The Elizabeth Papers (4 page)

Chapter 5

London, 7 August 2014

Charlie had taken the Tube to Piccadilly Circus and regretted it. It was steaming hot at this time of year and stuffed to bursting with tired, sweaty office workers. He could have hailed a taxi, of course, but this way, he got a bit of a walk. Glancing at his watch, he was glad to note that it was already nearly half past seven. That was good. It didn’t do to be too early. He wanted to get a look at her—see what he was dealing with. He did not want to be the first person there and be forced into conversation with the woman. He knew about art; it wasn’t that. Art had come into quite a few of the cases he had worked on, and he could pretend he knew what he was talking about. No, he was not worried that he would be caught out. Nobody, particularly somebody who was not doing anything wrong, ever thought they had a private investigator on their tail. It simply wasn’t the kind of thing that occurred to people. For a moment, he struggled to justify why he was going there at all. What did he expect to find? What would she even know? He could not really answer those questions, which for him was unusual. Still, his instinct compelled him on. He just wanted to get a glimpse of her, see the lie of the land, and get the measure of the situation.

It was Simon who had found out about the exhibition, and as soon as he said it, Charlie knew he would be going. Poor, old Simon had been at it all day searching databases and online records to build up the Darcy family tree. It had been pretty easy to find the so-called “Pemberton sisters,” Evangeline and Clementine. Charlie rolled their names around on his tongue. He noticed, when looking at the fruit of Simon’s research, that their parents, David and Nora Pemberton, had both died on the same day five years previously and wondered what the story was behind that. He could ask Simon to find out, but did it really matter? It was the living Darcy descendants he was interested in.

“I just can’t find anything about this Clementine Pemberton, boss,” Simon had said that morning as Charlie arrived at the office. “There is just nothing. No Facebook. No Twitter. No nothing. It is like she doesn’t really exist. Maybe she is a nun in a silent order?” He laughed at his own joke, but Charlie could tell that he felt defeated by the search.

“Okay. Well, what about the other one?”

“Evangeline. Ah, well, now you’re talking. I found her easily enough.
Artist,
if you don’t mind. Studied at the Camberwell School of Art. Did a stint at art school in Paris. And guess what? She has only got an exhibition on in Cork Street this week! I couldn’t believe the luck of it. It runs for three days. Today is the first day. The gallery is open all day, but if you go along in the evening, they do drinkies. So can’t be bad, can it, boss?” He gestured his hand as if holding a glass of wine and smiled one of his “Simon” smiles.

“Great. I’ll go tonight.”

And so, there he was, pacing down Cork Street in the hazy heat of a London summer evening, wondering what he would find. The double doors of the gallery were open, and the pavement outside was crowded with men in chinos and young fashionable women, laughing and smoking. A girl in a red dress paused and appraised him as he approached, for which he smiled a polite smile but did not break step. There was a buzz of many voices coming from inside and permeating the street. There were a lot of people here. Some were serious men in tweed jackets and heavy framed spectacles. They furrowed their brows and said little, and Charlie thought they must be buyers. Then there were the hipsters in their low-slung jeans, their hair arranged in peculiar montages of colour and style. A couple of stragglers roamed around: women in suits and ballet flats, their smart heels sticking out of their handbags; an oldish couple in their Sunday best who shuffled around the room looking out of place; a guy wearing a trilby and looking overheated.

Later, Charlie reflected that he could never have been prepared for the first moment he saw her. A huge painting of ballerinas in unlikely colours formed the backdrop, and there she was. Her right toe tapped the wooden floor, and he noticed a tiny, gold chain around her left ankle. Her hair, which was the colour of acacia honey, was so thick he thought she might need a spoon to brush it. It was already half out of its ponytail, and he noticed that she moved her head around a lot when she talked. She was the right age, and everyone seemed to be addressing her. He
knew
that this was the girl. The gallery lights bounced off her creamy skin, and he felt a tightening in his throat. Unused to being disconcerted by another person’s appearance, Charlie got himself a glass of wine and did a circle of the room before approaching her.

There were a number of people surging around her, babbling and pecking one another on the cheek between hugs. Charlie decided that his only option was to abuse his height and move closer, gazing up at the ballerinas then over the top of her acolytes and down at her honey-blonde head.

“Miss Pemberton, I assume?”

“You assume right, but it’s Evie, please.”

He shook the hand she held out to him and was momentarily shocked by the soft silk of her skin against his. She looked at him expectantly, and he realised that, for the first time in his professional life, he didn’t have a plan or a false name at his fingertips.

