The Elizabeth Papers

by Jenetta James

  “That is most generous of you, and we would like that very much.”

  They arranged it there and then, and Charlie could hardly believe his luck. Now, here he was, driving to Pemberley with Evie in the passenger seat, their overnight bags slung in the boot. Following the Sat Nav, he came off the motorway, and the landscape around them changed. Villages with dry, stone walls and low cottages with hanging baskets sprung up around every corner. The roads narrowed and wound like coils between patchwork fields, and cows watched lazily from the sides. When, forty minutes later, they reached the village of Lambton, Charlie pulled into a parking space in front of the pub.

  “We are nearly there. Pemberley is five miles away but I thought you could do with a coffee?”

  “I could.” She smiled at him for the first time that morning. “Thank you.”

  It was a dark, cosy kind of place with a dog curled up by the bar and a mishmash of unconvincing, olde-worlde odds and ends hung on the walls. Evie sipped her coffee and shivered slightly to be out of the sun.

  “I’m feeling so nervous.”

  “Try not to worry. I’ll do as much of the talking as I can. It will be fine. Just remember: you’re an academic. If you are a bit standoffish, then that will be no more than they expect. They are two old people. They probably won’t be paying that much attention anyway. Just look at the paintings, get out your notebook, and try to relax. You will charm them, Evie.”

  “Hmm. I’m not so sure. What if they rumble us?”

  “They won’t. Why would they?”

  “What if we don’t find anything? We don’t even know what we’re looking for after all.”

  That, he knew, was a far more likely outcome, and he paused before answering her.

  “Well, we’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. But let’s be optimistic. If there was anything that could have revealed the truth about Victoria Darcy, then it must have been a document of some sort. Looking at it from first principles, it has to have been either a letter or a series of letters, or a confession of some sort. I guess that it could have been longer—a diary maybe. Whatever it was, Hannah Tavener hid it, and as far as we know, nobody has ever disturbed it. So, we have to get into her head. Try to think like Hannah, and ask yourself: Where would she have hidden her mistress’s dirty secret in an emergency?”

  He noticed how she bristled at his words.

  “And how are we supposed to do that?”

  “We are about to go to the place where she lived and died. Think about it. You will sleep in rooms where she worked and look at the views she saw every day. We’re going to eat at a table she served at, see the face of her mistress. Whatever it was, she knew she had to get rid of it. Her mistress, whom she had served for many years, was dead, and Hannah may already have been sickening with the fever that killed her. She was desperate. But judging from the letters, she was levelheaded and trustworthy. Try to think yourself into her life. What would she have done?”

  “You know, you are actually quite creative. Have you ever thought about acting?”

  “No way. I don’t have the ego for it.”

  She smiled quietly and drank the last of her coffee, placing the cup back on the saucer before looking straight at him.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Okay. Well you can’t have grown up wanting to be a private detective. You must have thought about doing other jobs?”

  “Not really. I sort of fell into it when I was quite young. I didn’t go to university because…well, I didn’t go, and I got a job and did well. Before long, I was too busy to think about other things. It just happened and carried on happening.”

  Across the room, the barmaid leaned on the bar and caught his eye. He looked away just in time to observe what many might have missed. Evie’s eyes flashed between him and the unknown woman before she began to blow unnecessarily on her coffee. Charlie inwardly cursed. Now was not the time to start telling Evie about his life or allowing her to see things for herself. He dreaded to think what Peter may have said to her, knowing perfectly well that his family disapproved of his business. They didn’t know the half of it.

  “What did your parents do?”

  There was a moment of silence as he looked at the table, blindsided.

  “My mum was a primary school teacher.”

  “And your dad?”

  “Vicar.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  Having said it, he recovered some of his composure.

  “No, I’m completely serious. He was a vicar in an inner city parish in London.”

  “Wow.”

  His eyebrows twitched up as he looked her, wanting to laugh from relief.

  “Why ‘wow’?”

  “Why ‘wow’? Because I’m wondering by what kind of crazy path the son of a vicar and a primary school teacher winds up not going to university when he obviously could and running a high-class snooping agency. It is just so…”

  “Just so what?”

  “Unlikely. You are a very unlikely man.”

  “If you say so.” He shrugged. “But who wants to be a likely man? Come on, Evie. Let’s go and find your fifth great grandmother’s document.”

  The road that led to Pemberley was narrow and undulating. The Sat Nav had got confused, and Evie had the map out on her lap and had been calling out contradictory instructions as the greens and yellows of the fields whipped past the windows. It was obvious that she was not one of life’s navigators, but Charlie couldn’t be annoyed with her. The road began to skirt a wood, and he wondered how long to let her continue before he took the map and actually found the house. Just then, the sunshine that had been shaded by the trees broke through in a clearing, and right before them in the green of the valley stood the gleaming, grey stone of Pemberley. He had seen pictures, but they had not done the place justice. The light seemed to shine on it and through it like a piece of porcelain. Almost involuntarily, he stopped the car.

  “My word,” said Evie. “Is that it?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Did my ancestors really live here? Something must have gone wrong in our branch of the family.”

