The Elizabeth Papers (15 page)

Chapter 22

April 7, 1821, Rosschapel, Ireland

We have journeyed three days together to reach this place. The sea crossing from Holyhead stirred my stomach although Lydia and Fitzwilliam appeared to be unaffected by the awful movement of the sea and the rushing sound of the waves about us. The air over the water was chilly indeed, but now that we have the dry land of Ireland under our feet, it is crisp rather than cold. The light—so bright—cracks across the sky, and I have fancied myself in a dream. Odd sounds come from people’s mouths, but I fight not to be intimidated by unknown dialects, for we must appear to them to be very strange in our turn. The road from Dublin to Rosschapel has tested our carriage sorely, but it has survived, as have we. Fitzwilliam handed me and then Lydia out of the carriage in front of the house, and I was not entirely surprised to see that he had downplayed its attractions. Lydia and I turned our faces to its mellow, mustard façade as Fitzwilliam motioned for us to follow him in. A faded, wind-battered rose garden surrounded by a low wall and a pile of abandoned wooden beams to the side of the house caught my eye as we advanced towards the front door.

“How pretty this is, Lizzy,” said my sister as we were greeted by the small staff and ushered into the hall.

The ceilings here are low, but the rooms are large, and I believe that a great deal of work has gone into preparing for our arrival. I note that there are not many people here: a couple of maids and footmen. When I look around, somebody behind me is sweeping a corner of the room. A young woman places a vase of flowers in the drawing room as I enter it. She curtseys and looks away from me. Lydia plumps down on a seat by the window and gladly accepts the cup of tea that I hand her.

“Is not this nice?” she asks, her pretty face upturned towards me, her slippered feet peeping out from her travelling gown.

For myself, I resolve to conclude that it is nice. The house is unfamiliar but comfortable. And large. While Lydia rests in the afternoon, I have wandered from room to room, and I do not believe that I have found them all yet. Fitzwilliam has taken tea with us and answered some of Lydia’s many questions on the neighbourhood, but now he is gone to meet with his Irish steward, and I do not know when he shall return. As he left, he brushed a kiss on the inside of my wrist. I have investigated our chambers and found them to be quite comfortable. I have tucked a rug around Lydia as she sleeps on the chaise and noticed that her poor ankles are awfully swollen. My sister made comfortable, I have busied myself by writing to Mrs. Reynolds and to Nanny as well as Mama and Jane. To Jane, I have confided the partial truth that Lydia is with us, but I have not said why for fear that the letter may fall into the wrong hands. This is a story for the lips and the ears only.

On a short walk in the garden, I noticed that the wooden beams have disappeared from the front of the house, and a young man in a wide-brimmed hat is attending to the poor roses. I smiled and nodded to him and hoped that he understood my gratitude. These tasks complete, I ventured into the kitchen where I found Hannah sitting at the great oak table, conversing, apparently easily with the cook. They were setting about preparing supper. Somewhat unsure of the formality or otherwise of the house, I sat and looked on. I was pleased that I did for, in light conversation of the weather and our journey and the state of our horses, further time was spent. I thought of my children at Pemberley and pushed my distress at our separation as far inside myself as I could reach. Later, when Lydia had retired to bed, I read to Fitzwilliam, and we sat together on the chaise, our arms touching in the flicking light of the fire.

“I am sorry there is no pianoforte, Elizabeth. I will have one delivered from Dublin.”

“There is no need for that, Fitzwilliam. It would be too extravagant. I shall improve my singing and manage quite well without your going to the expense of a new instrument. You are too generous with me already.”

“I think of myself as well as you.” He kissed the top of my head. “If we are to be here, far from home and the children, then I should like things to be as familiar as possible.”

“I take it that you are responsible for the wood clearing and gardening that has taken place today?”

“Yes. I had hoped these things would have been attended to before we arrived, but I understand from O’Leary, the steward, the former tenants have caused such trouble in the village that many of the people refused to work here. That is why the staff is so small. I have set about remedying this. The fact is that if people are treated well and paid properly then they shall be loyal and be willing to work.”

