The Elizabeth Papers (2 page)

Her eyes danced between Lydia and me and she seemed to grasp that I was asking her to help me redirect the conversation. “You treat me, Lizzy!”

Our nuncheon passed perfectly well and conversation flowed freely even between Mr. Lander and Fitzwilliam. Mama was a credit to me and did not mention the absent Mr. Wickham again. She did express in strident terms, after some little wine, her wish to visit the Darcy estate in Ireland.

“Rothchapel! What name that is for the imaginings!”

“It is called Rosschapel, Mama, and it is a most arduous journey, not to be undertaken easily. I have never travelled there, and Mr. Darcy has only been once, is that not so?”

He nodded and put down his fork. “Yes, I went with my father when I was fifteen. I recall that we were beset by gales on the journey, even in July. I am afraid, Mrs. Bennet, that you would find it a difficult passage and may not like it when you arrived. It is not a long distance from Dublin, but Dublin is nothing to London I am afraid, and the roads are rather poor. Our house at Rosschapel is not at all like Pemberley. It is about the same size as Longbourn but no-where near as comfortable.”

Mama blushed and giggled quietly at this compliment, and I resolved to tease my husband later for his forwardness. “I should like to know more of it, Mr. Darcy.”

“Rosschapel? At present, it is let to a Scottish gentleman and his family. The whole estate there is managed by my Irish steward, and so I am fortunate that there is no call for me to visit. If I should ever need to travel there, I shall bear you in mind, Mrs. Bennet.”

Everyone smiled at this, and inwardly I laughed to think of Mama and Fitzwilliam making such a journey with only each other for company.

Later, I awoke fully clothed and lying on my bed. My legs and feet were covered with a light blanket, and the heavy curtains in my chamber had been drawn shut. I moved with a start to see my husband in the chair beside me, squinting in the dim light to read his book.

“Fitzwilliam! What is the time? How long have I been asleep? I hope it is not nighttime!”

“Calm yourself, Elizabeth. It is not late. It is almost five o’clock. You have been sleeping for nearly two hours, as well you might. Everybody is presently resting or preparing for dinner, and you are not to worry about them.”

I recalled that, after nuncheon, I could hardly get up from my seat for fatigue, and Jane had taken me above stairs for a rest. I had gone only reluctantly, concerned at what may assail Fitzwilliam in my absence.

“How have our guests been while I have been up here? Has everything passed reasonably?”

“They have been fine, and of course, everything has passed happily. Your mama and Lydia have spent most of the afternoon admiring the house. Mrs. Bennet ceased her requests to visit Rosschapel when I told her that our carriage lost a wheel to a crater in the road on my last visit there. Mr. Bennet barricaded himself in the library the moment it was politic to do so. Mary has been playing duets with Georgiana, and Jane and Katherine have been amusing the children. Reverend Braithwaite joined Bingley and me for a game of billiards, and Mr. Lander, to my complete astonishment, found a book in the library that includes a chapter on the levellers. Fortunately, he has been reading it rather than talking about it for most of the afternoon. Nothing unpleasant has occurred.”

He kissed my forehead and closed his book.

“Then why are you taking refuge here, Fitzwilliam?”

“Because I wanted to sit with you.” He leant over and kissed me again, seeming to stifle a laugh. “There is nothing more to it than that, and you really must cease this worrying, Elizabeth. Do not fret about your family. I am perfectly capable of coping with their exuberance and…well…if Wickham is mentioned occasionally, then I can cope with that as well. It is only to be expected that Lydia will speak of her husband from time to time, and Georgiana has said that she does not mind.”

“I know Fitzwilliam. But…well it is still mortifying even if it is to be expected.”

I thought, not for the first time, how fortunate we were that Mr. Wickham was kept away from home by his duties. When Fitzwilliam had paid off Mr. Wickham’s debts and corralled him into marrying my sister, he had also purchased for him a commission in a regiment in Newcastle. Much to our surprise, he has not only remained there but has seemingly prospered and is currently away on campaign with his regiment. He is, we are told, doing admirably well. He and Lydia seem to live quite happily together, no doubt due to his extended absences. It struck me, not for the first time, that I had had two, nearly three, babies and Lydia none although she had been married the longest. Is it just that they have not been blessed? Or is there something
deliberate
?

“Well, try not to be mortified, Elizabeth. You will not change it. Would you like to sit?”

I nodded, and he slid his arms under my back and head, planting a kiss on the rise of my bosom as he brought me up. He ran his hand over my belly and looked at me in a most serious way.