  They laughed and continued on the winding road past woods and thickets and along streams to the massive turning circle in the front of the house. As they had turned into the great drive, he had seen a tiny figure appear at the top of the swooping stone staircase in front of the main door. By the time they got close, they could see that there were two people waiting for them.

  James and Honoria Darcy came down the steps to greet them as they got out of the car. James walked with the aid of a stick and squinted through spectacles that slid down the bridge of his nose. Honoria’s tweed skirt moved stiffly in the breeze, and although she was the wrong side of seventy, she was very pretty. She held out her hand.

  “Mr. Haywood, Miss Jones. I am Honoria Darcy, and this is my husband, James. Welcome to Pemberley.”

  True to his promise, Charlie did the talking.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Darcy. It is a pleasure to be here. My colleague and I are excited to see the work you have. And it is such a lovely day; we were hoping for a walk through your grounds as well.”

  “Yes, of course. You can’t leave without having a potter about the gardens. I love them. My husband isn’t so good on his pins, as you see”—James Darcy smiled weakly and looked at his stick—“but I would love to show you around. First of all, let’s get your things in and get you settled. You are with us for two nights, I believe?”

  “Yes, that is what I arranged when I spoke to Mr. Darcy. It is very generous of you to put us up.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly! You can see that we don’t want for space.” She gestured to the vast Palladian mansion behind her, and Evie stifled a laugh.

  �
�Now,” continued Mrs. Darcy, “let us get you inside. We have put you both on the guest corridor, which is very comfortable. Miss Jones, we have given you our best guest bedroom.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Darcy,” said Evie.

  “You are welcome. It has a wonderful aspect, and I hope that you enjoy staying in it.”

  ***

  The four of them trooped through the great house like a band of ants, Charlie and Evie carrying their bags, their feet tapping on tiled floors and their eyes flying up to colossal oils and tapestries upon the walls. The staircase was laid with a carpet so thick that Evie could feel its luxury through the thin sole of her ballet pumps. On all sides, faces in antiquated costumes stared out at them. Men, young and old, were pictured holding books or sitting atop horses or standing in fields and brandishing guns. Amongst the women, there were wigs, beauty spots, bustles, ruffs, and skirts so wide they looked like sails. There were ringlets, buns, and creamy shoulders rising above shiny bodices of all colours. Where is Fitzwilliam? Evie found herself wondering. Where is Elizabeth?

  She had been in her room for about ten minutes when there came a knock on the door. She jumped up.

  “Come in.”

  The door creaked open, and Charlie’s face appeared. His eyes widened as he looked around the room.

  “Wow, you lucked out here. This is twice the size of my room…more than.”

  “I know, it’s huge, isn’t it?” She glanced up to the great, silk paper-clad walls and the vast curtains. “And as for the bed…” Pausing, she looked at the enormous, mahogany four-poster and wondered that it didn’t have a stepladder to help her into it. Charlie’s eyes rested on the massive pillows and layers of blanket and counterpane. They each stared for a second too long before turning to each other and then, blinking, turned away. Evie’s face felt hot as she watched him walk towards the long windows and gaze out. Before him was a perfect view of the back of the estate: a lake glistening in the sunshine, rippled by ducks, a folly, wood bordering green.

  “And this is quite a view as well.”

  “I know. The colours here are amazing. Makes me want to do some painting.” She moved to the window and stood beside him. “Do you think we should go down and start pretending to be interested in this painting?”

  “We are interested in this painting,” he replied.

  They smiled at one another and were gone.

  ***

  The main drawing room at Pemberley was light and airy. The walls were hung with a fine, green silk paper and an enormous, pale Chinese carpet covered the floor beneath their feet. Honoria Darcy was pouring out tea from a delicate teapot and offering sugar lumps and milk. She was laughing quietly and chattering away, but Evie could hardly hear her. She had been staring at Mrs. Darcy and Her Daughters ever since she entered the room, and she was in danger of looking peculiar if she did not turn away. Charlie seemed to understand that she was stunned by it and had been busy deflecting attention, turning on the charm for the Darcys and asking them about their sons and grandsons and the history of the house and garden. It wasn’t enough to blind Honoria Darcy to Evie’s admiration.

  “It’s a lovely painting, isn’t it, Miss Jones? I’ve always thought it rather striking.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Darcy. It’s beautiful. It’s so characterful. All of them look like real personalities, and the detail is amazing.”

  Honoria Darcy clutched her pearls and nodded her agreement. “Yes, well, I think that we had better leave you young people to it. I hope that you have everything you need. Come along, James.” She helped her husband to stand, and they left.

  Evie looked back at the painting. It was a vast board of colour and character. At its centre stood Elizabeth Darcy: “My late beloved Elizabeth.” She was slim and good looking with curly, chestnut brown hair around her face and wearing a dress of dove grey and white. Her eyes jumped out of the picture, and Evie tried to fix the expression that danced in them. Those were eyes that a person could know and laugh with. Around her slender waist was a band of teal so silky in appearance that one wanted to reach out and touch it. She held a small folded-up fan in her hand. It occurred to Evie that, whoever her fifth great grandfather may be, Elizabeth was her fifth great grandmother. She felt an unexpected loyalty welling up inside her.

