The Elizabeth Papers

by Jenetta James

  “I’m sorry. Do you mind if we just wait here for a second?”

  “’Course. No problem, lovey.” He smiled a kind smile and handed her a pack of tissues he took out of the glove compartment. She wondered how many times they had come in handy like this. He stopped the meter but didn’t hurry her as she dried her eyes and tried to look normal.

  When she stepped into the house, Milena was on her in a second.

  “Well? How did it go? I thought you would be much later than this. I hope he complimented the dress. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was the one, and it really brings out the colour of your eyes.”

  Evie tried not to look at her as she slipped off her shoes.

  “It was fine, Lena. It was a short performance; that’s why I’m back so early. All fine here?”

  “Yes, we just had a quiet evening—you know, like normal. Clemmie had a bit of trouble with her soup, but after a cough, she was fine.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  She slipped her ballet pumps into the cupboard in the hall, and Milena, who had a nurse’s instinct for crisis, hovered behind her.

  “Evie, would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll just go to bed. I’ve got a bit of a head.”

  With that, she raced up the stairs, closed her bedroom door, and flung herself on the unmade bed. The buzz of her phone started again. It was him. She rejected the call and turned the damned thing off.

  Chapter 13

  September 12, 1820, Pemberley

  The better and more contented part of my day has been spent lying on my bed, playing with my daughter. Beatrice is eight weeks old, and though she is small yet, she is mighty. Her tiny hands grip my fingers with a great ferocity, and her eyes, which are still bright blue, flick about at every turn. Her lovely, toothless mouth has smiled at me, although Mama has denied it and said it was not a “proper” smile. I do not hold with such cynicism. She has a chin just like Papa’s and such power to her kick as I can hardly credit. As I look at her now, I feel a sense of joy that I cannot name.

  The door moans open, and my sister Kitty appears, clutching a book and tilting her head towards her niece.

  “I thought you were napping, little one?”

  “She was, but what is the purpose in sleep when there is kicking and giggling to be done?” I answered on her behalf.

  We laughed and lay either side of Beatrice, tickling her tummy and marvelling at her person. Kitty discovered the game of dangling one of her curls on Beatrice’s nose and was most pleased at this.

  “Kitty, where is Mama?”

  I had not seen her for some hours. It occurred to me that she may be somewhere in the house, irritating Fitzwilliam. The Mrs. Darcy of years gone by would have removed her from him by some process of coaxing and persuasion. I would have had her in my sitting room chattering for hours beyond number or rooting through my dresses by way of diversion. Now, if she is in his presence and causing him annoyance, I find I do not care. Is this how love dies? Does it falter on the road of complacency and acquiescence? If I do not tend to him as once I did, is it not he who has made me feel thus? A feeling of darkness and loneliness is welling up inside me, and I know not how to push it down. Kitty’s voice breaks through from somewhere.

  “She is lying down in her room, Lizzy.”

  “Ah, of course.”

  “Yes, you know Mama. It is just…you know.”

  “Her nerves?”

  “Yes, those old friends of ours.”

  I lay flat on my back, exhaled, and stared at the canopy above the bed. I felt, rather than saw, Kitty’s eyes upon me. She opened her mouth to speak but said nothing, and then she began shifting about on the bed and straightening out Beatrice’s smock. I turned onto my side and focussed on her pretty face. She was my sister, and I did not need to dissemble with her.

  “Kitty, have you seen Mr. Darcy this morning?”

  “No, Lizzy. He was not at breakfast when Mr. Braithwaite and I were.” She paused and looked at the view of the lake through my window. “Do you not know where he is?”

  I had no idea where my husband was. He had continued to sleep in my bed these past weeks, but I fancied this was more out of habit than desire. I feigned sleep, and he did not try to wake me. In the darkness, I turned to my side away from him and listened to his breathing, wondering whether he would ever touch me again. My mind returned to Kitty who looked at me enquiringly.

  “I do not.” I stretched and closed my eyes. “He is displeased with me, Kitty. That is why he stays away.”

