The Elizabeth Papers (10 page)

“Lots Road, please.”

“’Course, love.”

She sat in the cab and tried not to cry. She saw the driver glance at her in the mirror and could tell from his expression that he knew she had had a bad evening. He could not have guessed how bad. The city whipped past. Lights were on and revellers were about, but it looked grey and joyless to her. She could not even process what Peter had said. It was crazy. Nobody could know about that trust except the people who got money from it and the lawyers who dealt with it. A memory crept back to her, like sunrise through drawn curtains, of her mum sitting her down on her eighteenth birthday and explaining that she would be getting this income for life—and Clemmie too. Mum called it their
Darcy money
and said it was like pennies from heaven, like gold dust, and it had saved their bacon a million times. Spend it on important things, she had said. Don’t waste it; use it to make your life better; use it to make things happen that otherwise wouldn’t. Her own mother had said to her, however many decades previously, that she was not to spend it all on stockings and chocolate, which, Evie concluded, amounted to much the same advice.

The Darcy money had been Evie’s blessing in a sea of misfortune. It paid for Clemmie’s care and treatment in specialist centres. It paid for physical therapy and speech therapy and the endless slopes and bars and lifts and gadgets that had been required for them to remain in their home—to say nothing of the fact that it was the Darcy money that enabled Evie to work as an artist and follow her dream instead of the requirements of her circumstances. It was the thing that saved her from being Clemmie’s full-time, life-long caregiver. How could it be that they were to be disinherited, disentitled? What kind of ill wind had blown this man into her life: a stranger who lied to her about who he was, followed her about, and spied on her to trick her out of money she needed? The spirit-crushing dishonesty of it blindsided her.

Her phone started to buzz in her clutch, and when she looked, it said “Charlie Haywood calling.” She rejected the call, and moments later, a text arrived.

It’s not what you think. Please can I call you?

The cab turned into the King’s Road and sailed into Fulham, the pastel-coloured doors of home streets unfolding all about her. When the house came into view with its ramps and bars glistening in the orange sodium stream of the streetlight, she felt tears prick her eyes. Clemmie would be in bed, but she could see the lamp on in the sitting room and the shape of Milena moving about within. She couldn’t go in crying. She moved the flap back on the driver’s cab.

“I’m sorry. Do you mind if we just wait here for a second?”

“’Course. No problem, lovey.” He smiled a kind smile and handed her a pack of tissues he took out of the glove compartment. She wondered how many times they had come in handy like this. He stopped the meter but didn’t hurry her as she dried her eyes and tried to look normal.

When she stepped into the house, Milena was on her in a second.

“Well? How did it go? I thought you would be much later than this. I hope he complimented the dress. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was the one, and it really brings out the colour of your eyes.”

Evie tried not to look at her as she slipped off her shoes.

“It was fine, Lena. It was a short performance; that’s why I’m back so early. All fine here?”

“Yes, we just had a quiet evening—you know, like normal. Clemmie had a bit of trouble with her soup, but after a cough, she was fine.”

“Okay. Good.”

She slipped her ballet pumps into the cupboard in the hall, and Milena, who had a nurse’s instinct for crisis, hovered behind her.

“Evie, would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll just go to bed. I’ve got a bit of a head.”

With that, she raced up the stairs, closed her bedroom door, and flung herself on the unmade bed. The buzz of her phone started again. It was him. She rejected the call and turned the damned thing off.

Chapter 13

September 12, 1820, Pemberley

The better and more contented part of my day has been spent lying on my bed, playing with my daughter. Beatrice is eight weeks old, and though she is small yet, she is mighty. Her tiny hands grip my fingers with a great ferocity, and her eyes, which are still bright blue, flick about at every turn. Her lovely, toothless mouth has smiled at me, although Mama has denied it and said it was not a “proper” smile. I do not hold with such cynicism. She has a chin just like Papa’s and such power to her kick as I can hardly credit. As I look at her now, I feel a sense of joy that I cannot name.

The door moans open, and my sister Kitty appears, clutching a book and tilting her head towards her niece.

“I thought you were napping, little one?”

“She was, but what is the purpose in sleep when there is kicking and giggling to be done?” I answered on her behalf.

We laughed and lay either side of Beatrice, tickling her tummy and marvelling at her person. Kitty discovered the game of dangling one of her curls on Beatrice’s nose and was most pleased at this.

“Kitty, where is Mama?”

