Mama nodded sympathetically and reached for Lydia’s hand.
“Yes, my child, what a pleasure it would have been to have dear Wickham here. He is always remarking upon his fondness for Pemberley!”
At this, Fitzwilliam raked his fingers through his dark hair and exhaled slightly. I felt agitation rising within me like a pot bubbling on the stove. My fear of the manner in which my family would embarrass me, I knew well. My husband’s having to bribe Wickham to marry Lydia came back to me in a flash. The ingrate had attempted to seduce Mr. Darcy’s sister and injured him greatly, he had eloped with Lydia, and then my husband had intervened to save her reputation and mine. It had cost him I know not what in money and mortification, and in that moment, it returned to me as though it were yesterday. That he was now confined in his own drawing room while Wickham was praised and his knowledge of Pemberley remarked upon was too much, and I knew that I had to stop it.
“Mama, you must be hungry. Did I tell you that we have venison for nuncheon? I told Mrs. Reynolds that it was your favourite, and Cook has tried a new recipe, so I hope that you are ready to feast!”
Her eyes danced between Lydia and me and she seemed to grasp that I was asking her to help me redirect the conversation. “You treat me, Lizzy!”
Our nuncheon passed perfectly well and conversation flowed freely even between Mr. Lander and Fitzwilliam. Mama was a credit to me and did not mention the absent Mr. Wickham again. She did express in strident terms, after some little wine, her wish to visit the Darcy estate in Ireland.
“Rothchapel! What name that is for the imaginings!”
“It is called Rosschapel, Mama, and it is a most arduous journey, not to be undertaken easily. I have never travelled there, and Mr. Darcy has only been once, is that not so?”
He nodded and put down his fork. “Yes, I went with my father when I was fifteen. I recall that we were beset by gales on the journey, even in July. I am afraid, Mrs. Bennet, that you would find it a difficult passage and may not like it when you arrived. It is not a long distance from Dublin, but Dublin is nothing to London I am afraid, and the roads are rather poor. Our house at Rosschapel is not at all like Pemberley. It is about the same size as Longbourn but no-where near as comfortable.”
Mama blushed and giggled quietly at this compliment, and I resolved to tease my husband later for his forwardness. “I should like to know more of it, Mr. Darcy.”
“Rosschapel? At present, it is let to a Scottish gentleman and his family. The whole estate there is managed by my Irish steward, and so I am fortunate that there is no call for me to visit. If I should ever need to travel there, I shall bear you in mind, Mrs. Bennet.”
Everyone smiled at this, and inwardly I laughed to think of Mama and Fitzwilliam making such a journey with only each other for company.
Later, I awoke fully clothed and lying on my bed. My legs and feet were covered with a light blanket, and the heavy curtains in my chamber had been drawn shut. I moved with a start to see my husband in the chair beside me, squinting in the dim light to read his book.
“Fitzwilliam! What is the time? How long have I been asleep? I hope it is not nighttime!”
“Calm yourself, Elizabeth. It is not late. It is almost five o’clock. You have been sleeping for nearly two hours, as well you might. Everybody is presently resting or preparing for dinner, and you are not to worry about them.”
I recalled that, after nuncheon, I could hardly get up from my seat for fatigue, and Jane had taken me above stairs for a rest. I had gone only reluctantly, concerned at what may assail Fitzwilliam in my absence.
“How have our guests been while I have been up here? Has everything passed reasonably?”
“They have been fine, and of course, everything has passed happily. Your mama and Lydia have spent most of the afternoon admiring the house. Mrs. Bennet ceased her requests to visit Rosschapel when I told her that our carriage lost a wheel to a crater in the road on my last visit there. Mr. Bennet barricaded himself in the library the moment it was politic to do so. Mary has been playing duets with Georgiana, and Jane and Katherine have been amusing the children. Reverend Braithwaite joined Bingley and me for a game of billiards, and Mr. Lander, to my complete astonishment, found a book in the library that includes a chapter on the levellers. Fortunately, he has been reading it rather than talking about it for most of the afternoon. Nothing unpleasant has occurred.”
