The Elizabeth Papers (17 page)

“Well, good grief,” muttered Honoria from behind James as she turned to the window.

“Evie would not be here if it were not for me, and she would certainly never have deceived you.”

“I will be the judge of that. Who are you, both of you, and what are you doing here?”

And so, in the simplest language, Charlie told him. He told him of how Cressida Carter had come to his office and what she had alleged, of how he had found the letters and realised their importance. He described how he had pursued Evie for information. How he had changed tack and encouraged her to come here searching for the lost Elizabeth papers, which they had eventually found and read the previous night. Passionlessly, he summarised the contents of Elizabeth’s diary. To boil it down to a series of facts seemed a savage way to treat that story of love and loss and loyalty and secrets, but he had to cut away the emotion. James Darcy raised his eyebrows as Charlie described how he had been in favour of Evie taking the papers and destroying them, but she refused. Honoria had caught them not in the act of stealing but of replacing. To be believed seemed like a forlorn hope.

James straightened his spectacles and stood. He moved slowly but steadily towards the window where he remained with his back to them, his old hands clasping his stick behind his back. Outside, a gardener dragged a rake across the freshly mowed lawn. The silence that followed filled the room, and Evie’s hand circled around Charlie’s wrist. Breaking the deadlock, Charlie spoke.

“Mr. Darcy, I—”

“Miss Pemberton, it disappoints me greatly that you did not approach me directly with this problem.” He turned slowly, leaning on his stick, and Evie detected a new expression in his eyes.

“You see, I do know about the Darcy Trust. There is not a great deal for me to do, but I am the trustee, so I am aware of it. I am told whenever a new beneficiary is born or comes of age. I am also told whenever a beneficiary dies. I was sorry to be notified of your late mother’s early death some years ago, and I was aware of the fact that your sister has increased needs.”

He lowered his gaze, and Evie flushed. She had not thought that anyone outside of her immediate circle was aware of it or remotely interested. James’s words and the heat she felt from Charlie’s wrist—which she realised she was still hanging on—made her blink in surprise.

“You see, my understanding is that Fitzwilliam Darcy set up this trust because he thought it possible that, in the future, his female descendants may need it. He didn’t know why or how of course, but nobody ever does, do they? It would have been far more conventional for him to leave his entire estate to his only son, who was my third great grandfather. And yet, he did not. He separated out the Rosschapel estate and left it to his daughters and his daughters’ daughters and so on. What he did was a very definite thing. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a coincidence. He set up this trust because he wanted that money to go to those people. Do you agree with me, Miss Pemberton?”

“Yes.”

“Now. Whatever the truth of things, when he died, he knew that he was including Victoria in that bequest. He intended that she should be considered as his daughter and not the child of another. If he had wanted to exclude her, he could have done so. But he did not. It seems to me that for her to be excluded now and, through her, you and your sister would be the last thing Fitzwilliam Darcy would have wanted. Do you agree with that?”

“I think so, Mr. Darcy.”

“I am going to consider this matter and formulate a response. It may be complex, or it may be simple. I need to think about it. In the meantime, until you hear otherwise, your share of the trust shall remain the same.”

“Thank you.”

“It will take me time to read the whole of this diary and digest its contents, although I am sure that the salient points as described by you, Mr. Haywood, are correct. I should say at this point that I have no intention whatsoever of destroying these papers.”

Evie allowed herself to breathe. She could not understand her relief, but it flooded over her.

“I understand why my third great grandmother and her maid wanted it destroyed, but that was long ago, and I cannot agree that it would be necessary or appropriate now. I hope that does not worry you, Miss Pemberton?”

“No, not at all. I would not destroy it either if I were you.”

“No. And you did not destroy it when you had the opportunity, which I acknowledge.”

“Mr. Darcy?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know how the rumour started?”

“No, I do not, and I think maybe we will never know. The story as you relate it to me is a complete surprise. I certainly have no reason to believe that Victoria was troubled in her lifetime by the circumstances of her birth. Maybe some people were suspicious. It would have appeared odd that she alone of all her siblings was born away from Pemberley, and of course, her date of birth (which may have been falsified) was rather close to that of the final child, Bennet Darcy. Maybe there was a bit of talk. Who knows? We have all played Chinese whispers. Can you imagine a game that lasts nearly two hundred years? I suspect that is how Miss Carter’s Aunt Mary—who, let us not forget, was a very elderly lady and not in good health—came to believe a tale so far from the truth.”

