As before, Wickham showed no hostility to his accusers. In his defence, he admitted asking politely for money when he had been destitute. It was true that he owned a knife, which he carried to counter footpads. But he had never threatened anyone, with the sole exception of Elizabeth, who trusted him …
The jury found him guilty on all charges.
Elizabeth knew that if Wickham had been sent for trial in 1813 he would have been hung. But reform was in the air, and the death penalty reserved for murder and treason. After admitting a whole series of thieving offences, Wickham was returned to Newgate Prison to await transportation for life.
30
To meet up with Darcy after the trial was too embarrassing, with reporters prowling. Elizabeth stayed on to complete legal formalities, then returned home with Lydia.
Next day they attended morning service at St Paul’s, and walked past stalls where news boys shouted Cathedral Murder Trial Latest. Unrecognised in a black veil, Elizabeth bought a selection of papers. Cartoonists had been busy, but she was not the murderous sorceress any more, nor even a grieving widow, but Queen Boudicea the conquering heroine, riding her chariot over Sir Nicholas Sibley, a helmeted Darcy at her side.
She read them all, from The Times to the scandal rags. The language varied, but the theme was the same. No-one was concerned with the justice of the case. She had won, therefore she was lauded; Sir Nicholas had lost, so he was a laughing stock. She cringed as adjective piled on adjective. Sibley was naive, vindictive, arrogant, fatuous, humiliated. It was like a pack turning on a wounded animal.
Elizabeth spent the day writing letters. To Darcy her eternal gratitude—and an appeal to be left alone, for now. To Julia, much the same. A reassuring letter to Jane. And a polite note to the Sibleys, concerning arrangements for returning the children. She sent Dawson to Sir Nicholas’s London home to deliver it, but the baronet and his family had departed for Great Notley.
Day followed day without further news. Elizabeth returned to her redrafting of Fredo’s tract on Purgatory—the Catholic doctrine of an anteroom wherein souls destined for paradise underwent purification. The Anglican church was generally sceptical: Article XXII called it a Romish doctrine, vainly invented, ungrounded in scripture, repugnant to the word of God. Controversy raged over whether the living could give the dead a helping hand in purgatory, through prayer or the offering of indulgences—a convenient source of funding for the church. A sarcastic medieval proverb put the matter thus: As soon as money in the coffer rings, the soul from purgatory’s fire springs. But some Anglican bishops acknowledged an intermediate state at which souls paused while awaiting final judgement, and saw this as a justification for offering prayers for the dead.
As usual Fredo’s discussion was vague on detail, but it had a merit Elizabeth had overlooked before: its tone. He had managed to avoid the abuse that pervaded theological disputes, and find arguments even for viewpoints that he rejected. How ironic, she thought, that he had never extended this courtesy to herself.
Where the truth lay Elizabeth had no idea, but she felt an emotional pull to purgatory, not as the sequel to death, but as part of life. She saw in Darcy a promise of fulfilment, but not yet. In theological terms, her soul was not ready. The quarrel with Fredo, her infidelity, the trauma of the trial, had left such a residue of guilt and disgust that she craved precisely what the doctrine offered. Purification.
As she worked on Fredo’s swansong, Elizabeth hoped for a reply from the Sibleys. None came. She appealed to Soames, whose reply was pessimistic: custody would have to be enforced. To turn up at Great Notley on her own was unwise. She needed a court injunction, and an escort including constables, or gentlemen of high standing.
Organising such an expedition was too much for Elizabeth, who could not afford even to keep a carriage. She was obliged once more to petition friends—and in particular, the master of Pemberley.
On a freezing morning in mid-December Darcy’s carriage arrived in Carter Lane. The party comprised two manservants, a maid, and a junior clerk from Soames’s office. On the doorstep Elizabeth was moved when Lydia embraced her and wished her luck. The bond between them was closer than ever, now that Elizabeth too had known public humiliation.
Darcy had planned a prudent route overnighting in the market town Bishop’s Stortford. The journey would take eight hours on a good road in good weather. But they preferred to arrive fresh, early in the day. Soames’s clerk Mr Pettigrew was a young man of reassuring heft, which might prove useful if they met with resistance. He was a man of few words, allowing Elizabeth and Darcy to talk while he looked out of the window or smiled at the maid.