“I am sure that is right. And in the meantime, we shall manage quite well. Hannah has made a friend of the cook, and the remaining staff appear pleasant.”

I returned his kiss, and we sat in companionable silence for some time before we retired.

***

The next day was much the same, and so the days at Rosschapel seemed to pass by like clouds—the same, small acts of routine repeated, and the same, small cast of faces for company. Fitzwilliam came and went to meet with his steward and various others. Lydia ate and slept between walks in the garden and reminiscences of Longbourn. Hannah sat in the kitchen, letting out my sister’s gowns and gathering local information between attending to us both. I met with each of the maids and the footmen and those working in the garden and thanked them for their assistance. I sat at my desk while Lydia dozed and sought to commit all of their names to memory.

When not many weeks had passed, Lydia did indeed grow to a size and condition that could not be disguised. The narrative spun to outsiders by Fitzwilliam, to the servants by Hannah, and by me to the small number of local ladies who called on me was that my poor sister had been widowed last month and that, for the sake of her health, we took refuge in this quiet place. Hannah made enquiries, and before long, the local midwife visited us. She was a kindly lady who had the air of a woman who knew her business. She spoke quickly and with a thick brogue, but between Hannah and me, we were able to make reasonable sense of her advice. She advised soda bread, and so, soda bread Lydia ate.

“What peculiar foods are favoured here, Lizzy!” she exclaimed as she chewed her way through it, disconsolately.

That night, before I retired, I looked in on Lydia, who had been too tired to stay awake after supper. Pausing in the draughty corridor for a moment, I pushed the great oak door of her chamber, and my eyes struggled to find the outline of her bed in the darkness. I crept across the carpet, straining to hear the rhythm of her breathing, and was surprised by her voice.

“Lizzy, is that you?”

“Yes. I only wished to check on you. You seemed so fatigued at supper; I am surprised that you are awake.”

I sat softly on the side of the bed and stroked her blanketed arm as the small light from the passage cast shadows on her pale face.

“You should try to sleep.”

She sighed and turned onto her back.

“I know, Lizzy, I try. But I cannot.” She sat up, and her long hair hung about her shoulders.

“Are you uncomfortable? Have you tried lying on your side?”

“I am afraid.”

I exhaled and straightened the scratchy blanket atop her, thinking.

“Afraid of the birth?”

“Afraid of the birth, of the child, of what we shall do, of everything.”

There was a catch in her voice as she spoke, and I wrapped my arms about her and drew her to me.

“Oh, Lydia, you shall do very well, I am sure. Our mama has had five children, has she not? And I have had four, and are we not alike in the body? Please try to rest your mind on it. I shall not leave you, and the midwife will be here and Hannah as well.”

“Well, it sounds dreadful to me. When I think of it, I can scarce believe it is even possible.”

I smiled in the darkness, for I recalled that feeling myself when I was big with Anne. I was about to stand when I felt the grip of her hand pulling on mine.

“Lizzy?”

“Yes.”

“When—when the baby is born, will you promise me that you shall take her directly? That you shall be her mother from the first moment.”

“Oh, Lydia, let us leave it undecided. You may not feel the same when the time comes, and your baby may be a boy.”

“I am sure she is a girl, Lizzy. And if you are to be her mama, then it should be from the start.”

I felt her body shake as she began to sob, and I held her tighter.

Chapter 23

During our months at Rosschapel, time seemed in no great hurry to pass us. We each attended to our tasks, and the household blossomed. Before long, there were several new faces within our doors and out of them, whatever damage had been done by the former tenants seemingly rectified by Fitzwilliam’s efforts. A small pianoforte arrived on a cart from Dublin and was a great distraction for me. I wrote often to Pemberley, and my hands shook as I opened letters from Nanny and Mrs. Reynolds. I noticed even my husband hovered about me when he knew I had received word from home, and it was a comfort to know that he missed them as I did. As she grew full large, Lydia lost much of her energy, and apart from short walks upon my arm in the smartened rose garden, she hardly ventured from the drawing room and her chamber. In the evenings before bed, she asked me to brush out her hair as I had when we were girls, and I found this to be a most relaxing occupation. As her body expanded, the dramas of her character seemed to die down, and she grew quiet and oddly restful. Excepting the appalling scandal of her situation, I smiled to think of what our sisters or parents would say if they could see the quiet creature she had become. She did not speak to me again of how we would treat the babe when it was born, and I did not want to distress her by raising the subject. She knew that she and her child would always have a home at Pemberley, and that, I judged, was enough.

