I have enjoyed merrier suppers with my husband and his relations than that which followed. At first, there was a lack of conversation. The room was filled with the sound of silver tinkling on china, glasses being picked up and replaced, and James pacing the room with various dishes, his polished shoes padding around the thick carpet. I knew that I could not allow it to continue, and so, angry and upset though I was, I forced myself to be cheerful. With some effort, I encouraged Lord Matlock to tell us of his recent visit to Town. Lady Matlock, who can be relied upon to discuss her family, was immediately at ease when I asked her how plans for her eldest son’s wedding were progressing. Although we are not close, Lady Matlock has always been kind to me. She looked at Fitzwilliam, surly and taciturn, and then trained her eye upon me. I believe that she consciously held out her hand by way of assistance when she resolved to be happy and talkative. Even so, my husband said little. He sat opposite me, slightly in shadow, and when I moved to catch his eye around the side of the candle, I was certain that he looked away.
Our guests did not stay late, for they had some miles to travel home. We bade them farewell at the main door and watched in silence as their carriage clattered away down the moonlit drive and out of sight.
“I am sorry, Fitzwilliam…”
“Elizabeth, I have to write a letter.”
“A letter? At this time of night?”
“Yes, there is a problem with the tenant at Rosschapel. I have to write to my steward urgently. I would have done it before dinner but…it is nothing for you to worry over. You should retire.”
That was the last he spoke to me before stalking into his study without a glance back. It has now been two hours, and here I am at the desk in my chamber, alone. I am not fooled by the suggestion that a letter was so urgent it had to be written at night nor so long that it would take an age to compose. No. I rather think that there is no letter, but that, after the evening he has had, my husband wishes to be out of my presence. It is sobering to think that I once had to write in stolen moments, while he was preparing for bed, between the soft looks at the dining table and the kisses of the night. Now, it would appear that I have more than enough time in which to account for my movements, and I wish instead that he would come to me. In the stillness, I recall how he gave this book to me, and although he knows that I enjoy writing in it, I have never told him exactly what it is I write. Whatever would he say, I wonder? To write so much, and so deeply of myself and yet not tell my husband, sounds quite wrong; but do we not all need our secrets?
Chapter 7
London, 8 August 2014
From: Charlie Haywood
To: Cressida Carter
Date/time: 08/08/2014 06:26 BST
Subject: Project Darcy
Cressida, can you ask your solicitor in Shropshire who acts for the Darcy Trust?
***
From Cressida Carter
To: Charlie Haywood
Date/time: 08/08/2014 06:53 BST
Subject: Project Darcy
You’re up early. I hope that you are not emailing me in bed. I already know. Firm called Galbraiths, Flanders & Waites in Fleet Street. They do big-ticket private client. Old as the hills. Any news?
***
Charlie would have sent her a flirty reply, but his mind was reeling with the sheer good fortune of Galbraiths being involved. He had not lost his touch. His lucky number was up again.
He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of coffee. Outside the office, the London morning was opening, clear bright light filling the sky, taxis putting on their orange lights, early birds arriving at work, and street sweepers swishing down the road. He had thought of her twice that morning and recalled the motion of her foot on the polished floor of the gallery as she spoke to another man. He pushed the thought away.
He surveyed the pile of papers Simon had left for him. A genogram, a few wills from the probate registry, an article about stately homes in Derbyshire—there were all sorts. Simon had worked hard and done a good job. But Charlie was like a bloodhound on a scent. He had read the papers angrily, voraciously. He had a skill for quickly and effectively taking in and assimilating vast amounts of data. It had been said to him that he could have done many other things with that skill than the thing he had done; of course, other people did not understand quite how things had been—how fate had twisted against every plan he had ever had for himself. He decided not to be distracted by that history now. In his mind, the late Fitzwilliam Darcy and his family had emerged from the mist of ignorance and begun to take shape.
