Darcy's Trial (11 page)

The door opened and a young man entered and took a seat beside Lord Harbury. Looking round, Elizabeth met Miss Kaye’s eye questioningly, and received a whispered answer:

‘My brother. Arthur.’

The young man seemed to realise for the first time that there was a stranger in the box, and his eyes fastened on to Elizabeth, and held. Like Miss Kaye he was pale and thin, but his expression was very different—not so much self-deprecating as vain and petulant. He did not smile, but merely stared at her appraisingly. Trembling with fright, Elizabeth forced her attention back to the play, as he leaned forward and began to whisper to his uncle.

Elizabeth, immediately alert, pretended to watch the stage while straining to hear what the gentlemen were saying.

‘Has a date been set?’ This from Lord Harbury.

The reply was mostly inaudible, but she picked up the word ‘weeks’.

‘Your decision.’ Lord Harbury again. ‘But take care.’

Another mumbled response, which sounded at first like ‘no elephants’. Elizabeth longed to move closer, but dared not expose her interest. The whispering stopped, and she quietly sighed with frustration. Of course the conversation could have been on any topic. Perhaps they were planning an outing to the zoo. Elizabeth stifled a giggle, provoking a puzzled glance from Miss Kaye—unsurprisingly, since the death of Ophelia had just been announced. She pretended to clear her throat before returning her attention to the stage. As she did so, it dawned on her that the phrase might have been ‘no evidence’. Could it be that Darcy’s trial was to take place in a few weeks time, and that one side—either Darcy’s or Arthur Kaye’s—had no evidence?

When the scene ended another short interval was announced and Elizabeth decided it was time to retreat; but first she had to gather herself for the momentous introduction to Arthur Kaye, who had risen to block their path.

‘So Helena, you have a guest,’ he said. His voice had a nasal drawl, which gave every utterance a tinge of irony.

Miss Kaye faced him nervously, and Elizabeth was momentarily shocked to see so little rapport between brother and sister. ‘Arthur, this is Miss Bennet.’

He bowed, casually as if it were a game, observing her closely and with ill-concealed admiration. ‘Miss Bennet. How pleasant to have your company.’

Quickly releasing herself from his gaze, Elizabeth thanked Lord Harbury again, said farewell to Miss Kaye, and returned to the Beaumonts’ box for the final act.

To avoid the crowds they stayed behind for ten minutes at the end of the performance, giving Elizabeth a chance to talk with Mr Beaumont, and so make amends for her earlier absence. By the time they passed through the foyer there was no sign of the Harburys, but to her alarm Elizabeth noticed a familiar figure gliding not ten yards in front of her, wearing an elegant gown and feathered hat. Miss Bingley! And by her side, Mr and Mrs Hurst! Luckily they did not turn her way, and Elizabeth with an apology to Bridget detoured away from the exit, declaring herself eager to take another look at the auditorium from the stalls.

In the carriage, the Beaumonts were too tired, and Elizabeth too emotionally exhausted, to make much conversation. On arriving at Gracechurch Street the Beaumonts declined to come in, with Mr and Mrs Gardiner probably already abed, but Bridget jumped down to give Elizabeth a final hug accompanied by a whispered exhortation to exercise prudence.

Next morning Elizabeth overslept, and by the time she came down Mr Gardiner had left. Her aunt kept her company, and as a keen lover of theatre plied her with questions about the performance, to which Elizabeth gave detailed answers, while taking care not to mention the Kayes.

At length Mrs Gardiner rose, as if satisfied that there was nothing further to learn, and declared that she was needed in the nursery. But before leaving, she took the newspaper, and with a sigh pointed out a passage that her husband had marked.

‘You had better read this, Lizzy. I’m sorry if it causes you distress.’

Grateful to be left alone, Elizabeth studied the passage, which ran as follows:

Trial date set

The trial of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, accused of killing Sir Osborne Kaye in a duel, is scheduled to start in two weeks at the Old Bailey.

As reported earlier, the duel was fought over an insult for which Mr Darcy refused to apologise. The nature of this insult has not been confirmed, but it is believed that Mr Darcy unwittingly intruded on a private personal situation, from which he refused to withdraw. The prosecution has been brought by the new baronet of Wistham, Sir Arthur Kaye. It is understood that although an earlier date was favoured by the Kaye family, who wished to bring the matter to a conclusion as soon as possible, they agreed to postpone the trial so that Mr Darcy would have time to recover fully from the injuries that he sustained during the duel.

