The Elizabeth Papers

by Jenetta James

  “It is manageable as long as we can get her to hospital.”

  “I know, but we did in the end, didn’t we? With the help of…well, we managed it. Try not to worry about what might have been. It is a waste of your energy. Come on Evie, onwards and upwards?” She smiled a kind smile and caught Evie’s eye.

  “Okay, Mummy Milena. Onwards and upwards. Have you enjoyed the morning?”

  “Yes. Well, I would have enjoyed it more if Clemmie were not in hospital, but yes. I met a friend of mine for coffee at Parson’s Green. Did you know that there is a new respite centre opening up near Brighton? My friend is a nurse, and a client of hers is going there for a holiday. Apparently, it’s all mod cons, and there is swimming and all sorts. You know how Clemmie loves the seaside. It might be worth a look. Shall I see if they have a website?”

  Evie immediately thought of the cost, and her moment of calm was shattered. She heard his voice in her head: knowledge is power. She saw his face, and her hands began to sweat slightly against the steering wheel.

  “Yes. Why not? Sounds like it would be right up her street.”

  Milena’s confidence had not been misplaced. Clemmie looked well under the circumstances, and the doctors were happy with her progress overnight. They said what they always did: that these kinds of incidents were inevitable, and it was a case of learning to deal with them. It would never be possible for Clemmie to be free of these horrors. They were a part of her life and Evie’s. It was agreed after much discussion that Clemmie would be discharged the next morning provided that she continued to improve. With that happy knowledge, Evie and Milena had kissed her goodbye and headed home to make sure her room was nice and her favourite food was in for dinner.

  Evie’s head spun like a wheel on fire and she could not stop it. When she got home, she printed out the letters of Mr. Darcy and looked at them again. They were short, curt, and elliptical, but they said a lot. They spoke of a man who she just knew in her gut was good even though he lived so long ago, so far away. “There are men who, if they knew the full truth, would say I have been a fool.” He had written it. But what did it mean? She didn’t understand, but something about the whole thing touched her like a hand in the darkness. It touched her that a rich and powerful man long ago had thought to protect the interests of his unborn granddaughters and great granddaughters. It touched her that, in his last days, he had been wracked with worry for the recovery of this mystery document his wife had tried and seemingly failed to destroy. It touched her that love could be so strong, that it could cut through pride and money and faithlessness and misfortune.

  Later that evening, she helped Milena make Clemmie’s bed. It was a large bed, higher than standard and with a great harness fixed to the ceiling above. It was a monster in many ways, but the sight of it reminded her of her sister sleeping peacefully. A feeling inside Evie reached its zenith and galvanised. Issues that had previously confused her into inaction crystallised, and she was less afraid. She knew that she would not—could not—let her sister down. After Milena had gone downstairs, Evie stood alone for a few moments before she drew the curtains and switched off the lights. In the dark, she took out her phone and texted him.

  OK I’m in. Call me and tell me what we are doing.

  Chapter 17

  April 2, 1821, Pemberley

  “Elizabeth, I shall not have this.”

  “You shall not have what, sir?”

  He paced the room, his slim figure throwing a shadow on the deep pile of the carpet. In moments such as these, I was tempted to call him “Mr. Darcy,” for it never suited him as well as when he was angry.

  “This—this distance between us. Your manner with me. I will not have you moving away from me.”

  I looked away from him and turned the ribbon from my sleeve about my finger.

  “Nobody observed me.”

  “I observed you.”

  My eyes closed, and I felt the sting of early tears building. Anger jostled with despair inside me. If he knew that I was thus undone, then he did not show it but continued to turn about the room in a distracted fashion.

  “You avoid conversing with me. You walk out on your own or with the girls. Since Beatrice was born, I have barely seen you.”

  “You have seen me in bed every night, sir. I have denied you nothing.”

  “What on earth are you suggesting?”

  With this, he looked straight at me, and his face blanched. It was a challenge but not one that I was afraid of. My courage rose, and I resolved to speak the truth and live with the consequences. I moved towards him, and he stood stock still, a query playing about his face.

  “You know very well what I am suggesting. I have been a good wife to you, Fitzwilliam. You cannot deny that. I have loved you and your family. I have borne you four children. I have been mistress of this house. You have wanted for nothing…save for—well…”

  “Save for what?”

  “You know. How can you force me to say it when you know?”

  “I do not know. I do not have the pleasure of understanding you. Speak plainly, Elizabeth.”

  The cruelty of it choked me, but I forced the words out like bile.

  “You have wanted for nothing save a son.”

  With that, he opened his mouth slightly and turned away, apparently silenced.

  “And now, this business with Archibald is all around me, and you expect me to continue with you as if nothing has changed. You expect me to smile and laugh and play your favourite music on the pianoforte when you have betrayed me thus.”

  He turned back to me, but as I spoke, his expression changed somewhat.

  “Betrayed you? Now, I am utterly lost, Elizabeth.”

  “I have never shown Archibald any unkindness, and I shall not. He is only a child, and it is not his fault that I have failed you and you have given up hope. But you cannot expect me to rejoice in it, Fitzwilliam.”

