“What do you want me to do when I get you home?”
She opened her eyes to the pale, gold light shimmering through the window and turned in her seat to face him before answering. “Stay.”
Chapter 26
July 1, 1827, Pemberley
Today, I was looking over my left shoulder at Mr. Clerkenman in the pose that I have held for several days, and I was reminded of the late Sir William Lucas about his garden. The small frame of the artist hunched, and his eyes focussed with formidable concentration. He occasionally lets out a sound I do not believe he is aware of, and altogether, the comparison brings a smile to my lips.
“Mrs. Darcy, you have changed your expression. Please, may I ask you to desist?”
I am startled out of my reflections and immediately comply.
“Of course, Mr. Clerkenman.”
I notice Victoria smile out of the corner of my eye and fear that, if I look at her, she shall laugh.
This is the tenth day that this august artist has been at Pemberley, and his direct manner of addressing us has surprised us all, Mr. Darcy in particular, I believe. Nevertheless, it has been a diversion, and every time I look at the underside of the enormous canvas before me, I blush that I shall be at the centre of it. On the first day, after the introductions were made, I sat with all of the girls around me in their various positions. We were told that the artist wished to see us as an ensemble, get a notion of us when we are together. Thereafter, each day has been spent with me and but one of the girls. It was felt that they are too young to be reconciled to more than a few hours of posing, and Mr. Clerkenman has made a number of sketches from which I assume him to be working.
Today is Victoria’s day, and presently she sits on the rug a foot or so from the hem of my gown. From my vantage point, I see her delicate fingers worrying at the ribbon on her dress and the slight twitch of her head of chestnut curls, which speaks of restlessness. If she could tell the time, she would be watching the clock that ticks on the mantle. Alas, she is only five years old and so must amuse herself otherwise. When Mr. Clerkenman indulges us with a short rest, she flings out her arms and breaks into a great smile. I nod to her, and taking my meaning, she thanks the artist before throwing herself at me for an embrace and a request to run to the day nursery to visit Bennet. My son is most put out not to be included in this endeavour, but it is a point on which Fitzwilliam was adamant. There would be, he said, many portraits of Bennet painted in his lifetime, including with his father. This painting, he determined, would feature his wife and daughters and no other. What a thrill I felt when I heard those words!
When Victoria returns from her mercy mission to the nursery, having acquired a small doll that rightly belongs to Beatrice, Mr. Clerkenman is most displeased.
“Miss Darcy’s colour is now too high, Mrs. Darcy, and she is too agitated. We shall have to wait yet awhile for her to restore herself.”
I looked at her flushed face and loosened hair and could not regret it. Yes, we shall wait for her to restore herself, but Victoria is a character who shall not be stopped from running here and there. She plumps down on the floor, throwing her head back in one last laugh before the silence that must follow, and I think instantly of Lydia.
Does any person suspect? I cannot know, and I dare not ask. I look at her pretty round face and mass of curls and worry myself insensible that it is obvious. Fortunately, there is enough likeness to me to be a diversion from the truth, and although she shows every sign of being tall, I shall be able to pass that off as being due to Fitzwilliam. There have been moments of panic over the years. When Bennet was born nine months after Victoria, I believe my sister Kitty looked at me askance. She and I sat in silence in my drawing room one night, and I was sure that she had words she wished to speak. I know not what I would have said in response, and in the event, she turned her face to the fire and spoke not. Even now, she looks at Victoria and tilts her head, and I wonder about how much she has surmised.
Mrs. Reynolds, I have wondered at as well. She says nothing, but when I stepped out of our carriage upon our return from Rosschapel with Victoria in my arms, she blinked before her curtsey. I thanked her profusely for her letters and her care of the household in my absence. Her loyalty to my husband’s family would, I believe, champion over any supposition of her own mind. The discovery, weeks after our return to Pemberley, that I was again with child presented new complications. During one of our morning meetings, I told Mrs. Reynolds that I was expecting again. I had deliberately left it as long as I considered reasonable, knowing it may be necessary later to claim that the babe was before his time. Mrs. Reynolds smiled and congratulated me. Behind those eyes, I saw a question suppressed. I shall not be the one to surface it.