“You must also stop worrying about the babe being a boy.”

“I—”

“No, do not argue with me. Your mind is stuck on it. I know, and you must stop. It is not good for you.”

I looked away from him and spoke into the dimly lit, shadowy space of my chamber.

“But you need a son.”

“Stop it, Elizabeth. I will not say it again. I need a healthy child and a happy, healthy wife. The babe will be whatever it is, and we will have more children. So cease distressing yourself. Cease asking Mrs. Reynolds whether she thinks that your belly
looks
like a boy or a girl—”

“What a snake in the grass that woman is! I did not think she was so little to be trusted!”

“She only told me because she thought you were worrying too much and that I would reassure you, which is what I am doing, I hope.”

I was by no means convinced, but I knew that he would like to think that I was, so I lifted both of his strong hands to my belly, kissed him on the lips, and said, “You are. Thank you.

“I was quite an attraction at church this morning, Fitzwilliam. I think the villagers were surprised to see me sailing in. If I were any larger, I would need my own pew.”

“Well, there was not a great deal of space for me, Elizabeth. It is a good thing that we have our own, although it is maybe unfortunate for those seated behind that your place is right at the front.”

I struck him on the leg for this insult, and he laughed.

“I noticed that some of the servants were at church this morning, and they all sat at the same pew. Is that a rule?”

“Yes, of a sort. It is the servants’ pew, just as they have in the chapel at Pemberley. Of course, it is hardly used these days, but in my grandparents’ time, the Darcys and all of their servants worshipped here and hardly ever went into the village. It was my parents who started the tradition of our attending the village church for high days and holidays. They thought the tenants would like it, and they were probably right. It was only quite recently that the chapel at Pemberley stopped having regular services.”

“I know. Hannah told me that, when she was a young girl, it was every Sunday, so the servants hardly ever left the estate! Did you know that there is a secret box under a pew in the Pemberley chapel? The servants used to hide things in it, and it was a great joke amongst them apparently.”

“No, I did not. Did Hannah tell you that as well? Sometimes I think she knows this house better than I do. Anyway, you should be pleased that the chapel is used so little, Elizabeth. It is very draughty, and its pews even narrower than those in the village. In your current condition, it would serve you very ill.” He leaned forward and softly planted a smiling kiss on my forehead. “Thank you for coming this morning. Everybody appreciated it.”

Everybody, I thought, except Mama, but I knew my husband too well to mention her at that moment.

“Well, good. What is the use of being such a sight if I am not occasionally put on display, Mr. Darcy?”

Chapter 2

London, 1 August 2014

“To me, to me. No! That’s enough. Back a bit. Back a bit. That’s the ticket.
Evie, watch the cat!”

A sharp meow accompanied a blur of ginger fur sweeping by their ankles.

“Sorry, Uncle John. I can’t see very well. Can we just stop for a moment?”

Evie Pemberton brushed her hair off her forehead with one hand and, holding her end of the ten-foot canvass with the other, wondered how they were ever going to get it out of her uncle’s house, never mind all the way to Cork Street. Despite its wooden frame, it billowed about like a sheet of tracing paper. It was her largest and most impressive piece, given to Uncle John and Auntie Betty to thank them for all of their help with Clemmie after everything that had happened. She had also given it to them to say, “I love you,” which she did. It had been up in their living room in Putney ever since, and no visitor to the house was allowed to escape without hearing about their marvellous niece, the up and coming artist. It made her heart ache to think of how they must have exaggerated. Now she had, for the first time, an exclusive show of her work in a proper gallery in town, and Uncle John and Auntie Betty were loaning it for display.

“It’s not for sale, mind,” Auntie Betty had said and winked when Evie came around to ask the previous month. Back in the present, her uncle spoke, his voice slightly muffled by the painting between them.

“Are you ready to try again, love?”

“Yes, Uncle John. Let’s get this party started.” She tried to look as cheerful as possible and not let on that her mind was reeling with the difficulty of the two of them hauling such a thing through the streets of West London and onto the Number 22 bus all the way to Piccadilly.

“Wilco. Right, all set? Down a bit. Down a bit. Now, easy does it around that corner. That’s the job. We’ll be there in no time; you see if we’re not! Might even drum up some interest along the way. It isn’t every day that you see a ten-foot troupe of ballerinas making their way down Putney High Street!”

“You never know, Uncle John, maybe we will. People will certainly remember it at any rate.”

