The Elizabeth Papers

by Jenetta James

  “You did come very highly recommended, Mr. Haywood.” She smiled, and for a moment, he felt sick. She was, he would estimate, in her late twenties, and she was by no means unattractive. Still, there was something about her that made him want to turn away.

  “Well, that is always gratifying. I hope we will not disappoint. Ah, here is Maureen. Thanks, Maureen.”

  There was a brief interlude in which sugar lumps were dropped in hot coffee and silver teaspoons tinkled around china.

  “Maybe it would be best, Miss Carter, if you just told me your story in your own words. Then I can tell you what I think, and we can go from there?”

  “No problem. I can do that. Let’s start from the beginning. It’s like this. My family on Mummy’s side is terribly grand, Mr. Haywood. Our branch of the family is one of the less well-off ones unfortunately, but there are landed estates and aristocrats if you look back—the whole damned shooting match. Don’t really see much of them all now of course, but families are like that, aren’t they? I am sure that I am related to all sorts of impressive people. Anyway, when I was eighteen, I started receiving money from something called the Darcy Trust. Mummy does too and my cousin on her side, Jennifer. It turns out that all of the women in Mummy’s family get money from it. Mummy has been getting it ever since she was eighteen. It is a pretty penny too, I can tell you. Over the years…well…it has paid for quite a lot.”

  She blinked, and he knew that she had wanted to say more but thought better of it. Running her manicured hand along the groove at the edge of his desk, she continued.

  “Anyway, until very recently, I didn’t know all that much about it. I just got the money, and I was bloody glad of it. Then Mummy said that her Aunt Mary was on her last legs with cancer, and she really wanted to see her before she died. Now, I hadn’t seen Aunt Mary since I was a child, but a trip to Scotland didn’t sound too shabby, and Mummy really wanted some company, so along I went. I suppose that it was a bit grim at times, but it wasn’t too bad. Aunt Mary’s place was lovely—really gorgeous—and my bedroom had a super view. Anyway, it was pretty obvious that she was very ill, and we spent a few days with her talking about the old days and family history and all of that, you know?”

  He nodded, but of course, he didn’t know. Miss Carter crossed her legs and leaned towards him, sipping awkwardly from her cup.

  “She was really into it—family history, I mean. She seemed to know all sorts—more than me, and I know a bit. Told us all about the war and other times as well, much further back. She was amazing, really, when you think of her age and her health. It was one morning just after breakfast. Mummy was having a potter around the garden, and I had just made myself a coffee. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I sat with Aunt Mary and asked her if she’d like some help with her crossword. She looked me squarely in the face and said, ‘Victoria Darcy wasn’t his daughter you know. Nobody was allowed to say, but it was the truth.’ I was completely foxed, but she looked as if she was saying something important. So, I put down my coffee, took her frail old hand, and said, ‘Come again, Aunt Mary?’ It was then that she told me about the Darcy Trust. It turns out that it was started by some long-dead relation of ours, Fitzwilliam Darcy. He had five daughters and set up a trust to benefit his female descendants. Only that’s just the thing. One of the daughters, this Victoria, wasn’t his daughter at all. Born on the wrong side of the bed sheets, and somehow his wife passed it off. Did the dirty and got away with it. Apparently, according to Aunt Mary, there has always been talk about it in the family, but nobody ever actually did anything about it, but people knew.”

  “Do you know when this was, Miss Carter?”

  “Sure. Victoria Darcy was born in 1821.”

  “1821?”

  “Yes. I did a bit of research. I hope you’re impressed, Mr. Haywood?”

  He resisted the temptation to laugh but smiled at her instead.

  “Charlie, please.”

  “Charlie.” She seemed to pass the word around in her mouth. “Anyway, the upshot is that this Victoria and all of her daughters and granddaughters and so on are not real Darcys. If they are getting money from the trust, then they bloody well shouldn’t be. That’s what I’m here about.”

  So she was a greedy one. There were the greedy ones, the resentful ones, the mad ones, the campaigning ones, and the ones who had too much money and not enough to do. She was definitely a greedy one.