I had not seen her for some hours. It occurred to me that she may be somewhere in the house, irritating Fitzwilliam. The Mrs. Darcy of years gone by would have removed her from him by some process of coaxing and persuasion. I would have had her in my sitting room chattering for hours beyond number or rooting through my dresses by way of diversion. Now, if she is in his presence and causing him annoyance, I find I do not care. Is this how love dies? Does it falter on the road of complacency and acquiescence? If I do not tend to him as once I did, is it not he who has made me feel thus? A feeling of darkness and loneliness is welling up inside me, and I know not how to push it down. Kitty’s voice breaks through from somewhere.

“She is lying down in her room, Lizzy.”

“Ah, of course.”

“Yes, you know Mama. It is just…you know.”

“Her nerves?”

“Yes, those old friends of ours.”

I lay flat on my back, exhaled, and stared at the canopy above the bed. I felt, rather than saw, Kitty’s eyes upon me. She opened her mouth to speak but said nothing, and then she began shifting about on the bed and straightening out Beatrice’s smock. I turned onto my side and focussed on her pretty face. She was my sister, and I did not need to dissemble with her.

“Kitty, have you seen Mr. Darcy this morning?”

“No, Lizzy. He was not at breakfast when Mr. Braithwaite and I were.” She paused and looked at the view of the lake through my window. “Do you not know where he is?”

I had no idea where my husband was. He had continued to sleep in my bed these past weeks, but I fancied this was more out of habit than desire. I feigned sleep, and he did not try to wake me. In the darkness, I turned to my side away from him and listened to his breathing, wondering whether he would ever touch me again. My mind returned to Kitty who looked at me enquiringly.

“I do not.” I stretched and closed my eyes. “He is displeased with me, Kitty. That is why he stays away.”

There was a moment of silence before she spoke again.

“I am sure everything will be well, Lizzy. It always is with you and Mr. Darcy.”

I touched her hand with mine and smiled, for she was a young wife, and it did not do to worry her. She had already confided to me that she had missed her courses and prayed every night that she may be with child. We inspected her tummy before bed some nights ago, laughing like girls at its unpromising flatness. I would not have her fearful that her marriage may sour like old milk as mine has, and so I resolve to concern her no further.

“Thank you, Kitty. I hope you are right.”

Yesterday was Beatrice’s christening day. It had been decided that, like all Darcys, she should be christened in the chapel at Pemberley, and the rector of the church at Lambton joined us for the day for the purpose. Georgiana, whom we had asked to act as godmother together with Kitty, had arrived with her family in tow. Hannah dressed me in my favourite day dress of the season, and Beatrice lay upon my bed in the Darcy christening gown when a light tap came upon the door.

“Come,” I called without looking.

“Elizabeth.” I was astonished to hear Fitzwilliam’s voice and spun around to see him advancing towards the bed, dressed for the service.

“You do not usually knock,” I said, possibly more harshly than I meant. I thought of the things that had passed between us in this room, on this bed, and flushed.

He looked past me to Beatrice—in the gown in which he himself was christened—but said nothing.
Shall you not even ask after your daughter, Mr. Darcy? Is her sex so offensive to you that you shall turn your back on her thus?
Having glanced at his daughter, he trained his eye on me.

“That is a handsome dress, Elizabeth.”

“You have seen it before; it is not new.”

“That does not stop it being handsome, does it?”

He smiled faintly, and I knew not where to look. I looked away and said nothing.

“It is pleasing to see you looking a little better, a little more yourself. I know that the birth of the babe was difficult, but—”

“Beatrice. Her name is Beatrice. You have not forgotten, surely?”

The skin on his face tightened, and he flinched. Quietly, he replied, “Of course not,” and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Are you ready, Elizabeth? I thought we might go down together. Everyone is waiting in the drawing room.”

I shuddered at the implicit criticism—at the knowledge that I was failing him as a hostess as well as a wife.

“Yes, of course,” said I, slipping my hands under Beatrice and gently lifting her to my arms.

“Would you like me to…?”

Fitzwilliam gestured towards her tiny form, but I looked away and held her firmly to my chest.

“No. You need not trouble yourself,” and I walked a step ahead of him out of the room.

The service was short but touched me as I had not expected to be touched. I looked down at the crinkled face of my fourth daughter and considered how small she was against the world and how cruel it may be if I did not protect her. Our party clustered like ducks on a riverbank around the small font and said our prayers. Georgiana and Kitty made their vows as godmothers, and when it seemed to grow even chillier than before, Hannah produced an extra blanket for the baby. When it was time to depart, Fitzwilliam shook the rector’s hand, thanked him, and ushered me out.