“I’m Charlie, Charlie Haywood.” Did he detect some alarm in her? Her eyes, which his father would have called Dresden blue, flickered about uncertainly as she spoke.

“Well, welcome, Charlie Haywood. How did you hear about the exhibition? Have you been to the gallery before?”

Afterwards, he did not know what made him say it. Was it that he was nervous? Was it just the first thing that came into his head? Was it that he wanted to make her stay with him? He could not imagine.

“I’m a collector, Evie. And yes, I’ve been here before. Exhibitions in this gallery are always so well curated, and I like what they have done with your work. This is great. I really like this one in fact.”

He turned to the ballerinas, needing to look away from her.

“Oh, thank you. But that one isn’t for sale. It belongs to my aunt and uncle. If you were really interested, I could work up a proposal for a new work on a similar basis. I don’t know if you are into commissioning work, but if you were, that would be an option.”

“Thanks, I may well be.”

He cast his eye around the room, and in the heat of the evening and the hubbub of the laughing, drinking crowd, he began to get his native confidence back.

“So, what about this? What’s the story here?”

He nodded towards a small canvass with a purple cello in the middle of it, and Evie began to explain that she had spent time with orchestras and that there were a number of pictures in the exhibition in which the instruments were in full cry without their players. The ballerinas, it turned out, were the product of a similar stint with a ballet company in which Evie had been allowed to tag along and sketch during rehearsals. Charlie stared at the canvas and could almost hear the low moan of the instrument in his ear.

“I like it. I really like it. Evie, do you have a studio? Where do you work?”

“I have a studio in Fulham, just off Lots Road. The address is on my card. Do you want it?”

“Yes, I do want it.” He stared at her in that way that he had stared down at women many times before. He realised with a start that she didn’t welcome it. The skin on her beautiful face grew taut, she looked sideways, and her mouth pursed.

“Sure. I’ll just get you one.”

When she handed him the card, she did so at arm’s length, and she barely even smiled. The Dresden blue of her eyes looked away, but he wasn’t deterred. Charlie was not accustomed to giving up, and he wasn’t about to do so this time. His experiences had not taught him to doubt his abilities, and he continued.

“Thanks. I am around in Fulham sometimes, and I’d like to look in if that’s okay—see what you’re working on. I could pop in one afternoon next week if you’re free. Maybe we could get dinner after. I could treat you. What is the point in being in the art world if I can’t feed a struggling artist from time to time? How about it?”

“Erm…that is very flattering…Charlie…” He winced to think that she had to search around for his name. “But maybe not. I have only just met you, well…and I manage to feed myself most days.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I’m sure not. Thank you for coming, and I hope you enjoy the exhibition.”

She smiled and was absorbed into the crowd of interested parties. The fabric of her dress shimmied against the curve of her form as she moved away from him. He felt sweat breaking out under his shirt, muttered the most coherent goodbye he could muster at the door, and was gone.

His feet pounded the street on the way back to the Tube station. He could literally have kicked himself. He had completely screwed that up. He had spun her a ridiculous story, one that he would have trouble sustaining if he ever had to see her again. He had annoyed her. He had found out nothing at all about her apart from the fact that she had a studio in Fulham. He felt her card in his trouser pocket and imagined it like a razor blade slicing his fingers. He should have gone around the room studying the prices and working out from the stickers how many she had sold. He should have sniffed around to see if there were any other Darcy relations there. He had done none of it. Worse, he had been brushed off by her. She didn’t hesitate. She just said “no.” His body was shaking with the aftershock of it.

What was he coming to? This, he decided, was a one off. A girl who took offence at being asked out to dinner was not a girl for him to trouble himself with. So what if she was beautiful. Ethereal. Interesting. He told himself these were characteristics to be found in many places. Evie Pemberton was a chippy one, and she probably didn’t even know anything that would be useful anyway. It was obvious that she had money—the fact that she was making a living as an artist with exhibitions in Central London and a studio in Fulham told him that. She probably didn’t even need her share of the Darcy Trust. It was stupid and pointless to have spent so much time talking to her. As for asking her out, he was just bored, and that is why he did it. First thing in the morning, he would get on Cressida Carter’s case, big time. Crazy Cressida could have the full glittering force of his efforts, no-holds-barred, all guns blazing. There was no reason for him to even see Evie Pemberton again. He passed this thought around in his mind for longer than was necessary.

***

Sometime later, Auntie Betty nudged a distracted Evie who stood behind the desk in the gallery. The party was almost over, and the guests that remained were still there because they were too drunk to go, not because they were serious customers. There had been a few sales, not that many. Evie watched the students having a good time, and she couldn’t begrudge them.

