“Evie.”
She turned and squinted into the sun. Seeing him, she looked like she had been kicked in the gut. He tried not to think of the memory of her grinning face the night before.
“Evie, can we talk?” he said as he drew closer.
She didn’t even say “no.” She just turned away, got into the car, and drove off. He could not recall a time when a woman had walked away from him like that, but he knew deep down that she was well within her rights to do so.
***
In the car, the girls sat in silence for a while. They were driving over to Putney for Sunday lunch with Auntie Betty and Uncle John. Evie had been hoping that it might take her mind off things. She had never imagined that he would come over like that—be standing there in the road, staring at her without blinking. After a period of silence, Milena ventured a question.
“Was that Charlie?”
“Yes.”
“And…”
“Lena, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, darling. In that case, we won’t.”
She squeezed Evie’s knee, and nothing more was said. They soon discovered that there was a huge charity cycle ride taking place, and they had to drive a different way than normal. Evie sighed as they sat there in lines of traffic, moving like cold syrup, the heat of the city afternoon pressing against the windows. She knew that Milena could have pushed her on what had happened and was grateful that she did not.
In fact, lunch wasn’t too bad. The food was delicious, and Clemmie was her usual ebullient self, laughing enough for two even though she had the least cause of any of them. By the time they got back to the house, she was even more exhausted than usual and troubled by a slight cough, so Milena started her bedtime routine. Evie went next door to the studio. She had hoped that it would take her mind off things, but everything there reminded her of him. She recalled them laughing over cups of tea and her hauling canvasses about on the floor. She took the two pieces that he had said he wanted and turned them to the wall. She switched on the lights, took out a blank canvas and her oils, and started painting, angrily, viciously, throwing colour and shape into the empty space. It was dusky outside when the ear-splitting ring of the studio phone started up. For a moment, she thought it might be him again and considered ripping the socket out of the wall and hurling it across the room. Letting it ring longer than usual, she decided against this and picked up. It was Milena.
“Evie, come quickly. Clemmie has a temperature and is struggling to breathe.”
“Coming.” She slammed down the phone, ran out of the front door without locking it, and vaulted over the low wall, scrambling for her keys to the house door. When she got to Clemmie’s bedroom, Milena was staggering under the weight of her sister’s limp body.
“Evie, bring the chair closer. She fell when I tried to move her forward.”
Clemmie’s short breaths were firing out of her in loud, angry gasps. Evie recalled how Milena had said that Clemmie had choked on her soup last night and then how she had been coughing in the car on the way home from lunch. She knew immediately how it had occurred—how a problem swallowing had led to a problem breathing and to a fever. How that had led to a fall. How the whole scenario had resulted in her poor, contorted, terrorised body fighting for oxygen. It was like a play that they had all seen before. There was an awful inevitability to it. Evie immediately jumped to Milena’s side, and they managed to prop her up against the side of the bed. The wheelchair was just out of reach, taunting them.
“Hold this. I’ve called an ambulance. They didn’t know how long. Her temperature is dangerously high. I told them that.”
Milena deftly managed Clemmie’s tubes whilst holding her up and speaking softly between her strangled breathing. Evie ran to the stair lift and moved the straps into the right places, her hands shaking. She came back to the bedroom and, stroking her sister’s face, spoke to her. Clemmie just moaned in response, and heat radiated from her like a stove. Together, sister and nurse manoeuvred her into her chair.
“Where is that ambulance? I’m calling again.” Evie took out her phone and dialed 999.
“Hello. … Hello. My sister has a raging temperature and can’t breathe, and she has taken a fall. She is a quadriplegic, and we have been waiting for an ambulance for ten minutes. Where is it? … Yes, that’s the address.”
Behind her, Milena spoke coaxingly to Clemmie and eased an inhaler into her desperate mouth.
“What? … Forty minutes? We don’t have forty minutes!”
She ended the call and looked down at Milena, furious.
“They can’t come for forty minutes because of this bloody bike ride. People, able-bodied people, have fallen off their bikes, and all the ambulances are busy!” Tears came to her eyes. “Forty minutes is too long, Milena. We will have to take her. I’ll go and open the car.”
With that, she flung herself down the stairs and out the door. She practically ripped the back doors of the car open, and her hands were shaking as she unclipped the ramp to release it. She was hot with anxiety, cold with fear, and her face was wet with tears. The ramp was slightly caught, and she pulled it hard to release it, making a tiny cut on her thumb.
“Evie, what’s wrong?”
She spun around to see him standing there in the road and almost couldn’t compute his presence.
“Leave me alone.”
“No. I saw you run out of the studio. What’s happening?”
He moved her aside and secured the ramp for her.
“Tell me what to do.”
She didn’t even answer. She just ran back into the house, head thumping and body shaking.