I felt his presence near me throughout the day, but we did not speak. I was busy chattering with Georgiana and Lord Avery and with Kitty and Mr. Braithwaite. Mama, as we know, can talk for the county, and so she kept me engaged as well. Cook had laid on a special nuncheon with several of my favourite things, although I did not recall having requested them. I ate, I believe, more than I needed and talked more than I ought. My eyes strayed to him across the room where he was speaking to Lord Avery and sipping from a glass of wine. Little Archibald played around them and, having tired himself, sat down on the floor near his father’s feet.

In that moment, across the crowded drawing room, the possibility of it struck me like gunfire. If I did not produce a male child, would Fitzwilliam leave Pemberley to Archibald? He was his nephew, and he was the grandson of Fitzwilliam’s father—as much a Darcy as any future sons of our daughters and more so than any future husbands of our daughters. I had heard of it happening in other families—of despairing gentlemen passing over their daughters in favour of brothers, uncles, nephews, cousins. Indeed, upon Papa’s death, it shall happen to Longbourn although that will not be of his choosing. Georgiana’s husband was aristocratic, but his prestige outstripped his wealth. If the Avery and Darcy estates were merged, they would be great indeed in land and status. I saw how Fitzwilliam offered Archibald a hand to help him up from his place on the floor and felt I may boil over.

A great conflict raged within me. I knew Fitzwilliam had overlooked many disadvantages to his union with me. He had suffered expense and mortification at the hands of my family. He had submitted himself to the silliest of talk and allowed himself to become an object of curiosity amongst my kin. For all of this, I had failed him. I had not given him the one thing that he needed, and I was wretched to think on it. At the same time, I see his stiff expression, and I cannot sympathise with it. For the children of my body are the children of
his
body, are they not? How could it be right that they be passed over in favour of a nephew? Why is it that the production of boys is a compliment to the father whilst the birth of girls is in some way a poor reflection on the mother? I cannot hold with that analysis, and I cannot be content with my situation.

Chapter 14

London, 15 August 2014

After Charlie’s first two calls, they had started going straight to voicemail without ringing, so he knew there was no point. He sent her another text and looked out of the window onto the street below. It was 6:00 a.m., and a smattering of unlikely people milled about haphazardly. There were a couple of early morning runners, workmen cleaning the streets, girls hobbling home from the night before. He looked at them and wished his life was simple. He wished that it didn’t involve a constantly expanding and deepening tissue of lies he couldn’t control. The irony of her refusing to listen, now that he was willing to tell the truth, did not escape him.

The crazy thing was that it must have happened in a few minutes. He had not been on the phone to the nursing home for long. They had called to say that Mum had taken a minor fall and was fine but was asking to see him. He said he’d visit in the next few days and had been mentally rearranging his diary as he wandered up to the bar to find an astonished looking Peter and Tatiana and no Evie.

“Has Evie gone to the ladies?”

“I don’t know…I don’t think so.” Peter’s face betrayed both creeping guilt and overwhelming ignorance, and he forced a smile. “She just got up, said goodbye, and scarpered, didn’t she, Tatty?” Tatiana nodded, and Charlie’s stomach tightened.

“She just left? Why? What did you say to her?”

“Nothing, old chap. We were just sitting here, talking about your work—”

“
My work
? Peter, I told you not to mention that!” He raked his hand through his hair and started looking about for some glimpse of her.

“Sorry, I forgot. I don’t see why she should run off just because you run a private snooping outfit. We were having a good chat actually. I was telling her about that trust thing you were telling me about the other day, and she went all white, didn’t she, Tatty?”

They were nodding to each other, and Tatiana was speaking, but Charlie couldn’t hear her. His head was spinning. He bolted through the crowd, down the stairs, through the foyer, and out on to the street. Assuming that she would have gone for a cab, he ran across the square to the headlight-blinking, pedestrian-swarming hullabaloo of the Strand. He looked left and right for a glimpse of sky blue and honey-blonde, but there was none. There was no sign of her. She was gone.

He paused on the curb like a diver about to slice the water, thinking about how happy she had seemed, how he had wanted to touch her smiling face but didn’t dare. How the thing could have unravelled in such Technicolor, he hardly knew. He needed to think, to regroup. Pulling out his phone, he texted Peter to say he wasn’t coming back and began the long, lonely walk back to his flat. His feet worked the warm pavements of the West End and the edge of Hyde Park. The streets were full of couples looking for restaurants and ladies teetering around on unfamiliar heels and shivering slightly when their bare arms met the chill of the late evening. It was five miles to Notting Hill, and by the time he put his key in the lock of the flat, it was dark. He had come to a few conclusions.