“Who was that chap who stormed off earlier, lovey?”

Evie did not think anyone had observed her in that uncomfortable exchange. She had watched that collector stalk out of the door and down the street, and although she was glad to see the back of him, she recalled how he had fixed her with his eyes, and she couldn’t get it out of her head. His hand had brushed hers as she had handed him her card, and the memory of it stung her between the eyes. Even now, when he was long gone, she felt unbalanced by it.

“Erm, I’m not sure, Auntie. I’ve never met him before.”

“Really? I thought you might know him.”

“No, never met him before.” It was the truth, and yet it felt like a lie. She knew that she was blushing to think of it. “I’m glad he’s gone though. He seemed really,
really
arrogant.”

“Nice looking though, isn’t he? And so tall…”

Chapter 6

April 2, 1820, Pemberley

My sister Lydia has been our guest these three weeks, and already she has made me most uneasy. I remind myself that, although she is foolish, she is also young and widowed, and I love her. I also love my husband, who is not at all foolish but in certain circumstances can be irritable. Balancing the two characters is a task to which, I believe, no woman can be the equal. Only this morning, Fitzwilliam and I were awakened with a shriek through the wall from Lydia’s room.

“Well, if that is the best that Lizzy can do, then I shall have to speak with her! She cannot expect me to wear such a dreary thing. She simply cannot. It is not fair. And anyway, in case you had not noticed, I am just as blessed about the chest as my sister, so there is no need for that dreadful, little panel…”

My blood pumped with embarrassment to hear her breathy protests from the next room. Beside me, Fitzwilliam’s hand reached for his forehead and his eyes closed in exasperation. I had already regretted installing Lydia in the room next door to my own. It had been in my mind that the view of the lake might soothe her, but alas, it had not. I had considered asking the servants to move her, but it seemed to be both ridiculous and an admission of defeat. It is for Lydia to behave reasonably, even in her grief. It is not for me to place her in isolation in order that we are not disturbed by her histrionics. Her voice whined away from behind the wall, and I could bear it no longer.

“Elizabeth, what are you doing?” asked Fitzwilliam as I leapt out of bed and began pulling on my shawl.

“I will go and speak with her, Fitzwilliam. I know what this is about, and I cannot have her being so rude to the servants or waking us with her dramatics. It is only the next-door room, and she is my sister. She has seen me in my nightclothes before.”

I knew that he was about to protest further but did not wait to hear it. His annoyance with me for leaving the chamber undressed and with my hair down was as nothing to the annoyance that he would begin to feel towards Lydia if I could not rein her in. Hair streaming and shawl trailing, I appeared in her room. She looked me squarely in the face and put down her teacup.

“Lizzy. There you are. Now, I cannot wear that
thing
for dinner this evening. What will Lord and Lady Matlock think? It is so dreary, and I am meeting them for the first time. You just cannot—”

“Lydia, keep your voice down. What are you doing awake at this hour? You have roused Fitzwilliam and me with all this nonsense—now be quiet.”

To this, she merely smirked.

“Well, I could not sleep, and I am not that loud. You must have particularly fine hearing. Anyway, if your husband still keeps to your bed after all these years, Lizzy…well, you should have nothing to complain of.” She laughed and glanced at the maid, Milly, who blushed and looked at her feet.

“Thank you, Milly. That will be all.”

I believe the poor girl was more than grateful to be dismissed.

“Well, there was no need for that, Lizzy. Why I am sure that the whole staff knows—”

“Lydia, that is enough! If you wake me again with these morning fits of temper, then I shall move you to the other end of the corridor. And if you are rude to the maids, then you can attend to yourself. My goodness, we have done everything to make you comfortable, but you have to start behaving like a reasonable creature.”

“Well, there is nothing reasonable about that dress, Lizzy. It is full black, and look at that thing that she has put in across the chest. I shall look like I am in holy orders!”

“You will not look anything of the sort. You will look like a respectable widow because that is what you are. I wore that dress to Rosings when Lady Catherine died, and it is lovely fabric. It was very costly, and the cut is beautiful. I have said that you can have some lace to make it more suitable for the evening. I want you to feel attractive, Lydia, but I will not have you dressing up in all colours and revealing yourself to Fitzwilliam’s relations. It is unseemly—”

“Oh, Lizzy, to hear you go on so, one would think that Wickham had only just died. It has been eight months, and I am sure that he would not like to think of me in that dreadful thing. Look at it. That style went out with the ark—and why should I be covered to the neck? If Wickham were here, he would be fighting for me to at least wear grey, Lizzy.”