Two weeks! The imminence of the trial gave Elizabeth a lurching feeling in the stomach, and she feared she might be physically sick. She took a few slow deep breaths. The tone of the report infuriated her, in its casual bias—as if the Kaye family had displayed
lenience
over the matter of the date, whereas in reality Darcy was far from well. She imagined how Darcy might react, sacrificing his own welfare in the hope of achieving the earliest possible resolution for the sake of his sister.

In despair, she cast around for ways in which she might affect the outcome. In her brief foray into the enemy camp she had learned two or three things that might prove of relevance. First, that Helena Kaye seemed a conscientious and gentle girl, unlikely to harbour feelings of vengeance. Unfortunately, there was no reason to believe she would have any influence on her brother, who had struck Elizabeth as vain and immature. No, the most promising line of approach might be through Lord Harbury, the only person to whom Arthur had demonstrated respect. Elizabeth recalled Lord Harbury’s advice: ‘
Your decision. But take care
.’ If these words referred to the prosecution, why exactly was he advocating caution? Was he afraid that Darcy, in his defence, might present information that would be damaging to the Kayes—and by extension to the Harburys? And if such information existed,
had Darcy or his legal representatives uncovered it
? If only he would take her into his confidence!

Unfortunately, Elizabeth could think of no way in which a meeting with Darcy could be arranged. The Gardiners would never agree to it. Darcy too had made his position quite clear. She could try sending a message on her own initiative, or turning up unannounced at Darcy House, but this would mean breaking her promise to her uncle, who would never trust her again. In truth, she had
already
broken this promise, in spirit at least, by her impulsive decision to befriend Helena Kaye at the theatre. Still, if she could discover something relevant—say a weakness that Darcy could exploit in his favour—then as a last resort she could reveal the whole matter to Mr Gardiner and leave the rest to him.

Miss Kaye’s card gave an address in Tudor Street, conveniently near the Strand, where the Royal Academy of Arts was located directly on the river in New Somerset House. This coincidence suggested a ruse: Elizabeth set off with the declared purpose of viewing the exhibition of landscape artists at the Academy—and the concealed purpose of calling on Helena Kaye afterwards.

Tudor Street was a narrow but busy thoroughfare running parallel to the river on one side, and Fleet Street on the other. Making her way to the address, Elizabeth was grateful for the bustle, which made her feel less conspicuous, but her heart was still racing—partly because she was again deceiving her uncle and aunt, but mostly through fear that she might once more encounter the predatory gaze of Sir Arthur Kaye.

After a deep breath she rang, praying that he would be out, and gave her card to the servant with a request to see Miss Kaye, if she was in. Seconds ticked by as she waited in the hall, until the servant returned accompanied by the familiar thin figure in black—mercifully alone.

‘I hope this is not inconvenient,’ Elizabeth said, struggling to keep her composure. ‘I was in the area and thought I might take the opportunity to call.’

‘No … I mean, this is a good time. I have no other engagement,’ Miss Kaye responded, in evident nervous excitement. ‘Shall we go to the parlour?’

Following her down the corridor, Elizabeth asked, ‘I hope we will not disturb your brother, if he is at home.’

‘Arthur is at his club. He usually lunches there and does not return until evening, or even later.’

Elizabeth felt her whole body relax. ‘Are you left here on your own?’

‘Usually I am accompanied by my maid, Agnes, but this is her morning off.’ They reached the parlour, which was an elegant room but dated in style, and Miss Kaye offered her a comfortable but well-worn armchair.

‘May I … may I offer some refreshment Miss Bennet? Tea? Coffee?’

‘Coffee would be most welcome.’ Elizabeth smiled encouragingly. ‘And please feel free to call me Elizabeth.’

‘Of course. How silly of me. Then call me, ah, Helena, if you would like to.’

With coffee and cakes ordered, they sat in silence for a few seconds before Elizabeth said, ‘This must be a difficult time for you.’

‘Difficult?’ Helena Kaye looked puzzled, then guessed Elizabeth’s meaning and coloured. ‘Oh I see. Yes, I cannot really believe it. I wake up every morning expecting to find my father at the breakfast table, and everything as normal.’

‘Do you have many visitors? Cousins perhaps? Aunts and uncles?’