I say “before his time” because, in the autumn of 1821, I knew in my bones that I was carrying a son. I knew as well exactly the moment of his creation in the inn by the dock at Dublin. Apart from the occasional necessary remark, Fitzwilliam and I do not speak of the events at Rosschapel. It is part of our story and known to both of us. It is as he suggested to me. We have acted as though Victoria is the child of our bodies; therefore, she is. My eyes move down to her delicate figure on the floor, and I am shocked out of my reverie by her suddenly violent sneeze.
“Miss Darcy!”
“I am sorry, Mr. Clerkenman. Achoo!”
The gentleman slams his brush down upon his pallet just as the door creeks open, and Fitzwilliam appears, smiling.
“Papa!” shrieks Victoria, leaping up from her place at my feet and hurling herself into her father’s embrace.
“Well, really,” mutters Mr. Clerkenman, and he peers over his spectacles at me, standing alone before him.
Fitzwilliam, it appears, is unaffected by his discontented resident portraitist.
“Good afternoon, sir. I am pleased to see that matters are proceeding well. I am not here to disturb your endeavours. I came to tell Mrs. Darcy that Mr. and Mrs. Bingley have been seen on the road and should be here within the hour.”
Mr. Clerkenman let out an unfamiliar noise and looked away before saying, “Of course, Mr. Darcy.” I fear that the poor man’s nerves shall not survive his stay with our family, and when Fitzwilliam has departed, I encourage Victoria to sit quietly to enable as much painting as possible before our guests arrive.
How busy is this life? Too busy, I find, for writing, for it is a rarity for me to sit down and record my thoughts where once it was commonplace. I know not whether it is the demands of a large household and six children or simply the contentment of both, but I do not feel the urge to write that once I did. Indeed, it occurs to me that it was rash of me to write as freely as I have done on some subjects. My own words in these pages haunt my mind: this is a story for the ears and the lips. Did I not tell myself that once and yet not take heed? Although there were times, not long ago, when my diary gave me great solace, I wonder now whether I have said too much. I believe I have. And so, I have decided, standing in my sitting room with the sun on my back and Mr. Clerkenman painting away in front of me, that there are certain portions of my books that ought to be destroyed. They are quite safe for the moment as I keep them in the cupboard below my vanity. One day, I shall speak to Hannah, and we shall destroy the parts that should not be seen by other eyes. It shall not be today, for I am engaged in this wonderful prison of sitting in silent happiness with my youngest daughter, and in less than an hour, Jane and Mr. Bingley shall be here. Maybe some time hence, when the painting is completed and the Bingleys are away. With this resolved in my mind, I rest my eyes upon the artist and resolve to think on it no longer.
Chapter 27
Pemberley, 14 December 2014
Cressida’s eyes widened as she turned her car off the main road and slowly advanced down the gravelly drive. A blanket of bone-chilling cold hung in the air, and there before her was a sight, all at once familiar and complete
ly new: Pemberley. How strange to see it in reality with her own eyes, part of her own story. Her mind flicked to one of many Sunday evenings past, and she recalled Granny getting out her big book of great British houses after supper. The book always fell open to the same page. And there the stories always started, of course: the terribly grand relations just out of reach, the glories of the past remembered. Cressida reflected that the house looked rather different in the bitter December air, framed by leafless trees, than it had in the picture in Granny’s book, taken no doubt in the height of summer who knows how many years previously. The memory of it slightly caught her off-guard, and she shook herself to snap out of it. The vast, cold stone of Pemberley was before her, and she was invited, anticipated. She had written, and they had responded. At the edge of the turning circle were parked a mucky, Land Rover and a red sports car. Cressida thought of her battered Golf and parked it a bit to the side. The notion of the Darcys coming out and seeing her sad jalopy next to their terribly smart wheels made her draw in her breath. As if for reassurance, she reached into her open handbag on the passenger seat and felt inside for Honoria’s note. It was there. It was real. This was a thing. She was expected for tea.