He kissed my forehead and closed his book.
“Then why are you taking refuge here, Fitzwilliam?”
“Because I wanted to sit with you.” He leant over and kissed me again, seeming to stifle a laugh. “There is nothing more to it than that, and you really must cease this worrying, Elizabeth. Do not fret about your family. I am perfectly capable of coping with their exuberance and…well…if Wickham is mentioned occasionally, then I can cope with that as well. It is only to be expected that Lydia will speak of her husband from time to time, and Georgiana has said that she does not mind.”
“I know Fitzwilliam. But…well it is still mortifying even if it is to be expected.”
I thought, not for the first time, how fortunate we were that Mr. Wickham was kept away from home by his duties. When Fitzwilliam had paid off Mr. Wickham’s debts and corralled him into marrying my sister, he had also purchased for him a commission in a regiment in Newcastle. Much to our surprise, he has not only remained there but has seemingly prospered and is currently away on campaign with his regiment. He is, we are told, doing admirably well. He and Lydia seem to live quite happily together, no doubt due to his extended absences. It struck me, not for the first time, that I had had two, nearly three, babies and Lydia none although she had been married the longest. Is it just that they have not been blessed? Or is there something deliberate?
“Well, try not to be mortified, Elizabeth. You will not change it. Would you like to sit?”
I nodded, and he slid his arms under my back and head, planting a kiss on the rise of my bosom as he brought me up. He ran his hand over my belly and looked at me in a most serious way.
“You must also stop worrying about the babe being a boy.”
“I—”
“No, do not argue with me. Your mind is stuck on it. I know, and you must stop. It is not good for you.”
I looked away from him and spoke into the dimly lit, shadowy space of my chamber.
“But you need a son.”
“Stop it, Elizabeth. I will not say it again. I need a healthy child and a happy, healthy wife. The babe will be whatever it is, and we will have more children. So cease distressing yourself. Cease asking Mrs. Reynolds whether she thinks that your belly looks like a boy or a girl—”
“What a snake in the grass that woman is! I did not think she was so little to be trusted!”
“She only told me because she thought you were worrying too much and that I would reassure you, which is what I am doing, I hope.”
I was by no means convinced, but I knew that he would like to think that I was, so I lifted both of his strong hands to my belly, kissed him on the lips, and said, “You are. Thank you.
“I was quite an attraction at church this morning, Fitzwilliam. I think the villagers were surprised to see me sailing in. If I were any larger, I would need my own pew.”
“Well, there was not a great deal of space for me, Elizabeth. It is a good thing that we have our own, although it is maybe unfortunate for those seated behind that your place is right at the front.”
I struck him on the leg for this insult, and he laughed.
“I noticed that some of the servants were at church this morning, and they all sat at the same pew. Is that a rule?”
“Yes, of a sort. It is the servants’ pew, just as they have in the chapel at Pemberley. Of course, it is hardly used these days, but in my grandparents’ time, the Darcys and all of their servan
ts worshipped here and hardly ever went into the village. It was my parents who started the tradition of our attending the village church for high days and holidays. They thought the tenants would like it, and they were probably right. It was only quite recently that the chapel at Pemberley stopped having regular services.”
“I know. Hannah told me that, when she was a young girl, it was every Sunday, so the servants hardly ever left the estate! Did you know that there is a secret box under a pew in the Pemberley chapel? The servants used to hide things in it, and it was a great joke amongst them apparently.”
“No, I did not. Did Hannah tell you that as well? Sometimes I think she knows this house better than I do. Anyway, you should be pleased that the chapel is used so little, Elizabeth. It is very draughty, and its pews even narrower than those in the village. In your current condition, it would serve you very ill.” He leaned forward and softly planted a smiling kiss on my forehead. “Thank you for coming this morning. Everybody appreciated it.”
Everybody, I thought, except Mama, but I knew my husband too well to mention her at that moment.