Charlie looked down at her figure beside him before he addressed their hosts. “Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, it has been a tumultuous morning, and I am conscious that, in addition to our other offences, we have trespassed on your time and your home far too long. Unless there is anything you want us to stay for, we’ll head back to London.”

James Darcy nodded. “Very well.”

As Charlie ushered her out of the oak-clad room to the doorway, Evie turned and surprised them all.

“I really did love the painting. Thank you for letting us spend so much time with it—with them. I felt as though I knew them.”

“Of course, you did, my dear. They are your family.”

***

Outside on the gravel drive, Evie sank into the passenger side of the Porsche while Charlie loaded their bags into the boot. He started the engine and drove slowly up towards the road at the top of the valley, Pemberley diminishing in the rear view mirror. He wondered whether he would ever see it again. If it wasn’t for the fact that he never recalled his dreams, he almost might have believed that he had dreamt the whole thing. Evie sat motionless beside him, her hair obscuring her face, and it occurred to him that she might be crying. As they rumbled towards the road at the top of the valley, he reached out his hand to hers. She took it and looked up, dry-eyed.

“Evie?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m sorry, darling.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m not sorry about anything that happened—even getting caught. Thank you for calling time on it as well. I like them, and we owed them the truth. But I am so tired, and I just want to go home.”

“I’ll take you home. You will be back in Fulham in about four hours, tops.”

“I might nap. I’m feeling a bit sleepy.” She crossed her legs and snuggled down into the seat, gently closing her heavy eyelids.

“What do you want me to do when I get you home?”

She opened her eyes to the pale, gold light shimmering through the window and turned in her seat to face him before answering. “Stay.”

Chapter 26

July 1, 1827, Pemberley

Today, I was looking over my left shoulder at Mr. Clerkenman in the pose that I have held for several days, and I was reminded of the late Sir William Lucas about his garden. The small frame of the artist hunched, and his eyes focussed with formidable concentration. He occasionally lets out a sound I do not believe he is aware of, and altogether, the comparison brings a smile to my lips.

“Mrs. Darcy, you have changed your expression. Please, may I ask you to desist?”

I am startled out of my reflections and immediately comply.

“Of course, Mr. Clerkenman.”

I notice Victoria smile out of the corner of my eye and fear that, if I look at her, she shall laugh.

This is the tenth day that this august artist has been at Pemberley, and his direct manner of addressing us has surprised us all, Mr. Darcy in particular, I believe. Nevertheless, it has been a diversion, and every time I look at the underside of the enormous canvas before me, I blush that I shall be at the centre of it. On the first day, after the introductions were made, I sat with all of the girls around me in their various positions. We were told that the artist wished to see us as an ensemble, get a notion of us when we are together. Thereafter, each day has been spent with me and but one of the girls. It was felt that they are too young to be reconciled to more than a few hours of posing, and Mr. Clerkenman has made a number of sketches from which I assume him to be working.

Today is Victoria’s day, and presently she sits on the rug a foot or so from the hem of my gown. From my vantage point, I see her delicate fingers worrying at the ribbon on her dress and the slight twitch of her head of chestnut curls, which speaks of restlessness. If she could tell the time, she would be watching the clock that ticks on the mantle. Alas, she is only five years old and so must amuse herself otherwise. When Mr. Clerkenman indulges us with a short rest, she flings out her arms and breaks into a great smile. I nod to her, and taking my meaning, she thanks the artist before throwing herself at me for an embrace and a request to run to the day nursery to visit Bennet. My son is most put out not to be included in this endeavour, but it is a point on which Fitzwilliam was adamant. There would be, he said, many portraits of Bennet painted in his lifetime, including with his father. This painting, he determined, would feature his wife and daughters and no other. What a thrill I felt when I heard those words!

When Victoria returns from her mercy mission to the nursery, having acquired a small doll that rightly belongs to Beatrice, Mr. Clerkenman is most displeased.

“Miss Darcy’s colour is now too high, Mrs. Darcy, and she is too agitated. We shall have to wait yet awhile for her to restore herself.”