Mr. Darcy had been born in Derbyshire in 1785 to a wealthy landowning father and an aristocratic mother. On his mother’s side, he was the grandson of the Earl of Matlock. His father was untitled, wealthy gentry. In 1813, he married one Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire. Simon had not learned much about Mrs. Darcy except that her father was a small landowner and she was one of five sisters. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had lived in an enormous pile called Pemberley in the Peak District and had six children, five girls and a boy. Their marriage ended when Elizabeth died, aged sixty-one in 1853. Her husband followed her to the grave seven years later in 1860. These people had proper money. In addition to Pemberley, there was a house in Grosvenor Square, owned by his descendants until 1947 when they sold it to pay death duties. Mr. Darcy also owned smaller estates in Ireland, Scotland, and the West Country. Cressida had not exaggerated when she called her mother’s family “terribly grand.”
As for their children, the rich and privileged were always easy to trace. First, there was Anne, born in 1814. Anne had married in 1836, and maybe she wasn’t much like her mother as she only had one son. Her son had married, had a family, and so had his kids. The upshot was that there were three women living in Australia by the name of Murphy who were lucky enough to be beneficiaries of the Darcy Trust. Next in line was Emma Darcy. She had married and had children too. A grandson and great grandson of hers had died on the Titanic. They had been in first class, so Charlie reflected as he sipped his coffee that they had been very unlucky to die. The only living descendants of Emma Darcy were Cressida Carter, her mother, and her cousin Jennifer.
The next Darcy sister was Frances, and although she married and had kids, her modern day descendants seemed to have been treated to a torrent of misfortune. Three of her great granddaughters died in the Blitz, two of them in the same raid. At the end of her line in the genogram, there stood only male names, so no worries there. The Darcy’s fourth daughter, Beatrice, came into the world in 1820 and only had one child, a daughter who died in childbirth in 1863. Then came the controversial Victoria Darcy, born in 1821 and still causing shock waves in 2014. Victoria’s only living female descendants were, as Charlie expected, Clementine and Evangeline Pemberton.
Fitzwilliam Darcy’s son, born in 1822, was the last of his children to be born, and his living female descendants comprised an eighty-six-year-old lady named Violet Fortescue, currently living in a care home in Brighton, and her two daughters, both in their fifties and living in what Charlie imagined to be great comfort in the Home Counties. So there it was. Astonishingly, there were only eleven women who benefitted from the Darcy Trust. If Cressida Carter could strike out the Pemberton sisters, then there would be only nine, each of them significantly richer in consequence.
Charlie checked the trust document again. It really did say “all of my female descendants in perpetuity.” It was that simple, that bald, that open. What had been in the guy’s mind? These Darcy daughters were all married to rich men. Simon had found evidence that Emma was married with a dowry of £20,000. That was an extraordinary sum in 1839. It would be very unusual if she had been married with a greater dowry than her sisters. Why on earth had Fitzwilliam Darcy felt the need to set up this trust? It was completely bizarre. Charlie’s coffee was stone cold and his back had started to ache by the time Maureen clattered in, still wearing her outdoor shoes.
“Good morning, Mr. Haywood. Thank goodness, it’s you. I thought for a dreadful moment that I hadn’t locked up properly on Friday.”
“No, Mau, just me. I’ve been in to get some headspace on this Darcy thing. It has been good actually. I have got loads done.”
The early morning was the best time to work; his dad had said so, and he was right. The memory stopped him in his tracks. Maureen smiled faintly and seemed to consider him over the thick rims of her glasses. She had been his secretary for ten years, and he wondered how much she knew of his life. She arranged his diary and did all of his paperwork. She made sure his tax was paid and his car booked in for its service. She knew the hours he worked and the overwhelming effort that went into appearing nonchalant. They shared the surface intimacy of long-term colleagues, and the truth was that Charlie felt comfortable in her presence.
“Well, I’m glad, Mr. Haywood. There is nothing in your diary until this afternoon when a Mr. Trinder is calling about his business partner. Shall you be working in your office until then?”