She wanted to say that she hoped to God it didn’t rain and it wasn’t windy, but she knew it didn’t do to be gloomy. They had got the thing down the stairs, along the corridor, and out into the tiny, front garden when Auntie Betty had a suggestion.

“Right, you two. I propose a cuppa and a piece of cake before you’re on your way. You need to keep your strength up.” They sat on the low, red brick wall in the warm air of the August morning sipping from unmatched cups and nibbling Auntie Betty’s homemade fruitcake. Evie’s ballerinas were propped up against the house, bathed in unfamiliar sunshine.

“This is lovely, Auntie Bet.”

“Thank you, darling, have another piece. I won’t give it to you now, as you can’t carry it with that great picture to cart about, but I’ll have John pop some around to you in the week. Clemmie should have some too. She’s always liked a bit of cake.”

“She’ll enjoy that. Thank you. Right. I think we had better be off.”

And they were. Uncle and niece made wobbly progress past row on row of terraced houses and polished front doors, turning left onto the bustling High Street. It was a risk trying to do it by bus, but Evie really didn’t have the money to hire a courier, and she had convinced Uncle John that, in the mid-morning during the week, the Number 22 would not be that busy and the double door would be big enough to get the canvas in. It was, just about, and they made a comical journey through London with old ladies nodding an interest and children on scooters swerving to avoid them.

“It was worth it just to see that bus driver’s face!” remarked Uncle John as they winched the thing off onto the pavement outside the Royal Academy for the last leg of the journey to Cork Street.

When they rested it against the main wall inside the gallery with other much smaller canvases piled around, Evie felt that she could finally breathe. She was meeting the guys who would install the collection in a couple of hours, but it wouldn’t hurt to just look through it all again—make sure the catalogue was exactly right.

“Thank you, Uncle John. You are a complete star.”

“You’re welcome, lovey. It’s no problem. What’s family for if not lugging bloody, great paintings through Central London, eh? Anyway, I’d better be getting home. I suppose I’ll see you at the exhibition?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Thanks for coming. It will be full of awful arty types. I’ll be glad of you and Auntie Betty.”

“I better not mention that to her. She’ll be wanting a new dress for the occasion. Speaking of which: Have you got yourself something nice to wear? I mean, we want to make sure everyone knows you are the centre of attention, don’t we?”

He winked, and Evie looked down at her faded jeans and paint-spattered Converse trainers.

“Are you suggesting that I won’t do as I am?” She laughed and reminded him instantly of her mother.

“I hadn’t actually thought about it, but now that you say it, I’ll see what I can find in the wardrobe.”

He went to speak, but she stopped him short. “And before you say it—yes, I promise it will have a skirt! I might even buy something new. You never know.”

“There’s a good girl. Well, I’ll better be wending my way.”

She exhaled and gave him her broadest smile. When he hugged her, he squeezed her shoulders as if she were a little girl. At the door, he turned back and took her by surprise.

“Evie…”

“Yes?”

“Well done, darling. We’re very proud of you.”

She was embarrassed to think of how little there really was to be proud of, and the soft humble look on his face made her tummy flip. When he was gone, she sat down on a box by the gallery door and looked around her, hardly believing that this was finally happening.

***

In another part of the city, the clock ticked on the wall of Haywood Enquiry Agents. It was a small office, stylish and simple. Charlie Haywood sat back in his big leather chair, feet up on the desk, enjoying a moment of calm before he had to meet another stranger about a subject that probably didn’t matter. He could hear the tap of Maureen’s keyboard through the wall and was briefly irritated. Why did she have to bash it so? Was it because she was old? Was it because she learned to be a secretary in the days before touch screens and swiping apps? A younger girl would be very different, he thought. That led him to ponder the sort of trouble that he would get into and the lack of work he would do if his secretary were not old enough to be his mother. Then he remembered why Maureen was so good for him. He reminded himself also that he liked and trusted her. With that, he buzzed her.

“Okay, Mau, let her in!”

Maureen’s chair made a gentle motion on the thick pile of the carpet as she stood.

“Miss Carter? Mr. Haywood will see you now. Would you like tea or coffee?”