  “So, this Fitzwilliam Darcy—he was married?”

  “Yes, he was married.”

  “Do you know anything else about him or his wife?”

  “No, that is why I have come to you.”

  She looked suddenly aggressive, and Charlie reflected that she didn’t have much of a “middle gear” when it came to being aggravated.

  “And do you know whether or not Victoria Darcy has any living female descendants? People who are alive and receiving money from the trust?”

  “Yes. Well, Aunt Mary actually told me that. She said that the only people left in Victoria’s line were the “Pemberton girls.” I didn’t know that I had any relations called Pemberton, but there you are. Anyway, these people, whoever they are, are getting money that they shouldn’t be getting.”

  “Have you seen a lawyer about this, Miss Carter?”

  “Cressida, please.”

  She leaned further towards him and fiddled with her watch. He noticed that she was too thin and wondered how hard she worked at it.

  “Have you seen a lawyer about this, Cressida?”

  “Yes, I have. I went straight to our family solicitor in Shropshire. He has been great actually. He dug out the trust document, and we looked at it together. He advised me that if Victoria Darcy were not really the daughter of Fitzwilliam Darcy then she and her descendants definitely should not be getting any money. He said that we would be able to challenge it and get them excluded. More buns for the rest of us. Only problem he said was that we need to prove it, and that is why I’ve come to you.”

  Charlie took a deep breath and put the lid back on his fountain pen without writing anything down. He considered noting “Victoria Darcy, born 1821” on his pad but couldn’t see the point. He had been sent on some wild goose chases in his time. More often than not, he had to listen to a crazy story or two from his clients. He had been through people’s bins and hidden behind moss-cloaked garden walls. He had hacked into people’s voice mails and followed their cars to their lovers’ houses down country lanes and sodium-lit streets. He had dredged through the contents of stolen laptops, dragging his tired eyes over file upon file of holiday snaps and letters and nonsense. He had read through thousands of pages of bank statements, telephone transcripts, and court documents. He was good—really good. If a secret was there, Charlie Haywood would find it. But he had never been asked to bust somebody for adultery nearly two hundred years after it had occurred.

  “Right. Thanks. That is an amazing story, Cressida. You probably don’t need me to tell you that it is rather unusual. I am going to need to go away and do a bit of background research because, well, I’m sure you realise that what you are asking me to look at is a long way in the past. Paternity disputes are a different thing these days, of course. We have DNA testing and so on. And when people are still alive, somebody always knows, somebody will always talk. Do you know what I mean?”

  She nodded, but he was not at all sure she was following him.

  “But when it comes to this Victoria Darcy—well you are talking about a woman who was born nearly two hundred years ago. I am going to need to do some serious rooting around just to work out the basics of who she was and who her family were. I am going to want to see that trust document and learn all about this Fitzwilliam Darcy and his family. Once I have done that, we can think about how we might go about uncovering the truth of Victoria’s paternity. I’m afraid there aren’t any guarantees here. Thi
s is a tricky one. The plain hard truth is that it might be impossible to prove that Victoria wasn’t his daughter. You might spend a lot of money and get nowhere. Do you understand that, Cressida?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “And you will take the risk?”

  “Yeah, I’ll take the risk.” She tilted her head and smiled. “I reckon it’s going to pay off.”

  Later, when Cressida Carter left the office, Charlie closed the heavy door behind her and turned to Maureen, who did not look up from her typing.

  “Where do we find them, Mau?”

  “Well, they find us usually, Mr. Haywood, which is better than them not finding us.”

  He smiled, knowing she was right. Maureen had refused to let go of “Mr. Haywood” despite repeated requests, and eventually, Charlie had let it be.

  “Well, I suppose it keeps us off the streets. Speaking of which, I had better run.”

  “Off somewhere nice, Mr. Haywood?”

  “Just meeting my cousin Peter for a drink and a catch up. He has a new girlfriend he’s bringing along. Ballerina apparently.”