  “Rejoice in what? What ‘business with Archibald’?”

  “Is this a night for forcing me to speak painful truths when you already know them, sir?”

  “No, it is not. Elizabeth, if I knew what you were talking about, I would not be asking.”

  “I am talking of your plan for Archibald.”

  “What plan?”

  He jerked his arms out questioningly, demandingly. I could not stop.

  “Your plan, sir, to make him your heir. You think I do not know, but I see it. I see that you must have a son, and I have not given you one. I know that there have always been Darcys at Pemberley, and so do you. Archibald is your father’s grandson, and he is a better candidate for your estate than our daughters are. I can guess your reasoning, and I hope that, in time, I can accept it. I grew up in a household in which daughters were the regret of their parents, and I can do so again, but you cannot expect me not to be hurt, Fitzwilliam. It is quite impossible.”

  I considered, in the aching silence that followed, the magnitude of my words and strained not to blink as he stared at me, fixedly. His voice, when it came, was rather quieter than mine had been.

  “You are impossible.” He paced about before me. “Is this what has been in your mind? Is this the reason for your manner with me of late? No wonder you have been out of sorts. It is nonsense, Elizabeth. It is fiction. It is the creature of your imaginings, nothing more. I have never had a plan to make Archibald my heir, and I never will. You are my wife. The girls are my children. How could you suggest that I would dismiss their claims in favour of Archibald? It is ridiculous.”

  “It is not ridiculous. It has been done by other men.”

  “I am not other men.”

  He looked at me hard, and I could not look away.

  “I never thought to hear anything so risible from your lips. Archibald is no more a Darcy than any of our other nephews. And he is not my ch
ild.”

  Anxiety raced with relief inside me, and I could keep neither from bubbling up by way of tears.

  “Then why have you been so odd with me of late? Why did you not name Beatrice? I thought you were ashamed of her.”

  “Ashamed? Certainly not. I thought you wanted to name her. I did not comprehend that I was being odd with you. I have been attempting to care for you. I know that the birthing was…difficult.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Mrs. Bennet told me. She thought that you may be unwell in yourself as a consequence and that I should know of it.”

  I wanted to speak, but my mind reeled to think of such a conversation as must have taken place. The thought of Mama discussing such a subject with my husband, whom she found most intimidating, was one that my mind could hardly manage.

  “I suspect that she exaggerated.”

  “I do not know whether she exaggerated. I am minded to think not. I never thought to see your mother embarrassed in discussion, but I believe she was. She came to my study the day after Beatrice was born. She was acting in your best interests, Elizabeth, and so was I. I have been worrying about you night and day. If I have seemed ‘odd,’ then that is the reason.”

  He blinked and straightened slightly, and I could not but smile. How could we have misunderstood one another in this manner after so many years? The occasion called for some straightforward questions.

  “Well, why have you been visiting so much at Broughton Park? Georgiana tells me that you are there every week and closeted with Lord Avery for hours at a time and taking Archibald riding when you are not so engaged. What is it that keeps you there?”

  “I have been helping him with some estate business. My God, if you had asked me, I would have told you, but I thought you would find it dull. If I had imagined that you would invent this sort of torture for yourself out of my absences, then I never would leave the house.”

  He looked at me, and his face softened slightly.

  “But, maybe I have been in error not to confide in you more. I confess that there are some areas of life that I have seen as my domain—my responsibility to resolve without embroiling you and making you anxious. Perhaps I have done wrong?”

  His eyes were questioning, and he began his customary pacing about the room before me. After a short silence, he began to explain himself.

  “Avery, you know, is not as wealthy as he looks. His estate has been poorly managed by previous generations of his family. They have made bad investments, and they have been reckless husbands of their land. Avery is paying the price. There are all manner of problems arising from old decisions that he has inherited from his father and grandfather—great problems—problems so great that he was faced with the possibility that the whole estate may have to be sold.”

  “Sold?”

  “In its entirety.”

  “Poor Georgiana.”

  “Well, I hope that now it will not come to that. I have made a small loan to him that has allowed him the opportunity to make some changes. I have been helping the man to take charge of his own property, Elizabeth, in order that he and his family, including our sister, can stay there.”

  “You should have told me before.”

  “I did not want to worry you when you have had so much with which to concern yourself. In any case, I have never wanted my time with you to be shared with my business affairs. When I am with you, I want to be only with you. The sparkle of your company is too good for talk of money and land and tenants and shares.”

  “But it concerned Georgiana. What if she had lost her home while I did not even know they were in crisis?”

  “I suppose when you put it like that, you are right. Have I been high-handed again, Mrs. Darcy?”

  He looked at me sideways, and I saw his body relax with the acknowledgement.

  “Maybe a little, Mr. Darcy. But I have been worse, and I am sorry for it.”

  “Do not be.” He moved towards me, and his strong hands came about my waist. “But understand this: I love you every moment as ardently as I did when I married you. More. Nothing can dull it, still less extinguish it. And as for our children, I by no means believe that their number is complete, do you not agree?”