“Well, good. What is the use of being such a sight if I am not occasionally put on display, Mr. Darcy?”
Chapter 2
London, 1 August 2014
“To me, to me. No! That’s enough. Back a bit. Back a bit. That’s the ticket. Evie, watch the cat!”
A sharp meow accompanied a blur of ginger fur sweeping by their ankles.
“Sorry, Uncle John. I can’t see very well. Can we just stop for a moment?”
Evie Pemberton brushed her hair off her forehead with one hand and, holding her end of the ten-foot canvass with the other, wondered how they were ever going to get it out of her uncle’s house, never mind all the way to Cork Street. Despite its wooden frame, it billowed about like a sheet of tracing paper. It was her largest and most impressive piece, given to Uncle John and Auntie Betty to thank them for all of their help with Clemmie after everything that had happened. She had also given it to them to say, “I love you,” which she did. It had been up in their living room in Putney ever since, and no visitor to the house was allowed to escape without hearing about their marvellous niece, the up and coming artist. It made her heart ache to think of how they must have exaggerated. Now she had, for the first time, an exclusive show of her work in a proper gallery in town, and Uncle John and Auntie Betty were loaning it for display.
“It’s not for sale, mind,” Auntie Betty had said and winked when Evie came around to ask the previous month. Back in the present, her uncle spoke, his voice slightly muffled by the painting between them.
“Are you ready to try again, love?”
“Yes, Uncle John. Let’s get this party started.” She tried to look as cheerful as possible and not let on that her mind was reeling with the difficulty of the two of them hauling such a thing through the streets of West London and onto the Number 22 bus all the way to Piccadilly.
“Wilco. Right, all set? Down a bit. Down a bit. Now, easy does it around that corner. That’s the job. We’ll be there in no time; you see if we’re not! Might even drum up some interest along the way. It isn’t every day that you see a ten-foot troupe of ballerinas making their way down Putney High Street!”
“You never know, Uncle John, maybe we will. People will certainly remember it at any rate.”
She wanted to say that she hoped to God it didn’t rain and it wasn’t windy, but she knew it didn’t do to be gloomy. They had got the thing down the stairs, along the corridor, and out into the tiny, front garden when Auntie Betty had a suggestion.
“Right, you two. I propose a cuppa and a piece of cake before you’re on your way. You need to keep your strength up.” They sat on the low, red brick wall in the warm air of the August morning sipping from unmatched cups and nibbling Auntie Betty’s homemade fruitcake. Evie’s ballerinas were propped up against the house, bathed in unfamiliar sunshine.
“This is lovely, Auntie Bet.”
“Thank you, darling, have another piece. I won’t give it to you now, as you can’t carry it with that great picture to cart about, but I’ll have John pop some around to you in the week. Clemmie should have some too. She’s always liked a bit of cake.”
“She’ll enjoy that. Thank you. Right. I think we had better be off.”
And they were. Uncle and niece made wobbly progress past row on row of terraced houses and polished front doors, turning left onto the bustling High Street. It was a risk trying to do it by bus, but Evie really didn’t have the money to hire a courier, and she had convinced Uncle John that, in the mid-morning during the week, the Number 22 would not be that busy and the double door would be big enough to get the canvas in. It was, just about, and they made a comical journey through London with old ladies nodding an interest and children on scooters swerving to avoid them.
“It was worth it just to see that bus driver’s face!” remarked Uncle John as they winched the thing off onto the pavement outside the Royal Academy for the last leg of the journey to Cork Street.
When they rested it against the main wall inside the gallery with other much smaller canvases piled around, Evie felt that she could finally breathe. She was meeting the guys who would install the collection in a couple of hours, but it wouldn’t hurt to just look through it all again—make sure the catalogue was exactly right.
“Thank you, Uncle John. You are a complete star.”
“You’re welcome, lovey. It’s no problem. What’s family for if not lugging bloody, great paintings through Central London, eh? Anyway, I’d better be getting home. I suppose I’ll see you at the exhibition?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Thanks for coming. It will be full of awful arty types. I’ll be glad of you and Auntie Betty.”
