The Elizabeth Papers (3 page)

He smiled, knowing she was right. Maureen had refused to let go of “Mr. Haywood” despite repeated requests, and eventually, Charlie had let it be.

“Well, I suppose it keeps us off the streets. Speaking of which, I had better run.”

“Off somewhere nice, Mr. Haywood?”

“Just meeting my cousin Peter for a drink and a catch up. He has a new girlfriend he’s bringing along.
Ballerina
apparently.”

He said it almost as if he didn’t believe it to be true. It amazed Charlie that his cousin Peter was able to attract a woman, let alone a professional dancer who was presumably young and fit and…well,
sexy
. He was trying to think of a way to share this reflection with Maureen when Simon came crashing through the door, all geniality and clutching a Starbucks hot chocolate with all the add-ons.

“Evening, boss. Evening, Maureen. Passed a skinny woman on the stairs. Looked like she had just won the lottery. She one of yours?”

“I hope not, at least not in the way you mean, Simon.
That
was the famous Miss Carter.”

“Oh,
that
was Miss Carter! Was she as barmy in real life as she sounded on the phone?”

Chapter 3

May 22, 1860
Pemberley

Galbraith,

Thank you for coming to Pemberley. I am sorry not to be more in your company but hope that my son and his wife looked after you. I am afraid that my days of dining into the night and besting my friends at billiards are behind me.

We discussed the Rosschapel matter when you were here, and maybe I was too short with you on the subject. I have since given it some thought. As you know, Victoria (who is now Mrs. Montague) does not know the truth. I do not know whether she would be able to cope with knowing the truth, and she has lived, happily, in ignorance all her life. You mentioned Mr. Montague. He is, as you know, a man whom I respect as well as Victoria’s husband. Having considered the matter, however, I can see no real purpose in reporting to him the truth of Victoria’s position. Whatever would he do with this information, and how could it ever benefit anyone, least of all her?

I hardly need add, therefore, that when I am dead, you will be the only living soul who knows the truth. I can see no reason why you should ever need to tell anyone else, and it is my instruction that you should not do so.

Yours,
Darcy

Chapter 4

September 3, 1819, Pemberley

I have missed writing this past week but so much has happened, and my mind has been so full that I hardly know where I would have found the words. It is now a full week since we learned the news, but I still cannot comprehend it. We had dined, and I was playing the pianoforte, Fitzwilliam listening with his eyes closed, his whiskey glistening in the candlelight. I believe that I heard the commotion at the main door before he did and looked up from the keyboard in alarm. A horse whinnied, far-off voices mumbled, and heels clicked on polished floors. By the time James knocked on the door of the music room and entered, it was plain that something was amiss.

“An express has come for you, sir.”

Fitzwilliam started then stood. He gestured to me to be seated on the stool, took the weather-beaten letter from James’s tray, and turning his back to the room, began to read. I thought of my parents and my sister Mary who is expecting her first child. I could not keep silent.

“Fitzwilliam, what is it? Please, tell me. Is it bad news?”

He turned steadily, his profile against the yellow of the wall and moved his hands in a way that told me he was formulating a response. He gestured to James to leave the room, and we were alone.

“Yes, Elizabeth, it is bad news. It is from the colonel of George Wickham’s regiment. I am afraid that Mr. Wickham has died on return from duties in Spain. He took a fever and perished, as did a number of his fellow officers.” He turned the soggy letter over in his hands. “It says precious little else, I am afraid. I assume that he wrote to me as he knows that I paid for his commission.”

I could not but gasp to hear such news. My hand flew to my mouth, and my breath grew short. My stays seemed suddenly tight, and my whole person discomforted. Images flew through my mind—images of George Wickham as I had first known him, bowing deeply in the market place at Meryton, the smartest coat he could not afford upon his back, then later, in shining regimentals and a sword at his side. I recalled our dancing in the home of my aunt Philips in the days when I thought him handsome, agreeable,
and
honourable. I had come to understand that he was not what I had first thought him. He had been a man of many faults, and he had wronged Fitzwilliam and Georgiana. The last time I had seen him had been before I was married when he and Lydia visited Longbourn after their marriage. By then, I knew the truth of his character although I did not know at that time that Fitzwilliam had had to bribe the man to marry my sister. George Wickham, the reluctantly married man, standing by the fire in my mama’s parlour, smiling and calling me “sister,” had seemed such a diminished creature. Now, knowing that he was dead, I felt a pang of regret that I could not account for. A young man I danced with departed, my youngest sister a widow. I pondered, not for the first time, the tiny silver hairs at Fitzwilliam’s temple, and I suppose I felt rather old.