We had been at Rosschapel for many weeks when Lydia’s time came upon her. It was a Sunday afternoon, and the heat of the day was beginning to ebb. Fitzwilliam was out riding while my sister and I sat in the sunny patch of the drawing room. I had put down my book, and I was thinking of home when Lydia’s hand grasped my wrist, and she said in a breathy whisper, “Lizzy, I believe it is happening.”

It
was happening. We did not retire to her chamber immediately but sat for some time talking gently between pains, I encouraging my sister to breathe easy and lean back into the comfort of the chaise. After a short time, I summoned Hannah, who has of course been present at the birth of all of my own children, to join us. After she, too, had made some enquiries of Lydia, she hurried off to send for the midwife. Later, Hannah and I assisted Lydia up the stairs and into her chamber where we eased her out of her clothes and onto her bed. Gradually, the matter proceeded, and as time passed, the respite between her pains grew shorter. We encouraged my sister into various positions upon the bed, rubbed her back, and spoke softly between her cries. She clasped her sweaty hands about my shoulders, hung her head, and screamed out my name like a woman distracted. With the curtains drawn and the fire blazing, the room was a furnace. Heat seemed to rise all around me, and reds and oranges cast about the walls like so many flags in the wind. Awful noises came from my sister, and her face shimmered with perspiration. For all of this, the midwife appeared reasonably content, and so time passed, the light going out of the sky behind the curtain, the chill of night creeping over the world outside the window. When it came time for the babe to leave her body, Lydia lay back on her many pillows and gripped my hand with great ferocity. Hannah and the midwife attended her at the nether end, and after a period of straining and crying out, the thing took place.

“The baby is coming, Mrs. Wickham. Push one more time,” said the midwife, looking up at my sister, Hannah lending her voice to this entreaty from behind. An odd, keening kind of sound broke forth from my sister, and it was followed by a gasp from the other ladies and then an infant’s triumphant cry.

“It’s a daughter, madam,” pronounced the midwife as she swept the child up and, wiping its face, wrapped it in blankets to make a parcel. Lydia had not released my hand, and her eyes flicked to me in confusion and hesitation as the woman advanced towards her, offering her child for an embrace. I knew very well what she wanted.

“Hold her, Lydia. You must do what your heart tells you.”

A wide, weary smile spread against her face as the babe, eyes closed and face mottled, was deposited in her arms. After some time looking lovingly and bestowing light kisses on the infant’s forehead, she invited me to touch her, which I did. She remarked upon the child’s beauty and perfection in a hushed, reverential voice, quite unlike her own. I agreed and swept a damp curl back from Lydia’s face.

“Do you have a name for her?”

She looked at me quizzically and hesitated before speaking.

“Yes I do, Lizzy. I would like her to be Victoria. Victoria Darcy. Does that not sound smart?”

The little girl gave a slight twitch of her face, and I could not but laugh.

“It certainly does.”

At length, and in the hazy heat of the chamber, I became aware of some activity about me. It was like a bee buzzing just above my head. At the corner of my vision, there was Hannah’s gown dashing around, her arms full of linen, her hands moving in great haste and agitation. Then the midwife and other maids were with her, but I knew not what they were about. I have brought four daughters of my own forth, and I know the way of things. Their hurrying about and strained expressions, I could not account for.

“Hannah?” I was deliberately quiet.

Lydia did not hear me and continued to focus on her baby. Hannah’s head shot up, and I shall never forget the look of fear upon her face.

“Mrs. Darcy.” She inclined her head slightly, and I stood and went to her. I wanted to gasp but forced myself to refrain. Between my sister’s legs, there was a lake of blood, red-stained linen piled on the floor beside the end of the bed and more in the making. The midwife’s apron was a horrific sight as was Hannah’s pinafore. Maids were sent for water and sweet tea and more cloth. Voices were hushed but panicked to the core. I addressed the midwife in a whisper.