In company, neither Elizabeth nor Darcy revisited the trauma of the last months, or their hopes for the future. Making a virtue of necessity, they conversed like normally contented people—of food, travel, books, current affairs.
The inn was cramped. Sleep did not come easily: the bed creaked, and Elizabeth was at once anxious and excited. But she dozed, and next morning they set off early, hoping to arrive at midday.
Her last visit had been years before, so Elizabeth was unsurprised when the manservant answering the door did not recognise her. She introduced herself and asked to speak with Sir Nicholas.
‘The master is unavailable, ma’am.’
‘And my children? Grace and Robert?’
‘Also unavailable.’
Her stomach lurched. ‘Are they here?’
‘No ma’am.’
‘Where then?’
‘I cannot say.’
Darcy stepped forward. ‘Since it is a cold day, might I suggest we continue this conversation indoors?’
After an uneasy pause, the footman led them through to a parlour warmed by a wood fire.
‘Who is in charge here?’ Darcy asked.
A lady with a no-nonsense expression bustled in and stared at the gathering. ‘Visitors, Dobbs?’
She had aged, but Elizabeth recalled her as the housekeeper. ‘Good-day, Mrs Travis …’
‘They’re not here, ma’am.’
Elizabeth sighed: it was like squeezing moisture from a rock. ‘May I introduce Mr Darcy, and also Mr Pettigrew, who bears a court order assigning custody of the children to me. Please tell me where I may find them.’
‘They left with Sir Nicholas and his wife to take some sea air, since the boy was poorly.’
Elizabeth threw an anxious glance at Darcy, who said patiently, ‘The address?’
‘Sir Nicholas said …’
‘Excuse me.’ Darcy raised a hand. ‘I am afraid you do not understand. Your employer is in violation of a court injunction. Unless he complies he will find himself in serious trouble; and if you abet him by concealing the children’s whereabouts, so will you.’ He looked at Pettigrew. ‘Is this not so?’
Pettigrew drew out the legal document for the housekeeper’s perusal.
‘Perhaps you would like to elaborate on the penalties if the order is obstructed?’ Darcy suggested to Pettigrew.
But the housekeeper had had enough. ‘Let me check if Sir Nicholas left a forwarding address. Dobbs, some refreshment for our guests!’
Elizabeth warmed herself by the fire, worried now that Robert might be seriously ill. But Darcy’s confidence was reassuring, and only a minute later the housekeeper was back with an address in the coastal town of Lowestoft.
‘Excellent,’ Darcy said. ‘This is a splendid house, Mrs Travis. Would you favour us with a tour?’
Elizabeth smiled gratefully at Darcy, and they managed to peek into almost every cranny, while listening in case Grace and Robert were concealed.
The distance was daunting, another 80 miles, and Darcy played safe by passing through Bury St Edmunds, near the Hardwick estate owned by his friend Thomas Cullum. As dusk approached, freezing fog made visibility so poor that he asked Elizabeth whether she had any objection to staying with Arethusa’s family.
‘None,’ she said. ‘But can we arrive with no warning?’
‘My
brother-in-law is an obliging fellow.’
‘Will it be painful for you to return?’
‘It will revive memories. But I would like to see them again.’
‘Then let us go. Your wife’s family are part of your life and I am happy to meet them, unless you think my presence would be upsetting.’
Elizabeth need not have worried, for they were received enthusiastically. Thomas was in residence, with his wife and children; his sister Susannah, who had once set her sights on Bingley, was visiting for Christmas. Yet the grand Jacobean house was nowhere near full.
Fires were lit in the guest wing, and supper delayed to allow the kitchen staff more time. Elizabeth glossed lightly over her recent tribulations. But a whispered conversation with Susannah confirmed that the family had read the newspapers and were aware of the scandal—including her intimacy with Darcy. It made no difference: as his friend, she was accepted warmly.
Next morning they set off at first light, and by early afternoon, in worsening weather, reached the address given by the housekeeper. Corton Place was a fair-sized house set apart for privacy in a walled garden. A carriage parked in the forecourt suggested the occupants were at home.
They descended, into thin snow that had fallen in the last hour, and after a deep breath Elizabeth rang the bell.