The woman who had been plumped down on the sofa in the waiting room for no more than ten minutes seemed startled. Her half read copy of
Country Life
was slipped back onto the low table in front of her. She asked for a coffee, stood, and straightening her slightly too-tight skirt, followed Maureen into the room. When she saw Charlie Haywood for the first time, her eyes widened as she took him in. He was quite used to this reaction and did not demur from it. He looked at her for a beat too long but then relaxed and was as friendly and professional as he knew how to be. He didn’t want to make the woman uncomfortable. She was paying, after all. Added to which, her expression led him to think she didn’t need to be encouraged.

“Come in, Miss Carter. Please, take a seat. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Oh, thank you,” she replied, almost surprised.

“Pleasant journey, I hope? You have come from Shropshire, I think?”

“Yes, yes, I have.”

“Well, do come in and sit down. Maureen will fetch you a drink, and we can have a chat about your case. I believe that you spoke to my colleague, Simon, when you rang before?”

She nodded. Charlie thought briefly of Simon, his would-be prodigy. Simon, who was currently on the tail of the trophy wife of a Lebanese businessman, whose taste for men who were not her husband had made her the talk of Chelsea and had brought yet another remunerative brief to the door of Haywood Enquiry Agents. He knew Simon to be following her that afternoon and hoped that he wasn’t being too obvious about it. Suddenly remembering that he needed to concentrate, he fixed his gaze on the lady in front of him and put all ideas of Simon aside.

“I understand that you are considering mounting a legal challenge to a trust of which you are a beneficiary and that there is a historical element involved. You have come to the right place, Miss Carter. I would not say this to all of my clients, but I have a special interest in enquiries that involve a bit of history. I hope we can help. I am fairly sure that if we can’t help you then nobody can.”

“You did come very highly recommended, Mr. Haywood.” She smiled, and for a moment, he felt sick. She was, he would estimate, in her late twenties, and she was by no means unattractive. Still, there was something about her that made him want to turn away.

“Well, that is always gratifying. I hope we will not disappoint. Ah, here is Maureen. Thanks, Maureen.”

There was a brief interlude in which sugar lumps were dropped in hot coffee and silver teaspoons tinkled around china.

“Maybe it would be best, Miss Carter, if you just told me your story in your own words. Then I can tell you what I think, and we can go from there?”

“No problem. I can do that. Let’s start from the beginning. It’s like this. My family on Mummy’s side is terribly grand, Mr. Haywood. Our branch of the family is one of the less well-off ones unfortunately, but there are landed estates and aristocrats if you look back—the whole damned shooting match. Don’t really see much of them all now of course, but families are like that, aren’t they? I am sure that I am related to all sorts of impressive people. Anyway, when I was eighteen, I started receiving money from something called the Darcy Trust. Mummy does too and my cousin on her side, Jennifer. It turns out that all of the women in Mummy’s family get money from it. Mummy has been getting it ever since she was eighteen. It is a pretty penny too, I can tell you. Over the years…well…it has paid for quite a lot.”

She blinked, and he knew that she had wanted to say more but thought better of it. Running her manicured hand along the groove at the edge of his desk, she continued.

“Anyway, until very recently, I didn’t know all that much about it. I just got the money, and I was bloody glad of it. Then Mummy said that her Aunt Mary was on her last legs with cancer, and she really wanted to see her before she died. Now, I hadn’t seen Aunt Mary since I was a child, but a trip to Scotland didn’t sound too shabby, and Mummy really wanted some company, so along I went. I suppose that it was a bit grim at times, but it wasn’t too bad. Aunt Mary’s place was lovely—really gorgeous—and my bedroom had a super view. Anyway, it was pretty obvious that she was very ill, and we spent a few days with her talking about the old days and family history and all of that, you know?”

He nodded, but of course, he didn’t know. Miss Carter crossed her legs and leaned towards him, sipping awkwardly from her cup.

“She was really into it—family history, I mean. She seemed to know all sorts—more than me, and I know a bit. Told us all about the war and other times as well, much further back. She was amazing, really, when you think of her age and her health. It was one morning just after breakfast. Mummy was having a potter around the garden, and I had just made myself a coffee. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I sat with Aunt Mary and asked her if she’d like some help with her crossword. She looked me squarely in the face and said, ‘Victoria Darcy wasn’t his daughter you know. Nobody was allowed to say, but it was the truth.’ I was completely foxed, but she looked as if she was saying something important. So, I put down my coffee, took her frail old hand, and said, ‘Come again, Aunt Mary?’ It was then that she told me about the Darcy Trust. It turns out that it was started by some long-dead relation of ours, Fitzwilliam Darcy. He had five daughters and set up a trust to benefit his female descendants. Only that’s just the thing. One of the daughters, this Victoria,
wasn’t his daughter at all
. Born on the wrong side of the bed sheets, and somehow his wife passed it off. Did the dirty and got away with it. Apparently, according to Aunt Mary, there has always been talk about it in the family, but nobody ever actually did anything about it, but people knew.”