  Around the mother, sat the daughters, and it was obvious that they must have individually sat for the artist as each looked quite different. Evie checked the note Charlie had given her. They were in age order in a semicircle around Elizabeth. Anne was tall and dark and wore a serious expression. Emma was round-faced and played a harpsichord. Frances was fair and, unlike the rest of the family, had blue eyes. Beatrice was curly haired and sat beside a small, black dog. Finally, there sat Victoria in the far right of the picture, holding a finely dressed doll in her small, plump hands. Of all the girls, she looked the most like her mother. Her pale skin was luminous, and her thick, wavy hair hung over one shoulder. She cannot have been older than five when the likeness was painted, and although she was dressed in a child’s clothes, there was an air of knowingness about her. Her shoulders were fine and straight, her limbs quite long and slim, her eyes laughing, confident, and almost challenging. Evie couldn’t place the room they were in. It was not the drawing room, but it was a large and richly furnished space, and the windows looked to give out onto the garden at the back of the house towards the lake. Charlie advanced behind her and stared up at the canvas.

  “You like it?”

  “I love it. It’s beautiful. I never expected it to be like this—to be so distinctive. I thought it would be like those dry, old group portraits. You know: the ones in the National Gallery that nobody ever looks at where all the faces are the same and the eyes look like marbles. This is completely different. It is so alive. You can feel them. It’s like they are about to get down from the wall and pour themselves tea. Do you know what I mean?”

  She looked at him, and he nodded.

  “I agree that it’s lovely…she’s lovely,” he said looking at Elizabeth Darcy’s face and letting her eyes lock with his. “Right. So let’s start looking around in here. There are a lot of books with blank spines. We need to check what is inside them—and behind as well because stuff could be easily hidden at the back of the shelves. You can discount anything that is typed; what we are looking for is handwritten.”

  Evie stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. She had almost forgotten why they were there. She soon recovered her memory, and fuelled with tiny cups of tea, they began the search, each at one end of the room. Great clouds of dust brushed their faces as they upset books that may never have been moved. Drawers were pulled out and rummaged through and cabinets opened, and Evie found herself crouched on the grate, feeling around the tiles. Every corner was breathlessly investigated, and Evie’s heart was in her mouth. Would they be discovered? Would they strike lucky? What were they even looking for? In the end, it was all for nothing. If Elizabeth Darcy’s lost document was in the house, it was not in that room.

  Later, supper passed contentedly. They sat at one end of the vast dining table, the four of them dwarfed by their surroundings and the great table like an ocean between them. It was obvious that James and Honoria enjoyed having guests to entertain, and as the light slipped from the sky, they ate salmon, drank wine, and talked about the house and its history. They had, it turned out, been married for fifty years and had two sons and grandchildren who visited in fine weather.

  “Fifty years? That is quite some achievement, Mrs. Darcy,” said Charlie.

  “Yes, fifty years indeed. We were married in Lambton Church. You probably passed it on your way in. Lovely spire. And the children and grandchildren were christened there as well. Of course, in the past, they would have been done in the chapel, but it was decommissioned during the war, and my husband’s father didn’t apply to renew the licence after that. Even before then, it had falle
n into almost complete disuse. It’s a bit of a shell now.”

  Charlie became visibly more alert.

  “There’s a chapel?”

  “Yes, of course. All of the Darcy girls you see in your painting would have been christened and probably married in there. It was still in use then for special occasions. It’s a bit of a shame, but really, there are no private chapels left in England. They are quite a thing of the past, even in grand houses. There is simply no call for them.”

  “So what happens in the Pemberley chapel now?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Haywood. I’m afraid it’s rather mothballed. I know”—she stood, slapping her napkin down on the table, and it occurred to Charlie that she may have had too much to drink—“I’ll give you the guided tour now. You will be all right in here, won’t you, James darling?” She stroked her husband’s shoulder, and he nodded.

  In no time at all, they were bombing down draughty corridors, straining to keep up with the old lady. Honoria had promised Evie that they didn’t dress for dinner, but she had changed into a fresh blouse, and Evie noticed now that her flats had been replaced by an elegant pair of blue courts that presently clipped along the floor ahead of them. Not quite knowing the form and not wishing to do the wrong thing, Evie had put on the linen dress she wore to her exhibition. The chilly air of the windowless corridors deep in the heart of Pemberley cooled her bare legs as she scampered to keep up. When they arrived at the mahogany double doors, Evie assumed they were about to give on to another corridor, but no. Honoria flung them open, reached inside for a switch, and there before them was illuminated the dried out, unvisited former glories of the Pemberley chapel.

  “I’ll get all the lights on for you—just a minute,” muttered Honoria, her heels dragging on the floor and her arms searching behind a great velvet curtain for switches. “There…” she said as the yellow light fell on them, illuminating it in sections like the stage of a theatre.