  I smiled, and as he went to kiss my neck, the thing I least expected to occur took place. A light tap came upon the door, and after an unusually long pause, Hannah entered, bobbed a rather flustered curtsy, and said, “I am sorry for the intrusion at this late hour, sir, madam, but Mrs. Wickham is in the drawing room.”

  Chapter 18

  On the road to Pemberley, 17 September 2014

  The engine of Charlie’s car gave a low, expensive rumble, and the M1 stretched out ahead like a gleaming carpet of jet with green fields on each side, sun shining above like a firework. They had set out at 6:00 a.m. and had been going for three hours, cutting up the country at speed, putting London behind them in favour of an unknown, unpredictable landscape. There had been a little chatter at the beginning, but for some time now, she had been asleep, curled slightly in the capacious leather seat beside him. He glanced at her and saw that she was stirring. She juddered into wakefulness and sat forward, rubbing her eyes.

  “Oh God, sorry. How long was I asleep?”

  “Only a couple of hours.”

  She smiled at this. “How embarrassing. I hope I didn’t snore or dribble or loll my head around in a way that made it look like it might fall off or anything like that.”

  “No—no snoring, no dribbling, and no lolling—just sleeping, and you must have needed it. Go back to sleep if you want, Evie. The Sat Nav says it is still over an hour to Pemberley, and you will need to be on form when we get there.”

  He could tell from looking at her that she would not go back to sleep now. She straightened herself jerkily and had that wired look of the recently rested, caged animal. He could feel the worry seeping off her. The sun through the windscreen caught the gold in her hair as she turned to speak.

  “I’ve never pretended to be anyone I’m not before. I hope I’m up to it.”

  “Of course, you’re up to it. Try not to sweat it too much. It sounds wrong, but in a way, you can be yourself. You are not pretending to be a different personality; you are just pretending to have a different life. For the next couple of days, you are Evie Jones, studying for your PhD on the work of Alfred Clerkenman. You are studying through the Open University, and I am your supervisor. Simple. Don’t let it become a big thing in your head. Evie Jones has the same personality as Evie Pemberton, she just does different things. It’s like…you are just being a different version of yourself for a while.”

  “A different version of myself? Feels like a barefaced lie to me. This is normal for you, isn’t it?”

  He smiled and glanced at her. She was right, of course, that when it came to using cover stories and false identities, he was a veteran. He had claimed more names to more people than he could number, and it had never been a problem. As for the rest of this situation, there was nothing “normal” about it. Charlie could not remember an occasion when he had taken three days off work for the sake of a possibly fruitless and certainly unpaid expedition to Derbyshire with a beautiful woman who hated him and was only tagging along out of self-interest. Even Maureen had not been able to hide her surprise when he mentioned it the previous week.

  “Holiday is it, Mr. Haywood?”

  He had never taken a holiday except over Christmas in all the years she had been his secretary. Until recently, he had never cancelled a meeting, failed to meet a deadline, or sacked a client. He considered telling Maureen the truth, but it was too complex to contemplate.

  “Yes, Mau. I guess it is.”

  It didn’t feel like a holiday. The worry of the ways in which it could go wrong gnawed away at him. They might be found out. They might find that Cressida was already there.
They might find nothing and go away empty handed, then she would be in the same position as before, and Charlie would have failed her. He had thought carefully about how best to get into Pemberley, and it had been a challenge to come up with a plausible story that would get them both in for an overnight stay, together. He knew that Evie could not pretend to be anything wildly different from what she was. She was too honest, and he hated the thought of compromising her with more lies. Eventually, he recalled the elusive painting of Mrs. Darcy and Her Daughters and hatched the idea of posing as art historians.

  He had quickly discovered that Pemberley was still in the private hands of the Darcy family. It had not been gifted to the National Trust or opened up to the public as so many great houses had. The Darcys simply didn’t need the money. So there could be no casual visiting, no taking of tea in the vintage style café or hanging about in the gardens, no posing as an engaged couple looking for a wedding venue. It was a sealed box. If he wanted to get in, Charlie would have to engineer an invitation. When he wrote to the current Mr. Darcy, he claimed that they were both at the Open University, knowing that it was difficult to check, and he was amazed at his luck when he had a call only days later.

  “Hello? Is that Mr. Haywood? This is James Darcy. You wrote to me.” He sounded old and somewhat distracted.

  “Hello, Mr. Darcy. Yes, I did. Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”

  “Yes, well, don’t like to keep people hanging on. Not fair, you know? Anyhow, thank you for your interest in the Clerkenman painting. It’s a bloody great thing, hanging up in our drawing room. My wife tells me that we also have some of the sketches that the fellow made when he was painting it, but you might have to hunt about for them.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I would love to see those. That sounds very interesting and valuable for my work.”

  “Yes, well…you are welcome to come up and bring this…this Evie Jones with you. It is a long way from London, and my wife is still looking for the sketches, so why don’t you stay a couple of nights? We’ve enough bedrooms to billet an army here, and it is just Mrs. Darcy and me.”