tales to her own children.

  Gradually Elizabeth and Lydia filled in the years spent apart. While Peter was sleeping, Lydia recounted assignments with settlers, interspersed with periods of spinning flax in the Female Factory, at first in huts, then on the second-class floor of a new stone building. Assignments were stressful, with long hours, and men eager to seduce the pretty Englishwoman. But conditions in the factory were worse. The women were resentful and violent. On several occasions they rioted, wielding axes and iron bars, and fought furious battles with soldiers trying to recapture them. By refusing to participate, Lydia angered the ringleader, who attacked her with a knife—hence the scar. But Lydia had fought back so fiercely with scratches and eye gouges that she gained a measure of respect. Towards the end of her 14-year term she had been assigned to a Mr Cobb, whose younger brother she had married.

  Elizabeth, for her part, told of her experiences with Julia and the period in Italy. But she tried to tone it down: Villa la Pietra, Byron, Keats, the Shelleys—all in all, she had enjoyed the best of fortune.

  Returning to Mountjoy House one evening Elizabeth found a letter from Fredo. She opened it in anxi
ous excitement, to be brought down to earth by the following:

  Having heard no more from you I have been obliged to take the measures mentioned during your last visit.

  That night she lay awake wondering what this meant. Had Fredo already sent the children away? Or was he merely arranging to do so? There was only one way to find out. She would have to return to Carter Lane.

  Passing St Paul’s next morning, Elizabeth was pausing to check her route when she saw a man following some fifty yards behind. She did not recognise him, nor was he distinctive. What puzzled her was that when she stopped, so did he. She took another glance at a corner. This time the man did not stop. She shrugged and forgot about him.

  At the house she waited, getting her breath back. Was Fredo at home, she wondered? Were Grace and Robert upstairs with Mrs Wrigley?

  She rang, and the maid answered.

  ‘Oh. Good morning, ma’am.’

  ‘Hallo Harriet. May I come in?’

  The maid stood her ground. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but the master gave orders …’

  ‘Are the children here?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘This is ridiculous …’ Elizabeth stepped back as Fredo’s stooped figure appeared in the hall.

  ‘Elizabeth?’ He seemed perplexed rather than angry. ‘May I hope you have seen sense and decided to accept my terms?’

  ‘I want to know where our children are. I think I have that right, don’t you?’

  ‘You have stopped associating with your, ah, sister?’

  ‘Will you answer my question please?’

  ‘I most certainly will not!’ He reddened. ‘You will leave immediately. And do not call again until you have learned humility and admitted the error of your ways.’

  Elizabeth spun away without reply.

  The man following her remained in hiding as she stormed off. He had missed the exchange with the maid, but after the gentleman joined them, voices had been raised. I want to know where our children are. So this was the lovely Elizabeth’s husband—and they were at war! She had not even been allowed into the house.

  He sidled up to the door and read the brass nameplate. Reverend Frederick Sibley, plus a string of letters. So Miss Bennet had become Mrs Sibley. Nice house: Sibley must be well-off. Which was interesting, because a wealthy man with a wayward wife might wonder what she was getting up to. Sibley might pay for this information, especially if he discovered she was seeing another gentleman.

  And how piquant if this gentleman happened to be the vainglorious Master of Pemberley!

  The door opened, and Reverend Sibley came down the steps, dressed formally in clerical robes and black sash.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  Sibley seemed in a hurry, but stopped. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I believe your wife is Mrs Elizabeth Sibley?’

  He frowned. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I used to know her, many years ago. The other day I came across her again, in Mayfair.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Consorting with a gentleman friend.’

  Sibley hesitated. But the hook had taken.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can find out more. But you will have to pay.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ Sibley sniffed. ‘I wager you made the whole thing up. Be off with you!’

  ‘I knew her name, didn’t I? Elizabeth?’

  ‘A lucky guess.’

  ‘What if I told you that her maiden name was Bennet? That her sisters were called Lydia, Kitty, …’ He floundered, forgetting the others. ‘That she lived near Meryton, Hertfordshire?’

  ‘Very well.’ Sibley chewed his lip. ‘You knew my wife once. But you have no information of value. Yes, she has been in Mayfair. I knew that already.’

  ‘And who is she staying with?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Suppose I told you that she has been walking out with a man named Darcy?’

  ‘Darcy?’ Sibley looked into the distance, as if this name roused a faint memory.

  ‘Not what you were expecting, eh? But I knew Darcy donkey’s years ago, and what’s more, so did your wife.’

  ‘So? Mrs Sibley has spoken with a man she once knew. What of it? Be on your way. I am in a hurry.’

  ‘You should have seen how friendly they were.’

  Sibley drew himself up. ‘Are you alleging impropriety, sir? My wife is a respectable woman. Take care how you speak of her.’