“Do you know when this was, Miss Carter?”

“Sure. Victoria Darcy was born in 1821.”

“1821?”

“Yes. I did a bit of research. I hope you’re impressed, Mr. Haywood?”

He resisted the temptation to laugh but smiled at her instead.

“Charlie, please.”

“Charlie.” She seemed to pass the word around in her mouth. “Anyway, the upshot is that this
Victoria
and all of her daughters and granddaughters and so on are not real Darcys. If they are getting money from the trust, then they bloody well shouldn’t be. That’s what I’m here about.”

So she was a greedy one. There were the greedy ones, the resentful ones, the mad ones, the campaigning ones, and the ones who had too much money and not enough to do. She was definitely a greedy one.

“So, this Fitzwilliam Darcy—he was married?”

“Yes, he was married.”

“Do you know anything else about him or his wife?”

“No, that is why I have come to you.”

She looked suddenly aggressive, and Charlie reflected that she didn’t have much of a “middle gear” when it came to being aggravated.

“And do you know whether or not Victoria Darcy has any living female descendants? People who are alive and receiving money from the trust?”

“Yes. Well, Aunt Mary actually told me that. She said that the only people left in Victoria’s line were the “Pemberton girls.” I didn’t know that I had any relations called Pemberton, but there you are. Anyway, these people, whoever they are, are getting money that they shouldn’t be getting.”

“Have you seen a lawyer about this, Miss Carter?”

“Cressida, please.”

She leaned further towards him and fiddled with her watch. He noticed that she was too thin and wondered how hard she worked at it.

“Have you seen a lawyer about this, Cressida?”

“Yes, I have. I went straight to our family solicitor in Shropshire. He has been great actually. He dug out the trust document, and we looked at it together. He advised me that if Victoria Darcy were not really the daughter of Fitzwilliam Darcy then she and her descendants definitely should not be getting any money. He said that we would be able to challenge it and get them excluded. More buns for the rest of us. Only problem he said was that we need to prove it, and that is why I’ve come to you.”

Charlie took a deep breath and put the lid back on his fountain pen without writing anything down. He considered noting “Victoria Darcy, born 1821” on his pad but couldn’t see the point. He had been sent on some wild goose chases in his time. More often than not, he had to listen to a crazy story or two from his clients. He had been through people’s bins and hidden behind moss-cloaked garden walls. He had hacked into people’s voice mails and followed their cars to their lovers’ houses down country lanes and sodium-lit streets. He had dredged through the contents of stolen laptops, dragging his tired eyes over file upon file of holiday snaps and letters and nonsense. He had read through thousands of pages of bank statements, telephone transcripts, and court documents. He was good—really good. If a secret was there, Charlie Haywood would find it. But he had never been asked to bust somebody for adultery nearly two hundred years after it had occurred.

“Right. Thanks. That is an amazing story, Cressida. You probably don’t need me to tell you that it is rather unusual. I am going to need to go away and do a bit of background research because, well, I’m sure you realise that what you are asking me to look at is a long way in the past. Paternity disputes are a different thing these days, of course. We have DNA testing and so on. And when people are still alive, somebody always knows, somebody will always talk. Do you know what I mean?”

She nodded, but he was not at all sure she was following him.

“But when it comes to this Victoria Darcy—well you are talking about a woman who was born nearly two hundred years ago. I am going to need to do some serious rooting around just to work out the basics of who she was and who her family were. I am going to want to see that trust document and learn all about this Fitzwilliam Darcy and his family. Once I have done that, we can think about how we might go about uncovering the truth of Victoria’s paternity. I’m afraid there aren’t any guarantees here. This is a tricky one. The plain hard truth is that it might be impossible to prove that Victoria wasn’t his daughter. You might spend a lot of money and get nowhere. Do you understand that, Cressida?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“And you will take the risk?”

“Yeah, I’ll take the risk.” She tilted her head and smiled. “I reckon it’s going to pay off.”

Later, when Cressida Carter left the office, Charlie closed the heavy door behind her and turned to Maureen, who did not look up from her typing.

“Where do we find them, Mau?”

“Well, they find us usually, Mr. Haywood, which is better than them
not
finding us.”