Soon her reverie was broken by the appearance at the great door of a small and well-presented lady of advancing years, muffled up in a too-large wax jacket, shivering against the season. She hurried down the stone stairs and met Cressida as she was locking up the Golf.
“Miss Carter?”
“Yes.” She held out her slim hand and the woman’s rings clinked against hers as they greeted one another. Their breath danced in the chill air, and Cressida, who had been warm inside the car, fought the urge to shake with cold.
“I’m Honoria Darcy. Come in. It’s perishing out here.”
They bundled in through the enormous door, and Honoria thrust it shut with a forbidding sort of clank. Cressida’s eyes drifted over the richness and wonder within: the painted faces on the walls, the warm acres of historic luxury. She realised with a start that she had missed what Mrs. Darcy had said to her.
“Sorry? Come again?”
“May I take your coat, Miss Carter?”
“Erm, yes, thank you.” She slipped it off and slightly wondered at the lack of home help. Surely, people like the Darcys had somebody to assist with this sort of thing. Who ever imagined Mrs. Darcy hanging up the coats of her guests herself? That was certainly not the sort of life that Granny had said they lived at Pemberley—quite the reverse.
“It’s awfully kind of you to have me so close to Christmas, Mrs. Darcy.”
Her eye was caught by the half-decorated Christmas tree at the foot of the staircase; a box of tinsel and baubles sat open on the floor.
“You are welcome. And you must call me Honoria. As you can see, I’m afraid we are rather behind with Christmas! But never mind that. I say, ‘well done, you’ for battling the weather. Our housekeeper, who is attending her granddaughter’s Christmas play at the school in the village, says the roads are treacherous with ice. I say you’ve done awfully well to get here at all. Now, let us warm you up with some tea. Come along.”
Cressida nodded and followed Honoria as she clipped across the uneven tiles of the hall floor, past the piercing eyes of her ancestors, and into a drawing room with a blazing fire. This, Cressida thought, as her gaze fell on the flame-brightened walls laden with gilt-framed portraits, was where she belonged. She noticed—a moment too late to be really polite—that an elderly man stood up from a chair by the fire and held out his hand.
“Miss Carter? Welcome to Pemberley. I am James Darcy. I am sorry not to greet you at the door, but as you see, my legs fail me somewhat.” In his left hand, he held on to a stick that glistened slightly in the orange light.
“Cressida, please. It’s wonderful to be here, Mr. Darcy. I have heard so much about Pemberley over the years—stories and what not. My granny came here once before the war.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. Her name was Letitia Blackburn. She was one of the Shropshire Blackburns, not the London lot. She could never abide Town, but she loved it here. She said that I would love it too, and I can see that she was right.” Her voice faded in volume, and her eyes took in the room. James smiled, and she felt suddenly light.
“Well, I’m pleased to hear it, although I suspect that I was only a boy when your grandmother came here. Now, we are cousins, aren’t we? So firstly, you must stop this ‘Mr. Darcy’ business and call me James, and secondly, you must sit down and have some tea after such a long journey.”
Cressida smiled at this and blushed slightly. “Thank you, James.” She moved towards an incidental table on which Honoria had placed a tea tray before leaving the room. Cressida clattered the saucers slightly as she separated them and placed the small teacups ready to pour. She had slightly expected to spend time with Mrs. Darcy as well as her husband, but no matter. After a short interlude, they were each settled with their tea and regarding one another through the wisps of steam that rose from their cups.