***
The door was open, and he stood in it, peering up the stairs. He could hear the sound of Evie and Milena talking and an awful gasping and crashing. It didn’t sound good, and however much she might hate him, he could not leave. He knew it was wrong to stand about without announcing himself, so he shouted up the stairs.
“Evie, I’m down here; if I can help you, I will.”
There was a great crash, and he was sure she let out a cry. After what felt like an age, Milena appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Charlie, come up. We need another pair of hands.”
He took the stairs two at a time as she explained.
“Clemmie choked on some food yesterday evening, and she now has a very high temperature and can’t breathe well. It is very common with quadriplegics, but she must go to hospital as her breathing hasn’t improved, and her temperature is climbing. The wait for an ambulance is so long that we are going to have to take her to the Chelsea and Westminster ourselves. They have care there that I can’t give her here. Evie can hold her tubes in while you and I get her into the chair. Then we can take her down the stairs on the lift and into the car. Got it?”
“Yes.” He had got it, and that is what they did.
As it was, Charlie picked Clemmie up himself and placed her in the chair while Milena strapped her in. To a symphony of tortured gasping and encouraging remarks, they brought her down the stairs, outside, and into her place in the car. Evie ran to the door and slammed it shut. Milena, who was standing over the patient, called out to him.
“Charlie, would you mind coming just to the hospital with us? When she is in this state, she is a two-person job, and Evie will have to drive.”
He looked at her poised as if in flight in her summer dress and pumps, her hair all out of its hair band. There was no emotion except fear on her face.
“Sure, but I’ll drive so Evie can sit in the back.”
Her eyes flashed at him, and it was agreed. When they arrived at A&E, the girls went in with Clemmie in her chair while Charlie parked the people mover in the hospital car park. Walking back through the dingy underworld of badly parked cars and abandoned wh
eelchairs, he fingered the ticket and wondered how long he should hang about. Inside the hospital, he found a Costa coffee on the ground floor. He sat down and texted her.
How’s it going? Has she been seen? I’m in Costa with your car keys and parking ticket. I can stay or go home, whatever you want.
It was about an hour later that she appeared. Her pale face peeked out from under messy hair, and she had that look about her that everybody gets when they are in a hospital. That look of not having slept or eaten or worn the right clothes. Of having been taken unawares; of not having read the right books or seen the right films; of being lost and lonely and confused. She approached his table and sat on the edge of the chair opposite him.
“Thanks for waiting.” She seemed to want to speak more, but nothing came out.
“It’s no problem. How is she?”
“Okay. They are going to keep her for a few days. She will be fine. It has happened before.”
“Good. Well, I’m glad that she has been seen.”
She looked at his face and placed her hands flat on the Formica table. A whisper of a question played across her face before she closed her eyes for a beat. She looked exhausted.
“Evie, do you want me to drive you and Milena home? You look done in.”
“Thanks.” She looked up, and he wondered whether that was the shadow of a smile. “I’ll drive. But you come too. You left your car on our street right?”
They drove through the night in silence. Milena insisted on sitting in the back so that Charlie and Evie could talk if they wanted, but somehow it didn’t happen. She changed gears, steered, and indicated like an automaton, and it was only as they parked outside the house that he spoke.
“Thanks. Is it okay if I call tomorrow?”
“I suppose so.”
Chapter 15
April 2, 1821, Pemberley
An almost imperceptible joke played across Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face, and he smiled into his teacup before drinking. His much-anticipated arrival took place an hour ago, and now he is in the drawing room, with all of us hanging on his every word. The girls, I thought, may combust with excitement in the hours before he alighted from his horse and sauntered into the hall. Ann and Emma have not seen him for two years, and this is the first time that he has met either Frances or Beatrice. Frances potters about on the floor, and Beatrice lies in Georgiana’s arms next to me on the chaise. Questions have been fired at our guest from all directions, and he has fielded them creditably. Has he ever seen a cannon ball? Has he brought his uniform to Pemberley, and shall he wear it to church? Does he wish to sit on a rocking horse in the day nursery? Their little faces opened up towards him like flowers.
Cousin Richard himself is quite unchanged from the easy mannered, kind, and agreeable man whom I met at Rosings when I was a girl of not one and twenty. He jumped off his horse after a long and perilous absence and smiled as if he had been to Lambton to post a letter.
“Darcy, Lizzy, where are all these young ladies then? I cannot have people being born into the family and not exposed to my company!”
He kissed my cheek and gave me a brotherly embrace after shaking hands with Fitzwilliam.
“I thought you would have seen enough of battle and may wish for some rest before they are unleashed on you.”
“No, Lizzy. There is never too much battle for me—you should know that. You are looking very well. Darcy is obviously looking after you, as well he should.”
My husband threw a withering look at his cousin who was well used to such banter. “You will have to forgive us, Fitzwilliam, for greeting you without the children. We were not sure whether you could stand their exuberance, and I would not want to tire you out when you have only arrived.”