Helena pondered this for a while, then shook her head. ‘Not often. I fear I am uninteresting to my uncle and aunt. Even when my father was alive, I was often alone in the house with my maid, or earlier my governess, as companion. Like Arthur, my father liked his club.’

‘You get on well with Agnes?’

‘Well enough, though she is quite new.’ Helena hesitated, before blurting out: ‘I hope I can keep her.’

Refreshments arrived, and Elizabeth welcomed the opportunity to divert the conversation to practical questions like how many sugars, and which colour of cake, before asking, ‘Why should Agnes leave? This must be a pleasant position for her.’

‘No doubt I am fretting about nothing, as usual.’

‘Perhaps you have been unlucky in the past.’ Elizabeth devised a white lie. ‘I remember a year when I lost several maids, which I found upsetting.’

Helena immediately nodded, as if gratified that Elizabeth should have had the same experience. ‘Perhaps
now
Agnes will stay.’ She looked away for a moment, then continued: ‘I hope she will be happy at Wistham, for we will be returning to Leicestershire at the end of the month.’

‘Do you like it there?’

‘I like the village life, and the walking and riding.’ For a moment her face lit up, like the flicker of a dying fire. ‘Not that I am an accomplished horsewoman.’

‘Will your brother accompany you to Wistham?’

‘Only for a few days; after that he has business back here in London.’ She looked up to observe Elizabeth’s reaction, and reddened. ‘You’ve probably read about it in the newspaper. A man shot my father in a duel, and is to be tried. Arthur and my uncle think it best that I should stay away from town until the story has died down.’

‘Perhaps they are right. The whole affair must be most upsetting for you.’

‘I wish …’

‘Yes?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ She hesitated, then continued suddenly: ‘I wish they could let it drop.’

Elizabeth gently prompted, ‘I read that your brother has decided to prosecute this man, Mr …’

‘Mr Darcy. Yes. He says Mr Darcy behaved dishonourably by refusing to apologise, and left father no alternative but to fight him.’

‘And do you agree?’

Helena stared at her. ‘I suppose my duty is to support Arthur. I just don’t see why he thinks it so—important.’

‘Honour,’ Elizabeth suggested. ‘For honour, two men must die.’

Helena nodded, unable to speak—and yet, it seemed to Elizabeth that she was more
embarrassed
, by her inability to understand the ways of men, than grieved by the tragedy of one, perhaps two, pointless deaths. Still, whatever Helena’s exact feelings, it seemed heartless to press her further, and Elizabeth managed to steer the conversation to more tranquil waters before taking her leave.

On returning to Gracechurch Street in the early afternoon, Elizabeth was met by an anxious Mrs Gardiner, who drew her directly into the parlour and said in a breathless voice, ‘We have a visitor.’

Elizabeth, upset to see her normally imperturbable aunt so ill at ease, tried to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Someone very important, it would seem. Let me guess. The Prince of Wales.’

Mrs Gardiner managed a tolerant smile. ‘No.’

‘The Czar of Russia.’

‘Lizzy, this is no time for games.’ Mrs Gardiner pulled Elizabeth to the divan and sat opposite her. ‘It is Mr Darcy.’

Elizabeth gasped. ‘What does he want?’

‘He called on your uncle at work this morning and said he needed urgently to talk, on a matter relating to—yourself, Lizzy. Not realising that you were out, your uncle brought him here, and they have been deep in conversation in the library ever since, awaiting your return.’

‘I cannot imagine …’ Elizabeth hesitated, her mind racing. ‘How is Mr Darcy? I was not expecting him to be out and about yet.’

‘He moves carefully, as if to avoid pain, but otherwise seems in reasonable fettle considering the ordeal he has suffered.’

‘That is some consolation.’ Elizabeth took a deep breath. ‘I suppose I will have to make my presence known, and face the music.’

Elizabeth paused for a few seconds outside Mr Gardiner’s study, listening to the murmur of male voices within. Unable to make out what they were saying, she tapped on the door and pushed it open.

‘Lizzy!’ Her uncle jumped up from a leather armchair and motioned her to take his place. Darcy, in the other chair, stood up very slowly and bowed.

‘Miss Bennet.’

‘Sir, you need not rise on my account.’

‘Do not be alarmed. I am greatly recovered.’

‘But probably not so recovered as you pretend.’ With an arch smile Elizabeth moved into the proffered armchair, while Mr Gardiner transferred to the seat behind his desk. She looked back and forth between the two gentlemen. ‘To what do we owe this honour?’