31
They waited in the morning room. Elizabeth listened for footsteps in the hall in case anyone tried to leave. Eventually they were joined by the baronet, Sir Nicholas, who glared at her companions before addressing Elizabeth.
‘I am not comfortable, madam, in having that gentleman in my home.’ He gestured at Darcy. ‘You are supposed to be in mourning for your husband. Have you no shame?’
‘It has not been pleasant for any of us to come so far, Sir Nicholas, and I have no wish to prolong our stay. If you will kindly take me to Grace and Robert, we will leave the premises directly.’
‘Do you begin to understand what you are asking?’ Sir Nicholas sputtered. ‘Robert is my nephew; as matters stand, he is also my heir, since I have only daughters. Yet I am urged to entrust him to an adulteress who stands by a sister convicted of disgusting crimes.’
‘You will excuse me, sir, if I prefer to hear no more. We have an injunction that gives me custody. Please fetch the children, and we will go.’
Sir Nicholas snorted. ‘I see no injunction.’
Pettigrew produced the document, which Sir Nicholas tore in half.
‘There. Now be off with you.’
‘We naturally brought a copy,’ Darcy said. ‘If you persist in your defiance, we will return with a constable, after which you will be indicted for contempt.’
‘This business does not concern you.’
Darcy drew himself up, and replied with a controlled severity that reminded Elizabeth how imposing he could be. ‘On the contrary, I am extremely concerned to see a friend treated so crassly, and minded to write to my old schoolmate, the former Prime Minister Sir Robert Peel. Nor am I the only man of influence to hold Mrs Sibley in high regard. I could mention Henry Mountjoy the Earl of Ballytore. Or my cousin Lord Matlock, the Duke of Suffolk’s brother-in-law. You are set on a perilous course if you think you can prevail against such opposition.’
Sir Nicholas regarded him with hatred, exhaling slowly. ‘The boy cannot leave. He is sickly. The physician says he must stay indoors.’
Elizabeth shivered, fearing this might be true. ‘I want to go to them. Immediately, please.’
‘If you insist.’ Sir Nicholas raised his bulk from the chair. ‘But you will find the children happy here. If you remove them, it will be against their will, as well as against their best interests.’
Elizabeth made no reply as he led them to the stairs.
They were in a large chamber that had been converted to a schoolroom. At the back, by the window, Lady Beatrice stood beside Martha Sibley, Grace, and the governess Mrs Wrigley, whose hands rested on Robert’s shoulders.
‘Mama!’
Robert wriggled free, ran across the room, and buried his face in Elizabeth’s bombazine dress.
‘Are you well, dear?’ She touched his forehead, detecting no fever, and noticed a bruise at the temple. ‘Did you take a tumble?’
‘No …’
There was an uneasy silence as Elizabeth looked up at the women: Martha and Mrs Wrigley obdurate, Lady Beatrice pink-faced.
‘I said something bad,’ Robert whispered.
‘You mean, someone hit you.’ Elizabeth glared at Sir Nicholas, then turned to Grace. ‘Come, dearest.’
‘Miss Grace wishes to stay here,’ Martha said.
Elizabeth looked lovingly at her daughter. ‘Do you?’
The girl seemed frozen in indecision as she studied the opposing sides, especially Sir Nicholas and Darcy.
‘I have been told I must stay …’
‘No, dear.’ Elizabeth was gentle. ‘A judge has said you are to live with me.’
‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Martha said.
‘Come on, Gracie!’ Robert said.
‘Shush,’ Sir Nicholas growled.
Grace spoke softly. ‘They say you had Papa killed.’
‘They are mistaken,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Your father died bravely protecting me from a thief. This was confirmed in a trial before a judge. You can read about it in the newspapers, if you want proof.’
‘They say you hated him,’ Grace said.
‘They are wrong again. Your father and I disagreed but we never hated one another.’
‘Mama is wearing black,’ Robert said, fighting tears as he appealed to his sister. ‘So she must be sad that Papa is gone.’
Grace snorted. ‘As usual you understand nothing.’ She looked again at the men, then sighed and edged forward.
‘No!’ Martha grabbed Grace’s arm, but the girl pulled free.