“What does this mean?”

A fresh gush came forth, and I reeled back on my heels as the midwife and Hannah tried to stem it. Lydia’s face glowed white before me, and each end of her body seemed to be like two different worlds. When the midwife turned back to me, she was frank.

“Madam, this is very bad.”

I felt myself begin to shake and clenched my fists to steady myself. Hannah and the midwife exchanged some words that I did not quite hear.

“Hannah? What is being said?”

She blinked as she looked at me, and there was a moment of silence before she spoke in an almost soundless whisper.

“Madam, Mrs. Reidy does not think Mrs. Wickham will live. She says the bleeding is too fierce.”

“What can be done? There must be something that can be done. Call for a physician.”

I felt my voice climbing like a scale. I looked at the midwife, but she looked back at my sister on the bed.

“The nearest physician be in Dublin. Even if some person in the house rode for him this minute, he would not arrive in time. And it would profit your sister naught. If he was here, he could do nothing. Nothing can be done. This is a bad bleed, madam. She cannot live with this loss. She shall likely pass out before long, so you and Miss Tavener here need to take the baby.”

The harshness of her words chilled me, and blood rushed to my ears like a wave in a storm. And yet, I battled to be calm.

“That is as may be. Hannah, please call for the physician anyway. While there is a possibility that he will help, we should summon him. Send Bobby, the groom. He is a young, fast rider.”

I returned to Lydia’s side and stroking her arm, I kissed her cheek.

“You have done very well, Lydia. What a bonny baby girl!”

She looked towards me and smiled. Her mouth opened slightly as if to reply but she spoke not. The green of her eyes had lost their characteristic expression and her left arm had fallen away from its place under the baby’s legs.

“I believe she has your face shape.” My voice cracked. “Just like Mama’s. And what fine hands she has. Are they not the beginnings of pianist’s fingers?”

Lydia’s left hand lay palm up on the blanket, and the child slipped slightly against the cushions that Hannah had piled up against her right side. I looked at my sister’s face, motionless in the odd light and overwhelming heat, and thought of her laughing louder than she should and careering around the ballroom at Netherfield. I recalled the sight of her parading about Meryton on Wickham’s arm and pushing Kitty off the swing in the Longbourn garden. I could not credit that she could be so still now. From somewhere far away, I was brought back to the present by Hannah’s voice.

“Madam, shall you take Miss Victoria now?”

Hannah leant over and gently took the child, who had begun to squirm slightly. She jiggled her around for comfort and straightened her shawl before kneeling down before me.

“Madam, do you feel able to take her? I shall attend to Mrs. Wickham.”

I nodded, and into my arms she placed the warm, solid babe who was now my daughter in every sense but the biological. My arms tightened around her, and I fought the tears that were welling up in my eyes. Seeing Hannah and Mrs. Reidy hurrying about my sister, my vision blurred. I was silent as Hannah straightened out my sister’s body and closed her eyes. Mrs. Reidy left the room with an armful of bloody rags, and in spite of the horror of it, my senses seemed to awaken.

“Hannah?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Thank you.”

There was a beat of silence before she smiled and looked at her feet.

“Do we have a wet nurse here? I believe this baby shall need feeding shortly.”

“Mrs. Reidy says there is a lady in the village. She is on her way.”

I touched her hand lightly as she moved out of the room. I know not how long I sat in the dark, hot chamber with my sister and our child, but it was probably for a shorter period than it seemed. After some time had passed, the child began to move around in my arms and grow discontented. I heard steps and voices in the hall beyond, and Hannah returned with a lady from the village who took the baby into the next room to nurse her. I wondered how many hours after my sister’s death we could expect the arrival of the physician, who would need to be paid and accommodated for the night. I made a note in my mind to attend to it. Unsteadily, I rose, and before departing the room, I kissed my sister’s cheek for the final time. The air in the corridor was icy cold on my face as I closed the door behind me, and my shaky hand struggled to turn the handle.

From some small distance away, Fitzwilliam advanced towards me and said, “I know,” as he folded his arms about me.