  There was a moment of silence before she spoke again.

  “I am sure everything will be well, Lizzy. It always is with you and Mr. Darcy.”

  I touched her hand with mine and smiled, for she was a young wife, and it did not do to worry her. She had already confided to me that she had missed her courses and prayed every night that she may be with child. We inspected her tummy before bed some nights ago, laughing like girls at its unpromising flatness. I would not have her fearful that her marriage may sour like old milk as mine has, and so I resolve to concern her no further.

  “Thank you, Kitty. I hope you are right.”

  Yesterday was Beatrice’s christening day. It had been decided that, like all Darcys, she should be christened in the chapel at Pemberley, and the rector of the church at Lambton joined us for the day for the purpose. Georgiana, whom we had asked to act as godmother together with Kitty, had arrived with her family in tow. Hannah dressed me in my favourite day dress of the season, and Beatrice lay upon my bed in the Darcy christening gown when a light tap came upon the door.

  “Come,” I called without looking.

  “Elizabeth.” I was astonished to hear Fitzwilliam’s voice and spun around to see him advancing towards the bed, dressed for the service.

  “You do not usually knock,” I said, possibly more harshly than I meant. I thought of the things that had passed between us in this room, on this bed, and flushed.

  He looked past me to Beatrice—in the gown in which he himself was christened—but said nothing. Shall you not even ask after your daughter, Mr. Darcy? Is her sex so offensive to you that you shall turn your back on her thus? Having glanced at his daughter, he trained his eye on me.

  “That is a handsome dress, Elizabeth.”

  “You have seen it before; it is not new.”

  “That does not stop it being handsome, does it?”

  He smiled faintly, and I knew not where to look. I looked away and said nothing.

  “It is pleasing to see you looking a little better, a little more yourself. I know that the birth of the babe was difficult, but—”

  “Beatrice. Her name is Beatrice. You have not forgotten, surely?”

  The skin on his face tightened, and he flinched. Quietly, he replied, “Of course not,” and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Are you ready, Elizabeth? I thought we might go down together. Everyone is waiting in the drawing room.”

  I shuddered at the implicit criticism—at the knowledge that I was failing him as a hostess as well as a wife.

  “Yes, of course,” said I, slipping my hands under Beatrice and gently lifting her to my arms.

  “Would you like me to…?”

  Fitzwilliam gestured towards her tiny form, but I looked away and held her firmly to my chest.

  “No. You need not trouble yourself,” and I walked a step ahead of him out of the room.

  The service was short but touched me as I had not expected to be touched. I looked down at the crinkled face of my fourth daughter and considered how small she was against the world and how cruel it may be if I did not protect her. Our party clustered like ducks on a riverbank around the small font and said our prayers. Georgiana and Kitty made their vows as godmothers, and when it seemed to gr
ow even chillier than before, Hannah produced an extra blanket for the baby. When it was time to depart, Fitzwilliam shook the rector’s hand, thanked him, and ushered me out.

  I felt his presence near me throughout the day, but we did not speak. I was busy chattering with Georgiana and Lord Avery and with Kitty and Mr. Braithwaite. Mama, as we know, can talk for the county, and so she kept me engaged as well. Cook had laid on a special nuncheon with several of my favourite things, although I did not recall having requested them. I ate, I believe, more than I needed and talked more than I ought. My eyes strayed to him across the room where he was speaking to Lord Avery and sipping from a glass of wine. Little Archibald played around them and, having tired himself, sat down on the floor near his father’s feet.

  In that moment, across the crowded drawing room, the possibility of it struck me like gunfire. If I did not produce a male child, would Fitzwilliam leave Pemberley to Archibald? He was his nephew, and he was the grandson of Fitzwilliam’s father—as much a Darcy as any future sons of our daughters and more so than any future husbands of our daughters. I had heard of it happening in other families—of despairing gentlemen passing over their daughters in favour of brothers, uncles, nephews, cousins. Indeed, upon Papa’s death, it shall happen to Longbourn although that will not be of his choosing. Georgiana’s husband was aristocratic, but his prestige outstripped his wealth. If the Avery and Darcy estates were merged, they would be great indeed in land and status. I saw how Fitzwilliam offered Archibald a hand to help him up from his place on the floor and felt I may boil over.