“I better not mention that to her. She’ll be wanting a new dress for the occasion. Speaking of which: Have you got yourself something nice to wear? I mean, we want to make sure everyone knows you are the centre of attention, don’t we?”
He winked, and Evie looked down at her faded jeans and paint-spattered Converse trainers.
“Are you suggesting that I won’t do as I am?” She laughed and reminded him instantly of her mother.
“I hadn’t actually thought about it, but now that you say it, I’ll see what I can find in the wardrobe.”
He went to speak, but she stopped him short. “And before you say it—yes, I promise it will have a skirt! I might even buy something new. You never know.”
“There’s a good girl. Well, I’ll better be wending my way.”
She exhaled and gave him her broadest smile. When he hugged her, he squeezed her shoulders as if she were a little girl. At the door, he turned back and took her by surprise.
“Evie…”
“Yes?”
“Well done, darling. We’re very proud of you.”
She was embarrassed to think of how little there really was to be proud of, and the soft humble look on his face made her tummy flip. When he was gone, she sat down on a box by the gallery door and looked around her, hardly believing that this was finally happening.
***
In another part of the city, the clock ticked on the wall of Haywood Enquiry Agents. It was a small office, stylish and simple. Charlie Haywood sat back in his big leather chair, feet up on the desk, enjoying a moment of calm before he had to meet another stranger about a subject that probably didn’t matter. He could hear the tap of Maureen’s keyboard through the wall and was briefly irritated. Why did she have to bash it so? Was it because she was old? Was it because she learned to be a secretary in the days before touch screens and swiping apps? A younger girl would be very different, he thought. That led him to ponder the sort of trouble that he would get into and the lack of work he would do if his secretary were not old enough to be his mother. Then he remembered why Maureen was so good for him. He reminded hi
mself also that he liked and trusted her. With that, he buzzed her.
“Okay, Mau, let her in!”
Maureen’s chair made a gentle motion on the thick pile of the carpet as she stood.
“Miss Carter? Mr. Haywood will see you now. Would you like tea or coffee?”
The woman who had been plumped down on the sofa in the waiting room for no more than ten minutes seemed startled. Her half read copy of Country Life was slipped back onto the low table in front of her. She asked for a coffee, stood, and straightening her slightly too-tight skirt, followed Maureen into the room. When she saw Charlie Haywood for the first time, her eyes widened as she took him in. He was quite used to this reaction and did not demur from it. He looked at her for a beat too long but then relaxed and was as friendly and professional as he knew how to be. He didn’t want to make the woman uncomfortable. She was paying, after all. Added to which, her expression led him to think she didn’t need to be encouraged.
“Come in, Miss Carter. Please, take a seat. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“Oh, thank you,” she replied, almost surprised.
“Pleasant journey, I hope? You have come from Shropshire, I think?”
“Yes, yes, I have.”
“Well, do come in and sit down. Maureen will fetch you a drink, and we can have a chat about your case. I believe that you spoke to my colleague, Simon, when you rang before?”
She nodded. Charlie thought briefly of Simon, his would-be prodigy. Simon, who was currently on the tail of the trophy wife of a Lebanese businessman, whose taste for men who were not her husband had made her the talk of Chelsea and had brought yet another remunerative brief to the door of Haywood Enquiry Agents. He knew Simon to be following her that afternoon and hoped that he wasn’t being too obvious about it. Suddenly remembering that he needed to concentrate, he fixed his gaze on the lady in front of him and put all ideas of Simon aside.
“I understand that you are considering mounting a legal challenge to a trust of which you are a beneficiary and that there is a historical element involved. You have come to the right place, Miss Carter. I would not say this to all of my clients, but I have a special interest in enquiries that involve a bit of history. I hope we can help. I am fairly sure that if we can’t help you then nobody can.”
The Elizabeth Papers Page 2