Her eyes were pleading, and she thrust forward the top half of her body. It was as if we were back at Longbourn and she was a girl of fifteen. I thought in that moment of how young she actually was in mind and in body, and I could not be too harsh with her.

“Very well, I shall offer you a bargain, Lydia. But you have to keep your side, is that understood?”

“Yes, Lizzy.”

“Well. You may lower the panel by a couple of inches and have a grey sash so that it is not completely black. I have a single back pearl for your neck to dress it a bit. If you wear it like that, you will feel a little more adorned. But if I allow that, Lydia, please show a little more restraint.
Especially in front of Mr. Darcy
. Try to talk a little less and a little less loudly. When Lord and Lady Matlock come to dinner tonight, try to recall that they are much your elders. Can you do that for me?”

She looked to stifle a smirk but then thought the better of it.

“Yes, Lizzy, I can do that. It is a bargain. I shall not let you down.”

“Thank you. And can you try to be quieter in the mornings? You never used to get up this early at home.”

I recalled how I was always up for a walk before breakfast at Longbourn while my sisters had to be jostled out of bed. Lydia had never been a girl to be awake at the break of dawn, and I could not account for her.

“Yes, you shall not know I am here. I shall be like a widowed mouse!” She tilted her head and laughed. I gathered my shawl about my shoulders, and as I turned to leave, she bellowed from her dressing table, “But Lizzy! What about shoes?”

At length, and somehow already weary, I returned to my chamber to find an empty space in the bed in place of Fitzwilliam.

It had been, I reflected, an exhausting three weeks. Lydia, since the death of her husband, had spent four months at Longbourn with our parents and three months with Jane and Mr. Bingley at their estate at Bollington. She had, I believe, been somewhat of a trial to all of them, and I did not feel that I could resist having her as a guest any longer. Fitzwilliam had said my sister was welcome. I reasoned that it would be diverting for the girls to have their aunt Lydia present. I had not seen my sister for over two years, and mayhap I had forgotten her talent for drama. When she arrived, she hardly stopped talking for a week. Being trapped in a carriage for three days is quite against Lydia’s disposition, and she took out this deprivation on Fitzwilliam and me. She wittered in my sitting room during the day, and our nuncheon and dinner were dominated by her monologues on fashion and acquaintances. Of her late husband, she spoke at length, recalling his past comments about Pemberley and his strong connection to the Darcy family. No servant was allowed to enter the room without being questioned by her on their experiences of the late Mr. Wickham and no feature of the house and garden that he had favoured was allowed to pass unremarked. I had tried not to look at Fitzwilliam’s face as he sat at the other end of the table, turning his food over with his fork.

“Hannah, do you know where the master is?” I asked when she arrived to bathe and dress me.

“Yes, madam, he went out riding directly he came downstairs.”

“Do you mean that he didn’t have any breakfast?”

“I don’t believe so, madam. I understand from his valet that he will be on estate business at nuncheon as well, so it shall be just you and Mrs. Wickham.”

I turned away slightly as I said, “I see.” I did not want even Hannah to witness the surprise on my face.

As it was, Lydia was a pleasant companion at nuncheon and throughout the afternoon. When we had eaten, we repaired to the day nursery to find Alice and Emma about a game, Frances asleep in her crib, and Nanny repairing the buttons on a smock by the light of the window. My sister and I settled down on the chaise with a girl on each lap, and I read stories that I composed myself until it was time for their afternoon tea. Nanny, Lydia, and I enjoyed tea while Anne and Emma guzzled glasses of milk. We all had cake, and Lydia was quite right when she pronounced wistfully, “What a lovely time this is!”

I did not see Fitzwilliam until shortly before dinner. I was dressed and sat at my vanity. When he came in, Hannah, who had been adjusting the sleeve on my gown, smiled, curtsied, and was gone. He paced around behind me, and the silence was like an ache in my limbs.

“I am sorry that I have been gone all day, Elizabeth. I have had a lot to attend to.”

“I understand, Fitzwilliam.” I turned on my stool and faced him, hoping he recognised I really did understand. “You will be pleased to know that Lydia has actually been very good today. After this morning, she has been much quieter. She and I played in the nursery with the girls, and she was lovely with them. She has calmed down a little, and she has promised me that she will be on her best behaviour this evening.”

I touched his hand and saw his body relax. He smiled.