I looked at her flushed face and loosened hair and could not regret it. Yes, we shall wait for her to restore herself, but Victoria is a character who shall not be stopped from running here and there. She plumps down on the floor, throwing her head back in one last laugh before the silence that must follow, and I think instantly of Lydia.

Does any person suspect? I cannot know, and I dare not ask. I look at her pretty round face and mass of curls and worry myself insensible that it is obvious. Fortunately, there is enough likeness to me to be a diversion from the truth, and although she shows every sign of being tall, I shall be able to pass that off as being due to Fitzwilliam. There have been moments of panic over the years. When Bennet was born nine months after Victoria, I believe my sister Kitty looked at me askance. She and I sat in silence in my drawing room one night, and I was sure that she had words she wished to speak. I know not what I would have said in response, and in the event, she turned her face to the fire and spoke not. Even now, she looks at Victoria and tilts her head, and I wonder about how much she has surmised.

Mrs. Reynolds, I have wondered at as well. She says nothing, but when I stepped out of our carriage upon our return from Rosschapel with Victoria in my arms, she blinked before her curtsey. I thanked her profusely for her letters and her care of the household in my absence. Her loyalty to my husband’s family would, I believe, champion over any supposition of her own mind. The discovery, weeks after our return to Pemberley, that I was again with child presented new complications. During one of our morning meetings, I told Mrs. Reynolds that I was expecting again. I had deliberately left it as long as I considered reasonable, knowing it may be necessary later to claim that the babe was before his time. Mrs. Reynolds smiled and congratulated me. Behind those eyes, I saw a question suppressed. I shall not be the one to surface it.

I say “before
his
time” because, in the autumn of 1821, I knew in my bones that I was carrying a son. I knew as well exactly the moment of his creation in the inn by the dock at Dublin. Apart from the occasional necessary remark, Fitzwilliam and I do not speak of the events at Rosschapel. It is part of our story and known to both of us. It is as he suggested to me. We have acted as though Victoria is the child of our bodies; therefore, she is. My eyes move down to her delicate figure on the floor, and I am shocked out of my reverie by her suddenly violent sneeze.

“Miss Darcy!”

“I am sorry, Mr. Clerkenman.
Achoo
!”

The gentleman slams his brush down upon his pallet just as the door creeks open, and Fitzwilliam appears, smiling.

“Papa!” shrieks Victoria, leaping up from her place at my feet and hurling herself into her father’s embrace.

“Well, really,” mutters Mr. Clerkenman, and he peers over his spectacles at me, standing alone before him.

Fitzwilliam, it appears, is unaffected by his discontented resident portraitist.

“Good afternoon, sir. I am pleased to see that matters are proceeding well. I am not here to disturb your endeavours. I came to tell Mrs. Darcy that Mr. and Mrs. Bingley have been seen on the road and should be here within the hour.”

Mr. Clerkenman let out an unfamiliar noise and looked away before saying, “Of course, Mr. Darcy.” I fear that the poor man’s nerves shall not survive his stay with our family, and when Fitzwilliam has departed, I encourage Victoria to sit quietly to enable as much painting as possible before our guests arrive.

How busy is this life? Too busy, I find, for writing, for it is a rarity for me to sit down and record my thoughts where once it was commonplace. I know not whether it is the demands of a large household and six children or simply the contentment of both, but I do not feel the urge to write that once I did. Indeed, it occurs to me that it was rash of me to write as freely as I have done on some subjects. My own words in these pages haunt my mind: this is a story for the ears and the lips. Did I not tell myself that once and yet not take heed? Although there were times, not long ago, when my diary gave me great solace, I wonder now whether I have said too much. I believe I have. And so, I have decided, standing in my sitting room with the sun on my back and Mr. Clerkenman painting away in front of me, that there are certain portions of my books that ought to be destroyed. They are quite safe for the moment as I keep them in the cupboard below my vanity. One day, I shall speak to Hannah, and we shall destroy the parts that should not be seen by other eyes. It shall not be today, for I am engaged in this wonderful prison of sitting in silent happiness with my youngest daughter, and in less than an hour, Jane and Mr. Bingley shall be here. Maybe some time hence, when the painting is completed and the Bingleys are away. With this resolved in my mind, I rest my eyes upon the artist and resolve to think on it no longer.