“No. I could do with stretching my legs. Anyway, I need to catch up with someone about this Darcy thing. I’m on my mobile, okay?”
She nodded as she stashed her faux leather handbag neatly below her desk. Charlie grabbed his jacket, slung it over his shoulder, and in a flash was out of the door, down the stairs, and onto the bustling street.
Across the road from Galbraiths, Flanders & Waites stood a newspaper shop, a Starbucks, and an independent coffee shop with rickety chairs and a halogen light in the window. It was 9:30 a.m., and Charlie probably had a wait ahead of him, so he bought a copy of the Times and Vanity Fair and sat in the window of the coffee shop, keeping watch without appearing to do so. It was Monday morning, and he knew that she would never last until lunch without a coffee and a cigarette. Sure enough, at nearly 11:00 a.m., she came. The main door of Galbraiths opened, a big, red bus drove by, and there on the pavement was Isobel Langley-Jones—long legs, sweet smile, looking left and right, and clutching her purse to her chest. Charlie stood, took his jacket from the back of his chair, paid up, and left the magazine and newspaper for the girl behind the till. Isobel did not notice when he joined the queue directly behind her in Starbucks.
“Let me guess, skinny cappuccino with an extra shot?”
“Charlie!” She spun around, grinning from ear to ear. “Wow, what a coincidence. How are you?”
“I’m great, Issy. And you?”
“Yeah, oh, I’m okay, you know.” She fiddled with her pretty hair as she spoke, and he tried to recall how long it had been.
“I really am getting you a coffee though. Do you have time to stop, Issy?”
Her eyes darted about and she had that look on her face that told him she was about to say “no” but then changed it to “yes.” He ordered their coffees, and they sat at the back on each side of a small, round, not-quite-clean table. They chatted amiably, as well as two people who occasionally slept together but otherwise rarely fraternise can. Isobel amazed him by announcing she had given up smoking. She had passed her legal secretary test and recently decorated her flat. Her cat was well. It was that kind of conversation. He made the error of brushing her hand with his when she reached for a napkin, and she looked suddenly suspicious.
“This isn’t really a coincidence, is it, Charlie?”
He felt suddenly guilty for having underestimated her.
“Well, not quite. I had a meeting nearby this morning and hoped that I might see you on your coffee run because…well, I was hoping you might be able to help me. It’s going to take a bit of explaining though…it’s a long story. Do you want to hear me out?”
She put her head in her hands and let out a strange noise.
“I know that I shouldn’t, but I know that I will. Okay. When do you want to talk?”
“Meet me for lunch? Temple Gardens, one o’clock? My treat.”
Later that day, they sat on the parched grass, midsummer flowers blooming and the sun blazing.
“Charlie, you remembered that I love raspberries! Lovely and only a little bit creepy.” She winked, and he laughed back. Things were okay between them. She was not a girl who took things too seriously.
“’Course I remembered.”
She sat back against the slight, grassy incline behind them and passed the red, fleshy fruit around in her mouth. Issy had helped him before, but on that occasion he just wanted a client’s telephone number.
“So come on then, Charlie, let’s hear it. What do you want this time?”
“I want you to get a file for me.”
“You want what? Are you completely mad? I’ll get the sack. No. No, no, and no.”
“Calm down, Issy. I haven’t told you anything about it yet. Don’t jump the gun. Eat another raspberry. It’s not a current client file that I want. Christ, the file I want might not even be there. This thing is so old that it might have been put through the shredder long ago. This is ancient history, Issy. Nobody is going to care or notice.”
“But you do?”
“Yeah, it might be important for a case I’m working on. It might be a dead end. It’s just a try, but I kind of need you to help me get started. I didn’t know you had got so timid.”
He knew that would rile her.
“Okay. So how old is old?”
“Well, the guy I’m interested in died in 1860. Old enough for you? I told you, it’s not like I’m asking you to take a current file. This isn’t one of your Russian oligarchs or your aristos in rehab. Nobody will notice. Nobody would care if they did notice. Think of it as an antiquarian fetish of mine.”