“Good. Thank you. Shall we ask her to accompany us downstairs?”

“She is already down, Fitzwilliam. She told me she was ready and going down about an hour ago.”

When Fitzwilliam and I arrived in the drawing room, we found Lydia plumped down in the corner with a miniature of Wickham in one hand and a small glass of wine in the other. Dim light fell on the jet of her borrowed gown, and she looked up at us only briefly before returning her eyes to his likeness. The picture, which had been commissioned by my husband’s father many years previously, had been consigned to a place out of sight until—with Wickham’s death and Lydia’s visit—I had retrieved it. I had regretted doing so several times although I was gratified that, when Lydia saw us, she quickly put it aside and made her greetings. She did not get up, which seemed a little odd. For all of her complaints, my gown suited her, and Milly had dressed her hair in a new arrangement. Altogether, she looked rather pretty. When James approached me with a small glass of wine upon a silver tray, I wondered whether I imagined the strange look that he gave me. As it was, there was no time to ponder it further when my husband’s aunt and uncle were announced.

“Lord and Lady Matlock.”

The door opened, and in they swanned, looking every inch the grand, old people they are. Happy greetings were exchanged, and Lord Matlock complained to Fitzwilliam of the road whilst Lady Matlock focused on us ladies.

“Oh, Elizabeth, how slender you are! How do you do it with three babies coming one after the other. It is quite remarkable. And this must be Mrs. Wickham. I am pleased to meet you…”

Lady Matlock smiled and, when Lydia said nothing and did not curtsy, looked about in an embarrassed fashion. Silence fell, and my aunt Matlock blinked slowly. The clock ticked, and the footmen’s soles clicked in the hall. I could bear it no longer and gave a slight tug on my sister’s arm at which she seemed to remember herself.

“It is an honour to meet you, Lady Matlock. I am Elizabeth’s sister, Mrs. Wickham.”

“Mrs. Wickham, I hope that you have been enjoying your stay at Pemberley? It is so beautiful at this time of year.”

Lydia smiled but said nothing. Just as I thought she was about to speak, she let out a hiccup followed by a giggle, and my mind raced to account for her demeanour.

“It is quite lovely, Lady Matlock, although I am not much of one for rambling about the countryside as my sister is. I would much rather dance. Do you enjoy a dance, Lady Matlock?”

With this, she peered at Fitzwilliam’s aunt, who is nearly sixty, but did not wait for a response.

“I do, but being a widow, I declare that I have not had one dance these eight months. I shall be glad to dance again when I am allowed, I can tell you. My husband died a hero, Lady Matlock. A hero. What a thing that is to have a hero for a husband. I cannot imagine anything more splendid—except him being alive, of course. My goodness, did you know that my husband actually grew up at Pemberley? Yes. He had such affection for this place, and can we not all see why? I take great comfort thinking of him running about the gardens as a boy and building camps in the woods…”

Words streamed from her lips, and I thought they would never stop. In fact, not only did they not cease, they grew louder and more insistent. Her hands fluttered around and everything about her was distracting. It was like watching a horseless carriage thunder down a steep hill. Lord Matlock had stopped speaking of the road, and he and Fitzwilliam were turned to us in silence. My husband fixed me with a grave look and, with his gaze, indicated Lydia’s wine glass, now left on the small table beside her chair. At the moment I realised her predicament, Lydia seemed to reach the apogee of her confidence.

“I hear, Lady Matlock, that you have an unmarried son who is a colonel of the regiment. Is that not the case? How marvellous. There is nothing like regimentals on a man, is there?”

I knew that I had to stop her.

“Erm, Lydia. Maybe we should allow Lady Matlock to sit and gather herself. She has only just arrived, and it is a long journey from Matlock.”

Matlock to Pemberley is only ten miles of good road, but as to that, any port in a storm, thought I.

“Yes, of course, Lizzy. Why, my journey here from Hertfordshire was such a trial. I can well sympathise. It took me a full three days to recover myself! Although, I must say that Mr. Darcy’s carriage was vastly comfortable indeed. Mama was so envious to see me disappearing in it, I can tell you…”

“Aunt Mary, is the weather fine at Matlock? We have been kept in by rain here.” I scrambled for a topic, and in my panic, the weather was the only one I found.

“It has been reasonably fair…”

“Oh, but it is so cold here, do you not think so, Lizzy? It is far colder here than ever it is in Hertfordshire at this time of year. I wonder that Lizzy manages, for we were never so chilly as girls. She must wear a great deal under her gowns to guard against the wind, for it is bitter!”