  He said it almost as if he didn’t believe it to be true. It amazed Charlie that his cousin Peter was able to attract a woman, let alone a professional dancer who was presumably young and fit and…well, sexy. He was trying to think of a way to share this reflection with Maureen when Simon came crashing through the door, all geniality and clutching a Starbucks hot chocolate with all the add-ons.

  “Evening, boss. Evening, Maureen. Passed a skinny woman on the stairs. Looked like she had just won the lottery. She one of yours?”

  “I hope not, at least not in the way you mean, Simon. That was the famous Miss Carter.”

  “Oh, that was Miss Carter! Was she as barmy in real life as she sounded on the phone?”

  Chapter 3

  May 22, 1860

  Pemberley

  Galbraith,

  Thank you for coming to Pemberley. I am sorry not to be more in your company but hope that my son and his wife looked after you. I am afraid that my days of dining into the night and besting my friends at billiards are behind me.

  We discussed the Rosschapel matter when you were here, and maybe I was too short with you on the subject. I have since given it some thought. As you know, Victoria (who is now Mrs. Montague) does not know the truth. I do not know whether she would be able to cope with knowing the truth, and she has lived, happily, in ignorance all her life. You mentioned Mr. Montague. He is, as you know, a man whom I respect as well as Victoria’s husband. Having considered the matter, however, I can see no real purpose in reporting to him the truth of Victoria’s position. Whatever would he do with this information, and how could it ever benefit anyone, least of all her?

  I hardly need add, therefore, that when I am dead, you will be the only living soul who knows the truth. I can see no reason why you should ever need to tell anyone else, and it is my instruction that you should not do so.

  Yours,

  Darcy

  Chapter 4

  September 3, 1819, Pemberley

  I have missed writing this past week but so much has happened, and my mind has been so full that I hardly know where I would have found the words. It is now a full week since we learned the news, but I still cannot comprehend it. We had dined, and I was playing the pianoforte, Fitzwilliam listening with his eyes closed, his whiskey glistening in the candlelight. I believe that I heard the commotion at the main door before he did and looked up from the keyboard in alarm. A horse whinnied, far-off voices mumbled, and heels clicked on polished floors. By the time James knocked on the door of the music room and entered, it was plain that something was amiss.

  “An express has come for you, sir.”

  Fitzwilliam started then stood. He gestured to me to be seated on the stool, took the weather-beaten letter from James’s tray, and turning his back to the room, began to read. I thought of my parents and my sister Mary who is expecting her first child. I could not keep silent.

  “Fitzwilliam, what is it? Please, tell me. Is it bad news?”

  He turned steadily, his profile against the yellow of the wall and moved his hands in a way that told me he was formulating a response. He gestured to James to leave the room, and we were alone.

  “Yes, Elizabeth, it is bad news. It is from the colonel of George Wickham’s regiment. I am afraid that Mr. Wickham has died on return from duties in Spain. He took a fever and perished, as did a number of his fellow officers.” He turned the soggy letter over in his hands. “It says precious little else, I am afraid. I assume that he wrote to me as he knows that I paid for his commission.”

  I could not but gasp to hear such news. My hand flew to my mouth, and my breath grew short. My stays seemed suddenly tight, and my whole person discomforted. Images flew through my mind—images of George Wickham as I had first known him, bowing deeply in the market place at Meryton, the smartest coat he could not afford upon his back, then later, in shining regimentals and a sword at his side. I recalled our dancing in the home of my aunt Philips in the days when I thought him handsome, agreeable, and honourable. I had come to understand that he was not what I had first thought him. He had been a man of many faults, and he had wronged Fitzwilliam and Georgiana. The last time I had seen him had been before I was married when he and Lydia visited Longbourn after their marriage. By then, I knew the truth of his character although I did not know at that time that Fitzwilliam had had to bribe the man to marry my sister. George Wickham, the reluctantly married man, standing by the fire in my mama’s parlour, smiling and calling me “sister,” had seemed such a diminished creature. Now, knowing that he was dead, I felt a pang of regret that I could not account for. A young man I danced with departed, my youngest sister a widow. I pondered, not for the first time, the tiny silver hairs at Fitzwilliam’s temple, and I suppose I felt rather old.