He shot her a glance, and she closed her eyes in acceptance. He moved his arm closer to hers, knowing that she would feel the silent pressure, the knowledge of their history whispering against her skin.
“What is the name?”
“Darcy. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Fitzwilliam is a funny first name. We definitely still have Darcys on the books—live ones, I mean. Okay, Charlie, I’ll look in the archives, but I’m not guaranteeing anything. It has probably all been chucked out, but I’ll have a look.”
He kissed the side of her head and said, “Thank you.”
“I should bloody think so. You owe me, Charlie Haywood.”
She was a nice girl, and he liked her, but she didn’t really touch him. When lunch was over, he gave her a hug, and she went back to the office, the sun shining on her bare legs, and the remains of the raspberries in a pot in her handbag to brighten the afternoon. Charlie’s mind was buzzing with the Darcys, but he knew that, for all his efforts, Issy might find nothing. The archives of Galbraiths, Flanders & Waites were long and deep, but whether they contained documents from 1860 was a different question. It was a long shot, and only time would tell. So, he headed back to the office. He worked on another case and answered some emails. He talked to a Mr. Trinder about a new instruction. He listened to Simon’s account of having trailed the Lebanese trophy wife through every naughty knicker shop in West London.
By six o’clock, he didn’t have much left to give the day, and so he left. He sat in the leather driver’s seat of his Porsche, started the engine, and was gone. Imaginary faces of historical Darcys danced around before his eyes, and he played the matter around in his head. Without knowing how or why, his mind returned to her honey-blonde head and her moving hands. He cursed himself again that he had made such a hash of meeting her and thought of all the things he did not know about Evie Pemberton. He probably never would know those things, and it didn’t really matter. But it nagged him, nibbled at his consciousness, intruded on his peace. Who the hell was she, and why did he care?
He could not have explained to anybody why he did it. The heat was gone from the day, the pavements full of people in suits walking home from the Tube. There was a guy giving away copies of the Evenin
g Standard when Charlie stopped at the traffic lights, and his voice seemed too loud to be real. Charlie grew up in London and knew the way to anywhere on instinct. He had looked at Evie’s card more times than he would care to admit. All of the signs seemed to point and all of the roads seemed to lead to her. Before he knew where he was, he was headed away from home, straight into the heart of Fulham. He knew the street, and the studio was easy to find. Suddenly realising how bad it would look if she saw him, Charlie parked opposite, turned the radio down, and simply looked. The studio was pretty obvious. There was a massive canvass obscuring part of the window from the inside and the broken clay model of a lute in the front garden. Tired, late summer flowers blew against the low, red brick wall, and a black cat lay across the pebbly path. It was a single-story building on the end of a terrace house. There was no reason to think that the house had anything to do with her, of course. It was a strange looking place, and Charlie noticed that, instead of steps, there was an ugly, concrete slope leading to the front door and a series of unsightly, metal bars attached to the wall. The contrast with the other houses—all polished, pastel coloured front doors and gracious bay windows—was striking. He wondered for a moment who lived there. The whimsy of his state of mind and the appalling fact that he had gone to her studio for no good reason woke him with a jolt. It was a mindless, ridiculous act. If she saw him, it would be even worse. Holding that thought, he turned the key, indicated left, and with one, strong hand on the steering wheel, got himself out of there.
Later, in his flat, fatigue was catching up with him when his iPhone buzzed the arrival of an email.
From: [email protected]
To: Charlie Haywood
Date/time: 08/08/2014 22:55
Subject: Result
Attachment: doc.pdf
I can’t believe I am doing this. See attached. There wasn’t much in there--just some letters. Not the original handwritten ones. For some reason, somebody had typed them up in the 1940s. So it is not even a struggle to read. You have the luck of the devil, and you don’t deserve it. If I lose my job, I am moving in with you.
The Elizabeth Papers Page 6