“You have not lost your humour, Cousin. I’m glad to see that. After spending a week at Rosings with Anne, I shall relish it! I am in need of song, laughter, and conversation—and lots of it. Now, where are those girls? I wish to see my relations. Are they all as beautiful as Lizzy?”
He winked at my husband who only flinched slightly at his manner of referring to me.
“They are,” he replied and led his cousin into the drawing room without further ado. Since that time, Georgiana, Lord Avery, and Archibald have joined us, and altogether we have been a merry party. I notice that my husband favours Archibald with conversation and enquires after his progress at riding. My fingernails dig crescents into the flesh of my palms. I see him smiling upon his nephew when he plays with Anne and Emma on the terrace outside. When Fitzwilliam and Lord Avery stand by the fire and talk, I wonder whether they are speaking of it even as I look upon them. Their heads incline towards each other, and I hear the low mumble of their male voices. I do not know their words. Shall they ever be confided to me? Has my husband suggested to our brother that his living son may take the place of my non-existent one, or shall he leave that proposal for later? Wild ideas flame up in my mind, but I fight against them, determined not to be consumed. Archibald comes in from the terrace and presents himself to me with mud on his hands.
“Aunt Elizabeth, may Anne and I run to the folly?”
“You may, Archibald, but you must also take Emma, for I think she would like to go, would you not?”
I look at my second daughter who frantically gasps her assent. It is agreed, and they are off, storming into the distance, their little bodies twitching up the hill, pastel-coloured shapes against the green relief of the lawn. I stand at the door that gives onto the terrace and watch them go, the sun on my face, a light breeze rustling my skirts. Archibald’s little breeches pound away, and he is easily outstripping the girls in their cotton frocks. I feel the beginnings of resentment and hurt growing inside me. Fitzwilliam appears at my back and says nothing. I bristle at his nearness, but ultimately, I have not his appetite for silence.
“Archibald is a good runner, is he not?”
I feel the faintest touch of his finger against my forearm.
“Not as good as you, Elizabeth.”
My mind flipped to us running together in the woods when we were first married, and my confessing to him that I had, as a girl, run from Longbourn to Meryton for devilment, and none of my family knew. I considered for a moment how we had once been with each other and how things were now, and I wanted to cry out. If he thought he could flirt his way back into my good graces, then he was wrong.
“You flatter me, sir. I would not be up to that now at my age and after bearing four children. I would do myself an injury. No, I think I shall leave the athletics of the household to young Archibald.”
“Nonsense…”
He was about to speak further when a cry went up in praise of Frances’s having taken three consecutive steps, and we were all distracted.
Later, our exhausted children were put to bed, and Archibald climbed wearily into his father’s carriage and, with his nanny for company, went home. It had been decided that the grown-ups would dine at Pemberley and then, as it was a full moon, make a late night progress to Broughton Park where Richard was to stay with Georgiana and Lord Avery. So it was that we found ourselves, as the evening was settling into night, in the small dining room—Fitzwilliam and I at either end of the table, and Georgiana and Richard on one side facing Lord Avery, who seemed to turn his food around on his plate in a melancholy manner. Servants came in and out of the room with platters and dishes and sparkling decanters, and candle light flickered across our faces like quicksilver. Richard’s jokes were so diverting and so numerous that, by the time our puddings were placed before us, I had an ache in my belly and in my cheeks. I caught Fitzwilliam looking at me from his place and wondered whether he was troubled by my easiness with his cousin. He had never become accustomed to our addressing one another as “Richard” and “Lizzy” but I could not overly regret this. For, if it was a discomfort to him to think of my enjoying a friendship with his c
ousin, then it was equally a discomfort to me to know that our nephew was to be promoted above all of our own children as his heir, simply because he was a boy.
When the meal was at its end, Georgiana and I retired to the drawing room and left the men to their dimly lit port and serious conversation. Her hand slipped over my arm, and she snuggled to my body as we walked down the corridor to our tea.
“Oh, Lizzy, it is just like old times, is it not? I am glad we are alone for I want to play a new piece of music, but it is not yet perfected enough to be presented to the men.”
I smiled at her as we approached the drawing room.
“Well, in that case, I shall look forward to hearing it. But you should not be shy in front of the men for they are none of them great musicians. Certainly, not Fitzwilliam. He sang for me once after a great deal of cajoling on my part, and I must say that I do not plan to push the point again.”
The memory made me smile in spite of my mood.
“Oh, Lizzy, where did you learn to be so diverting?”
“Your brother could make jesters of us all, Georgiana. It is one of his talents.”
She sat down at the piano bench and began to rifle through the music sheets she had fetched with her from Broughton Park. Her fine head, still as blonde as sunshine, tilted towards her lap full of papers. She continued to chatter, and I was glad that she did not look at my face as she spoke.
The Elizabeth Papers Page 12