  Fitzwilliam’s face darkened, and I knew that he had caught my expression. I took a breath and brought myself to.

  “Poor, Lydia! Does the letter say whether she knows?”

  “No, it does not, but she must, Elizabeth. He would not have written to me without also having written to her.”

  A strange, stilted silence settled between us. I wanted to run to him but felt pinned to the floor.

  “Yes, of course. I did not think. I am sure you are right. I shall write to her in the morning and Mama as well. I expect they shall both be in quite a state.”

  Fitzwilliam looked at me, but he only grunted his assent.

  “Shall I tell Georgiana?” I ventured. I had thought that this would be worrying him, but he looked completely surprised by the question.

  “Erm, yes, Elizabeth. You tell Georgiana. When are you next visiting her?”

  Georgiana lives but ten miles from Pemberley with her husband, Lord Avery, on a small but beautiful estate overlooking Padley Gorge. With my own sisters settled farther away, it has been my pleasure to visit her often since her marriage.

  “I had planned to visit her at Broughton Park on Wednesday. I usually take the girls, but I will leave them behind so that I can talk to her alone.” I searched his blank face for some emotion but found none. “If you think it appropriate, that is?”

  “Yes, of course,” he barked. “Why would it not be appropriate?”

  “Well, I thought that you may wish to approach her yourself or with me. And, do I need to talk to her alone and only her? What if Lord Avery is there? What do I say to him?”

  “Nothing. He knows nothing of the…business between Wickham and Georgiana. I considered telling him when he asked for Georgiana’s hand but decided there was no need. He certainly does not need to know now…”

  He creased his face, ran his fingers through his hair, and turned away from me. I blinked in astonishment. What has happened here? A part of my life that I did not know was brittle
has fractured. I smiled, but it did not seem to touch him.

  “I understand. In that case, I shall ensure that we are alone. I am sure she will be shocked, but I hope not excessively affected. After all, it was a long time ago, and Georgiana is a married woman with a baby.”

  I did not say a “baby boy.” My mind flew to a vision of Georgiana in bed nine months after her marriage, cradling little Archibald and beaming up at me, declaiming, “What a size he is, Lizzy! I know not how I produced such a son!” I thought of our three daughters sleeping above our heads, and I could not bear to mention that our sister had produced an heir for her husband on the first attempt. Did Fitzwilliam think this too? Now, there is a scowl upon his face, but is it for me?

  With few further pleasantries, he went to his study to pen a response for the colonel and, I believe, to write to his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam. I sat at the instrument to play, thinking that it may soothe me but could not make my fingers work. I thought of my poor sister whose precarious existence was now in even greater jeopardy. Would being George Wickham’s widow be even less desirable than being his wife? Would Lydia marry again? She was forward enough to attract attention but too forward to be an attractive prospect for most sensible men. Would she return to Longbourn? I thought of my poor Papa in Hertfordshire with only an aging Mama and a heartbroken Lydia for company. I consoled myself that at least she did not have any children to worry for and resolved to retire before I became unmanageably maudlin.

  In bed, alone, I could not turn my mind to sleep. I was a riot of restlessness and odd, undefined discomforts. The fire in my chamber died down to an amber glow. My dressing table and stool and the mirrors and brushes and boxes of my personal space seemed to form strange shapes and dance in the darkness. How could George Wickham, of all men, be dead? Did he not have the luck of the devil? Was he not a man to always fall upon his feet however undeserved? I drank some of my water and pushed the counterpane down on the bed, for it was unseasonably warm. I could not make out the clock face now that the fire was almost out, but I knew that it was late. Apart from my confinement or illness—or when he had been away from Pemberley—Fitzwilliam had shared my bed every night of our marriage. Except this one. I tried not to think upon it. I closed my eyes, curled my body tightly, and worked to persuade my frantic mind into slumber.