Firstly, he would contact Cressida Carter and tell her that he couldn’t work for her anymore. He was tempted to just cut her dead—say he was too busy. But in the end, sense and his need to protect Evie, even if she wanted nothing to do with him, won out. It would be much better to tell Cressida that he was not going to carry on with it because it was going nowhere; it was a
no-hoper
, and she was wasting her money. There was always the possibility that she might give up and Evie would be left in peace. Then he thought about that treasure trove of Darcy’s letters he had sent to her, and he knew that she would be stupid to just let it drop. Somehow, he knew that, to protect Evie, he would have to beat Cressida to it, find whatever they were looking for, and get rid of it. He couldn’t leave Evie to face this thing on her own. And that was just the thing. He would help her even if she wouldn’t speak to him, even if she never knew. He got her into this, and he would get her out of it.

His mind turned to what she may be thinking and feeling—to the somersaults her mind must be making. She had not answered his calls or texts and had turned her phone off, but maybe he would have more luck when she had calmed down. He wasn’t going to give up.

The sound of more people in the street found its way through the windows, and Charlie took a shower and made himself a strong coffee. He read through the most recent barrage of emails from Cressida and sighed. She was full of ideas for finding the “lost” whatever it was that was going to prove Victoria Darcy was illegitimate. He chewed it over in his mind, and by 9:00 a.m., he was ready to call her.

“Hi, Charlie, you’re an early bird. It’s a Sunday!”

“Hello, Cressida. Well, I have always been an early to work kind of guy, and what is a weekend anyway?”

She laughed down the line.

“I’ve been going through everything we’ve got actually and having a bit of a think, so I thought I’d better give you a call. It’s not easy for me to say this, Cressida, because I’ve got my pride, but I think we are going to have to draw a blank on this one.”

There was silence on the other end—big, empty silence.

“I’ve had my guys looking at it from every angle, and we are on a hiding to nothing here. We can’t prove that Victoria Darcy was illegitimate. The thing is that, historical recordwise, there’s nothing there. Even if it is true, we can’t prove it. It’s a waste of your money to carry on, Cressida.”

“You can’t be serious.” Her voice shook slightly. “If it is about money, you don’t have to worry. I can afford to pay you—”

“It’s not about money, Cressida. I know that you’re good for my fees. It is about not carrying on when it wouldn’t be fair to you. I told you right at the start that this was a tall order.”

“But you haven’t even tried to find this lost document that Darcy talks about in his letters. You haven’t even tried.” He could hear the shock in her voice being replaced by anger.

“What document though, Cressida? We don’t even know what it is, or was. I’m a private detective not a miracle worker. How can you or I find something when we don’t know what we are looking for, or where it is, or if it even exists?”

“Well, we could go to Pemberley and look for it, or we could go to this place in Ireland and look for it there. You haven’t even tried. You have taken my money and you have given up the ghost before we have even started!”

“Look, I’m sorry about it, Cressida. I’m not going to get into an argument about it. It is just the way it is. I’m afraid that I am going to have to terminate. I’m sorry. I won’t be sending you a bill for the last week or so, so there is nothing more to pay, and I guess it is a case of ‘thanks for coming to me; sorry I couldn’t help.’”

There was a brief silence in which he could almost feel her hackles rising.

“Well, some private detective you are. Fortunately, I’ve got a bit more gumption, and if you think I’m letting it go, you’ve got another think coming. I won’t be recommending you to any of my friends; I hope you know that. You are completely overrated and a total bastard.”

The echo of silence was all he heard as the line went dead.

Later, he drove over to Fulham. He had called four times, and Evie hadn’t answered. So he put on some clothes and went over there. He pulled into a parking space a little away from the house and ran through in his mind what he would say. At just the moment he knew he had been sitting there too long, the door of the house opened, and Milena wheeled out Clemmie. Evie followed behind them, locking up and then buzzing open their car, which was parked right outside. It was a big people mover, obviously adapted with a ramp at the back to take a wheelchair, and Evie and Milena worked as a team to open it out and line up Clemmie. Evie looked beautiful but slightly deflated. She had no make-up on, and she was wearing a green cotton dress with canvas pumps. As Milena pushed the wheelchair up the ramp and began to secure it, Charlie saw his chance and got out of the car.

“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 wheelchairs, 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.