  A great conflict raged within me. I knew Fitzwilliam had overlooked many disadvantages to his union with me. He had suffered expense and mortification at the hands of my family. He had submitted himself to the silliest of talk and allowed himself to become an object of curiosity amongst my kin. For all of this, I had failed him. I had not given him the one thing that he needed, and I was wretched to think on it. At the same time, I see his stiff expression, and I cannot sympathise with it. For the children of my body are the children of his body, are they not? How could it be right that they be passed over in favour of a nephew? Why is it that the production of boys is a compliment to the father whilst the birth of girls is in some way a poor reflection on the mother? I cannot hold with that analysis, and I cannot be content with my situation.

  Chapter 14

  London, 15 August 2014

  After Charlie’s first two calls, they had started going straight to voicemail without ringing, so he knew there was no point. He sent her another text and looked out of the window onto the street below. It was 6:00 a.m., and a smattering of unlikely people milled about haphazardly. There were a couple of early morning runners, workmen cleaning the streets, girls hobbling home from the night before. He looked at them and wished his life was simple. He wished that it didn’t involve a constantly expanding and deepening tissue of lies he couldn’t control. The irony of her refusing to listen, now that he was willing to tell the truth, did not escape him.

  The crazy thing was that it must have happened in a few minutes. He had not been on the phone to the nursing home for long. They had called to say that Mum had taken a minor fall and was fine but was asking to see him. He said he’d visit in the next few days and had been mentally rearranging his diary as he wandered up to the bar to find an astonished looking Peter and Tatiana and no Evie.

  “Has Evie gone to the ladies?”

  “I don’t know…I don’t think so.” Peter’s face betrayed both creeping guilt and overwhelming ignorance, and he forced a smile. “She just got up, said goodbye, and scarpered, didn’t she, Tatty?” Tatiana nodded, and Charlie’s stomach tightened.

  “She just left? Why? What did you say to her?”

  “Nothing, old chap. We were just sitting here, talking about your work—”

  “My work? Peter, I told you not to mention that!” He raked his hand through his hair and started looking about for some glimpse of her.

  “Sorry, I forgot. I don’t see why she should run off just because you run a private snooping outfit. We were having a good chat actually. I was telling her about that trust thing you were telling me about the other day, and she went all white, didn’t she, Tatty?”

  They were nodding to each other, and Tatiana was speaking, but Charlie couldn’t hear her. His head was spinning. He bolted through the crowd, down the stairs, through the foyer, and out on to the street. Assuming that she would have gone for a cab, he ran across the square to the headlight-blinking, pedestrian-swarming hullabaloo of the Strand. He looked left and right for a glimpse of sky blue and honey-blonde, but there was none. There was no sign of her. She was gone.

  He paused on the curb like a diver about to slice the water, thinking about how happy she had seemed, how he had wanted to touch her smiling face but didn’t dare. How the thing could have unravelled in such Technicolor, he hardly knew. He needed to think, to regroup. Pulling out his phone, he texted Peter to say he wasn’t coming back and began the long, lonely walk back to his flat. His feet worked the warm pavements of the West End and the edge of Hyde Park. The streets were full of couples looking for restaurants and ladies teetering around on unfamiliar heels and shivering slightly when their bare arms met the chill of the late evening. It was five miles to Notting Hill, and by the time he put his key in the lock of the flat, it was dark. He had come to a few conclusions.