Fitzwilliam’s face darkened, and I knew that he had caught my expression. I took a breath and brought myself to.

“Poor, Lydia! Does the letter say whether she knows?”

“No, it does not, but she must, Elizabeth. He would not have written to me without also having written to her.”

A strange, stilted silence settled between us. I wanted to run to him but felt pinned to the floor.

“Yes, of course. I did not think. I am sure you are right. I shall write to her in the morning and Mama as well. I expect they shall both be in quite a state.”

Fitzwilliam looked at me, but he only grunted his assent.

“Shall I tell Georgiana?” I ventured. I had thought that this would be worrying him, but he looked completely surprised by the question.

“Erm, yes, Elizabeth. You tell Georgiana. When are you next visiting her?”

Georgiana lives but ten miles from Pemberley with her husband, Lord Avery, on a small but beautiful estate overlooking Padley Gorge. With my own sisters settled farther away, it has been my pleasure to visit her often since her marriage.

“I had planned to visit her at Broughton Park on Wednesday. I usually take the girls, but I will leave them behind so that I can talk to her alone.” I searched his blank face for some emotion but found none. “If you think it appropriate, that is?”

“Yes, of course,” he barked. “Why would it not be appropriate?”

“Well, I thought that you may wish to approach her yourself or with me. And, do I need to talk to her alone and only her? What if Lord Avery is there? What do I say to him?”

“Nothing. He knows nothing of the…business between Wickham and Georgiana. I considered telling him when he asked for Georgiana’s hand but decided there was no need. He certainly does not need to know now…”

He creased his face, ran his fingers through his hair, and turned away from me. I blinked in astonishment. What has happened here? A part of my life that I did not know was brittle has fractured. I smiled, but it did not seem to touch him.

“I understand. In that case, I shall ensure that we are alone. I am sure she will be shocked, but I hope not excessively affected. After all, it was a long time ago, and Georgiana is a married woman with a baby.”

I did not say a “baby boy.” My mind flew to a vision of Georgiana in bed nine months after her marriage, cradling little Archibald and beaming up at me, declaiming, “What a size he is, Lizzy! I know not how I produced such a son!” I thought of our three daughters sleeping above our heads, and I could not bear to mention that our sister had produced an heir for her husband on the first attempt. Did Fitzwilliam think this too? Now, there is a scowl upon his face, but is it for me?

With few further pleasantries, he went to his study to pen a response for the colonel and, I believe, to write to his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam. I sat at the instrument to play, thinking that it may soothe me but could not make my fingers work. I thought of my poor sister whose precarious existence was now in even greater jeopardy. Would being George Wickham’s widow be even less desirable than being his wife? Would Lydia marry again? She was forward enough to attract attention but too forward to be an attractive prospect for most sensible men. Would she return to Longbourn? I thought of my poor Papa in Hertfordshire with only an aging Mama and a heartbroken Lydia for company. I consoled myself that at least she did not have any children to worry for and resolved to retire before I became unmanageably maudlin.

In bed, alone, I could not turn my mind to sleep. I was a riot of restlessness and odd, undefined discomforts. The fire in my chamber died down to an amber glow. My dressing table and stool and the mirrors and brushes and boxes of my personal space seemed to form strange shapes and dance in the darkness. How could George Wickham, of all men, be dead? Did he not have the luck of the devil? Was he not a man to always fall upon his feet however undeserved? I drank some of my water and pushed the counterpane down on the bed, for it was unseasonably warm. I could not make out the clock face now that the fire was almost out, but I knew that it was late. Apart from my confinement or illness—or when he had been away from Pemberley—Fitzwilliam had shared my bed every night of our marriage. Except this one. I tried not to think upon it. I closed my eyes, curled my body tightly, and worked to persuade my frantic mind into slumber.

When he did come, I felt rather than saw him approach. It seemed to be not quite as dark, and a creeping light was breaking through the pitch of the room. He saw me stir, and his voice came in a whisper.

“Elizabeth, may I join you?”

“Yes, of course.” I pushed the covers back and was suddenly chilly, for I wore only a summer nightgown.

He smiled nervously in the half-light and covered me as well as himself. He lay on his side and looked at my face, not touching.

“You do not have to ask me. What time is it?”

“It is about four in the morning.”

Had I slept? I was not sure.

“But…”

“I find that I cannot sleep without you, Elizabeth.”

I reached my hand out from beneath the cover and touched it to his face, which felt slightly rough. He moved closer. His nearness made me quiver as if I were a girl of one and twenty.

“Then do not try.”