‘You don’t have to go,’ Sir Nicholas said.
‘I believe I do.’ Grace ran the last steps and burst into tears as Elizabeth enfolded her.
‘For shame,’ Martha snarled at Elizabeth. ‘Law or no law, I hope you rot in hell.’
Elizabeth turned to Darcy. ‘Time to leave, I think.’
She looked back one more time at the women by the window, and almost imperceptibly Lady Beatrice nodded, hinting at a compassion she could not express openly.
They were away at last, on the road south. Elizabeth was too moved to speak much. She sat in between Grace and Robert, who clutched her dress as if to remind themselves that the nightmare was over. The maid squeezed in on the same seat, opposite the men.
Darcy frowned as snow fell more heavily.
‘In a few hours the roads will be impassable.’
‘Must we stop?’ Elizabeth shivered at the thought of staying near Lowestoft.
‘I wonder …’ Darcy reached into a box under the seat and drew out a map. ‘Twelve miles away lies Halesworth, owned by Fitz’s wife Lady Sophia. I believe he was planning to visit over Christmas. It’s our best chance. I know of no decent inn hereabouts.’
‘Who is Fitz, Mama?’ Robert asked.
‘My cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam,’ Darcy answered. ‘He is related by marriage to the Duke of Suffolk, who owns a great deal of land in this area.’
Elizabeth noticed Grace studying Darcy with renewed interest. Their departure had been frantic, with clothes and other knick-knacks hastily stowed while the children looked on in anxious hope.
‘I’m sorry sir.’ Grace released Elizabeth’s dress and sat up straight. ‘You gave your name earlier, but …’
He smiled. ‘It is Fitzwilliam Darcy, the Fitz part coming from my mother’s family. The name is too long for comfort, so your mother calls me William.’
‘It was most generous of you to accompany Mother.’
Elizabeth hid her amusement at this exchange, so typical of her daughter. Grace was a realist. In the confrontation with the Sibleys, she had watched the men carefully because she understood that power lay with them. Whatever she thought of Sir Nich
olas, she would treat him respectfully so long as he had authority over her. Now she had identified Darcy as a man on whom her mother relied, and was showing him respect in his turn.
‘I am relieved we finally located you.’ Darcy paused. ‘I hope you have been well treated.’
‘At first.’ Grace looked at Robert. ‘Until …’ Her voice broke, but she managed to continue. ‘Until news came of the tragedy.’
‘Aunt Martha said Mama had arranged it,’ Robert said. ‘Mama would be hung, or sent to Australia like her sister, and we would live in Great Notley with Uncle Nicholas and Aunt Beatrice. But I didn’t believe Mama would have anyone killed. She gets upset at men snaring rabbits.’
‘So Robert contradicted them and got smacked on the head by Uncle.’ Grace grinned at her brother. ‘Which was not very sensible of you.’
‘I was right,’ Robert said.
Grace sniffed. ‘One day, Robbikins, you will grow up and realise that being right is not important.’
‘So what did you think?’ Elizabeth asked Grace.
‘Oh, Aunt Martha has never liked you, and would say anything just to be abusive. I didn’t believe Sir Nicholas either, because he said you planned the attack in advance.’
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. ‘You don’t see me as a woman that looks ahead?’
Grace remained serious. ‘I’ve seen you lose your temper. I’ve never seen you cold-bloodedly scheme to harm someone.’
‘Did you make this point to Sir Nicholas?’
‘Would I be so stupid?’
‘Gracie is never stupid,’ Robert said. ‘She even tried to distract Uncle Nicholas when he was about to hit me, by admiring his new waistcoat.’
‘That was kind.’ Elizabeth squeezed Grace’s hand.
Almost breaking down again, Grace said, ‘So we didn’t think it was true, but we feared Uncle Nicholas might be important enough to have you prosecuted. Then as well as losing Papa …’
‘You would lose me.’ Elizabeth sighed. It was hard to imagine a future in which she could ever make peace with the Sibleys. What impressed her most of all was the bond between her children. Robert adored Grace. And despite her sharp tongue, Grace would always protect him with a fierce loyalty. How this had come about Elizabeth could not say, since they were in no way alike.
Darcy's Redemption Page 17