  Firstly, he would contact Cressida Carter and tell her that he couldn’t work for her anymore. He was tempted to just cut her dead—say he was too busy. But in the end, sense and his need to protect Evie, even if she wanted nothing to do with him, won out. It would be much better to tell Cressida that he was not going to carry on with it because it was going nowhere; it was a no-hoper, and she was wasting her money. There was always the possibility that she might give up and Evie would be left in peace. Then he thought about that treasure trove of Darcy’s letters he had sent to her, and he knew that she would be stupid to just let it drop. Somehow, he knew that, to protect Evie, he would have to beat Cressida to it, find whatever they were looking for, and get rid of it. He couldn’t leave Evie to face this thing on her own. And that was just the thing. He would help her even if she wouldn’t speak to him, even if she never knew. He got her into this, and he would get her out of it.

  His mind turned to what she may be thinking and feeling—to the somersaults her mind must be making. She had not answered his calls or texts and had turned her phone off, but maybe he would have more luck when she had calmed down. He wasn’t going to give up.

  The sound of more people in the street found its way through the windows, and Charlie took a shower and made himself a strong coffee. He read through the most recent barrage of emails from Cressida and sighed. She was full of ideas for finding the “lost” whatever it was that was going to prove Victoria Darcy was illegitimate. He chewed it over in his mind, and by 9:00 a.m., he was ready to call her.

  “Hi, Charlie, you’re an early bird. It’s a Sunday!”

  “Hello, Cressida. Well, I have always been an early to work kind of guy, and what is a weekend anyway?”

  She laughed down the line.

  “I’ve been going through everything we’ve got actually and having a bit of a think, so I thought I’d better give you a call. It’s not easy for me to say this, Cressida, because I’ve got my pride, but I think we are going to have to draw a blank on this one.”

  There was silence on the other end—big, empty silence.

  “I’ve had my guys looking at it from every angle, and we are on a hiding to nothing here. We can’t prove that Victoria Darcy was illegitimate. The thing is that, historical recordwise, there’s nothing there. Even if it is true, we can’t prove it. It’s a waste of your money to carry on, Cressida.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Her voice shook slightly. “If it is about money, you don’t have to worry. I can afford to pay you—”
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  “It’s not about money, Cressida. I know that you’re good for my fees. It is about not carrying on when it wouldn’t be fair to you. I told you right at the start that this was a tall order.”

  “But you haven’t even tried to find this lost document that Darcy talks about in his letters. You haven’t even tried.” He could hear the shock in her voice being replaced by anger.

  “What document though, Cressida? We don’t even know what it is, or was. I’m a private detective not a miracle worker. How can you or I find something when we don’t know what we are looking for, or where it is, or if it even exists?”

  “Well, we could go to Pemberley and look for it, or we could go to this place in Ireland and look for it there. You haven’t even tried. You have taken my money and you have given up the ghost before we have even started!”

  “Look, I’m sorry about it, Cressida. I’m not going to get into an argument about it. It is just the way it is. I’m afraid that I am going to have to terminate. I’m sorry. I won’t be sending you a bill for the last week or so, so there is nothing more to pay, and I guess it is a case of ‘thanks for coming to me; sorry I couldn’t help.’”

  There was a brief silence in which he could almost feel her hackles rising.

  “Well, some private detective you are. Fortunately, I’ve got a bit more gumption, and if you think I’m letting it go, you’ve got another think coming. I won’t be recommending you to any of my friends; I hope you know that. You are completely overrated and a total bastard.”

  The echo of silence was all he heard as the line went dead.

  Later, he drove over to Fulham. He had called four times, and Evie hadn’t answered. So he put on some clothes and went over there. He pulled into a parking space a little away from the house and ran through in his mind what he would say. At just the moment he knew he had been sitting there too long, the door of the house opened, and Milena wheeled out Clemmie. Evie followed behind them, locking up and then buzzing open their car, which was parked right outside. It was a big people mover, obviously adapted with a ramp at the back to take a wheelchair, and Evie and Milena worked as a team to open it out and line up Clemmie. Evie looked beautiful but slightly deflated. She had no make-up on, and she was wearing a green cotton dress with canvas pumps. As Milena pushed the wheelchair up the ramp and began to secure it, Charlie saw his chance and got out of the car.