  ‘Promenading together arm in arm? Laughing?’

  Sibley fell silent, his imagination evidently at work.

  ‘What are you proposing Mr, ah, …’

  ‘Smith. I can find out what they are up to. They won’t spot me. Nobody will know, except you and me.’

  Sibley hesitated a long time, then leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.

  ‘I will be in St Paul’s Churchyard near the east gate at six o’clock on Friday evening. If you have useful information I will give you ten pounds, and that will end the matter. Understood?’

  ‘Thirty pounds, and a fiver now for my expenses.’

  Sibley fumbled in his pocket for coins. ‘This will cover expenses. Thirty pounds is absurd. Fifteen and not a penny more.’

  The man calling himself Smith accepted the coins, but before he could make a counter-offer Sibley turned away and hastened towards the cathedral.

  24

  Three days later

  In Darcy’s study Elizabeth was introduced to his lawyer, a imperturbable man named Soames. She had arrived earlier that morning in such distress that Darcy had taken her in his arms. A cup of coffee laced with brandy had helped restore her composure; meanwhile, Darcy had grimly read the message that Soames was studying now.

  Elizabeth, As a courtesy I hereby give notice that I am bringing a suit against you for restitution of my conjugal rights. If you wish to avoid this ignominy, you must return home immediately and resume normal married life. You will not find the children here, since for their own protection I have sent them away. You will be allowed to see them again only after promising under oath that you will never associate again with your convict sister. Kindly inform those harbouring you that if they continue to offer you sanctuary, constables will enter their house forcibly to take you away. F.

  Soames set the letter down with the world-weary shrug of one who has seen it all before.

  ‘Well?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Can my husband do this?’

  ‘He is within his rights, if you have deserted the family home.’

  ‘But it was my husband that drove me out.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Soames spoke in a monotone, neither his speech nor his face expressing emotion. ‘If I have understood correctly, he required only your obedience, as he is entitled to do.’

  ‘So Mr Sibley can order constables to enter Mountjoy House by force?’ Darcy asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Soames turned to Elizabeth. ‘In addition he will probably obtain a decree from the Ecclesiastical Courts, which will excommunicate you unless you comply.’

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘What can I do?’

  Another shrug. ‘The best path is always reconciliation. You once liked this man enough to marry him and have his children.’ Soames paused. ‘Can you adduce evidence of physical cruelty?’

  ‘Fredo has never struck me.’

  ‘Even striking you would not be sufficient. We would have to prove danger to life and limb.’

  ‘So I must submit.’ Elizabeth looked at Darcy. ‘It is as Caroline says. I am a slave, and what is more upsetting, a formerly free woman who chose to enslave herself.’

  She wondered whether Darcy would contest this, but instead he turned to Soames.

  ‘Practically, what do you advise? I realise the law cannot help, but there must be ways and means.’

  Soames counted on his fingers. ‘Comply, negotiate, or flee. Most ladies negotiate. Apologise, plead, offer something in exchange, persuade men of authority to intervene on their behalf. Some move far away, or flit from house to house so th
at they cannot be located.’

  Darcy asked Elizabeth, ‘Have you given the countess Lydia’s address?’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I said she was staying near Covent Garden. But did not name the street.’

  ‘Why not move there for the time being?’

  Elizabeth put her head in her hands. ‘Julia knows you found Lydia an apartment. Constables will come to Darcy House. You will have to answer their enquiries, or be accused of obstruction.’

  ‘At the least we can buy time.’

  Elizabeth turned to Soames. ‘Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes. You are like a fox that jinks to dodge the hounds. It is unpleasant, even degrading. But in time, the hounds may tire and give up the chase.’

  Back in Chandos Street, Elizabeth and Lydia took a late afternoon tea. From the bedroom came noises representing marching and musket fire as Peter played with his new set of toy soldiers.

  ‘You can stay here as often as you like,’ Lydia said. ‘It was you that found me the place anyway.’

  ‘That’s kind of you.’

  ‘Don’t go all polite again. You look ill, Lizzy. Is something the matter?’

  Elizabeth hesitated, wondering how much to confide. ‘I can’t stay with Julia any more.’

  ‘They asked you to leave?’

  ‘No …’ Elizabeth threw up her hands. ‘It’s my husband. He’s trying to force me to return home.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you want? To see your children again?’

  ‘They’ve gone. Probably to Sir Nicholas Sibley’s estate in Essex. I would have to agree to certain terms …’

  Lydia stared at her. ‘For heaven’s sake, stop hemming and hawing. What terms? Has this to do with me?’

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘In part.’

  ‘You mean he doesn’t want his precious children mixing with convicts?’ Lydia snorted. ‘So what’s the problem? Don’t bring them here.’

  ‘He doesn’t want me mixing with convicts either.’