“Now, Cressida, I haven’t thanked you for your letter, but I ought to do so. I’m sorry that it has taken us so long to arrange this meeting, but I was very glad to hear from you. I’m afraid that we have just had rather a lot on. We had some guests here in the late summer, and there were a lot of matters arising from that visit that took up my time. And then our younger son and his wife came to stay. So it has been, as my wife would say, ‘like Piccadilly circus’ here. I hope that you don’t think we were putting you off.”
He tilted his head and fixed her with a flash of his hazel eyes. Taking a sip from her cup, she looked away slightly although she could not say why it was that she felt discomforted.
“No, of course not.”
“Good. I also hope that the next time you visit shall be in a more clement season.”
Cressida sat up straighter and beamed. She hadn’t expected that and didn’t quite know how to respond. Of course, she was family, and so, really, it was only right that she be invited back.
“That would be wonderful. It was summer when Granny visited here—1936.”
“Well, in that case, she will have seen the gardens at their best although it was, of course, rather an inauspicious year. Tell me a bit about your grandmother, Cressida.”
“Well, you know, she was just a county lady really. Married, lived in the country, had children, kept dogs, that sort of thing. Family history was her bag, and she made a great study of the Darcys and Pemberley. When I was growing up, she was full of it, terribly proud to be a member of the family—very well up on things too. She knew all about the Victorian Darcys and the turn of the century and the roaring twenties and all that. I wonder that she should have been a historian. Her mother had married a chap—”
“Was that her father?”
“Yes. But he wasn’t quite out of the top drawer if you know what I mean, and I think she felt it rather.”
“I see. That is rather a shame, isn’t it? I wonder whether she was aware of the fact that we are all of us descended from a remarkably happy but unequal marriage.” Cressida held in her breath and looked confused. They peered at one another for a moment before he waved his hand almost imperceptibly and continued. “Go on.”
“Well, there isn’t much else to say really. She was a passable pianist. Made a good pastry, that sort of thing. I suppose it is hard in this day and age, when one has so many relations, to keep a hold of them.”
“We do have rather a lot of cousins drifting about, it has to be said. Having said that, I do recall the name Letitia from my involvement in the Darcy Trust, of which I believe you are also a beneficiary.”
“Yes, I am.” Cressida almost barked in response.
“I am the trustee.”
“I thought that was the solicitors—those people in Fleet Street.”
“Well, they act for me,
Cressida. Ultimately, the responsibility is mine. So, if one year you get less than you should or you think that there is anything amiss, it is me whom you should approach. I hope, now that we have met, that you will feel confident doing that.”
Cressida’s mind bolted. In the heady excitement of her invitation, she had nearly lost sight of why she had written to the Darcys in the first place. Her schemes to ransack the house in pursuit of Elizabeth Darcy’s lost document had receded, and her imagination had been given over to images of strolling in the gardens and swooping down the staircase in her best dress. Now that she was here, the idea of searching the house for the secret papers seemed an impossibility. It was suddenly ludicrous. The drawing room alone was a cavernous, great place, and heaven knew how many rooms there were altogether. She fiddled with her watch, shifted on the chaise, and considered that her best chance had just presented itself to her of its own volition.
“Goodness. Well, as it happens, I do have a few questions about the trust.”
“Go on.”
“Well, how can you be sure that all the women who get money from the trust are real Darcys? I mean, if someone was illegitimate or anything like that.”
“It wouldn’t actually matter whether someone was illegitimate. When Fitzwilliam Darcy settled the trust in 1860, the words he used were ‘all of my female descendants.’ Now, as far as I am aware, the only children Fitzwilliam Darcy had were the children of his marriage, which I am given to understand was a famously happy one. However, if, for the sake of argument, any of his descendants were born out of wedlock, it wouldn’t actually make any difference.”
“But it would if they weren’t really his.”
“Well, yes, but I think that most unlikely.”
She felt the familiar stirrings of agitation rising up in her. People were so credulous, so complacent. She had to make him listen to her. When she spoke, the words came out more aggressively than she had intended.
The Elizabeth Papers Page 22