Later we woke, and I knew that it was late in the morning. I had a recollection of Hannah having come to my side of the bed, but I had indicated to her that we would remain. She would no doubt have been told by Fitzwilliam’s valet that his own bed had also been slept in, and so she would know that we had had a disturbed night. Tiredness was writ upon his handsome face, even in sleep, and I did not want him awakened. I curled myself in his embrace and enjoyed his warmth and smell. After some time, I felt a light kiss upon my temple.

“Good morning, Elizabeth. If morning it still is?”

“It is still the morning. Just a little later than you are accustomed to waking.”

He stretched and fixed his gaze on the canopy above.

“When I have been confined with the girls, or unwell, have you passed those nights without sleep, you poor man?”

He smiled and turned to me, his hand resting heavily on the side of my belly.

“No. I did not sleep well on those nights, but I did sleep a little. Last night was different. I went to my own bed, not out of consideration for you, Elizabeth, but to indulge my own pride. And, I suppose, because I was fighting against a fact I know to be true: that whatever ails me and whatever has occurred, you are the best person for my comfort.”

His candour confused me in an instant, but I did not want to lose the intimacy between us. I grasped his hand in mine.

“Is it Wickham? Are you grieved? I would not be surprised if you were, Fitzwilliam. You have known him all your life. And even though unpleasant things have happened, he is part of your story. It is not a wonder that you should be shocked by his early death. It is not disloyalty to Georgiana or unkindness to her. It is quite to be expected.”

My speech complete, I kissed his arm and listened to the silence. After a moment, he broke it.

“I am grieved, much more grieved than I ever would have thought. There was a time when I actually wished death on George Wickham but…well, it was a long time ago. I find that my anger has quite gone. The fact is that Georgiana is married to a suitable and respectable man and is happy. Apart from the unhappiness that was occasioned to her by Wickham’s attempt to inveigle himself with her, there were no real consequences. No. I am surprised to learn that I am less affected by that history than I might have been just last year or the year before.”

“Then what is it?”

He opened his mouth but spoke not. I rolled against his side, my bosom pressed against his hard, lean chest and my face close to his.

“What is it, Fitzwilliam?”

“It is you, Elizabeth. I saw how you looked when you learned he was dead and…I’m sorry, but it has tormented me.”

“How I looked? I…I was shocked, Fitzwilliam. Wickham was my sister’s husband, and he was young. She is young. Surely…”

“I know, but I also know that, when you and I first knew each other in Hertfordshire, you…well, you favoured him, Elizabeth. You favoured him above me.”

“But that was when I did not really know you. No woman, no
person
, knowing you properly could prefer him to you, you know that.”

“Yes, I do know that, but…well you must allow me my feelings, Elizabeth. Seeing you cry out to learn that he was dead, it took me back to a time that I wanted you and you did not want me. I could not bear it, and so I pushed you away. I know it was foolish, and I am sorry.”

I blinked and paused, the light in the room seeming suddenly too bright for comfort.

“I am sorry if I have not made you certain enough of me. But surely…surely, you do not doubt my love for you? We have been happy, have we not, these six years? How can you think that I—”

“Shh, Elizabeth. Do not distress yourself. I am not criticising you. It is with me that the fault lies. I am prideful, and well, sometimes, I am less secure in your love for me than I ought to be.”

His attempt to quieten me was not successful, for now I was cross as well as upset.

“Sometimes? What other times have you felt this, sir?” I thought of our three daughters, no doubt up by this hour, dressed, and breakfasted. “I love you completely and utterly, Fitzwilliam. How could you think that I do not or that I give you less than I should?”

With this, I stopped short, for I had not yet given him a son. Was that the heart of the matter? If I could give him an heir, would he stop doubting me? I burned with the injustice of it. As if he knew, he touched his hand to my forehead.

“Shh. That is not what I think. I know that you love me, and I love you. But…you are a sparkling person, Elizabeth. You are bright and amusing and beautiful and you charm the world. People—men—who meet you, admire you. I know they do. Sometimes, just sometimes, it wounds me. I did not expect to be revisited by the jealously that I once felt towards George Wickham, but last night, I was. I am sorry.”

My heart softened to see his earnest expression, and I could not be angry.

“Do not be sorry, sir.” I kissed his nose, and he laughed.

“I should write to Lydia and Mama directly I am dressed. But then I shall be at liberty, and the weather is fine. Are you too jealous and prideful to accompany your wife on a walk?”

“No, I would like that.”

“Should you like just me, or shall we take Anne and Emma? Frances shall be sleeping, and I leave her with Nanny, but Anne and Emma love to join me.” I smiled at the recollection of their running around me like puppies as I walk, their little legs carrying them many multiples of my own journey.

“Yes, let us take them with us.”

Thus, it was decided.