‘It’s so dispiriting.’ Elizabeth blinked back tears, afraid of breaking down. ‘On the surface, all has gone well. We have been working for years to build Fredo’s reputation. Last year a volume of sermons was accepted for publication. After which he gained the post he has craved. Prebendary, at St Paul’s.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He has joined the committee that runs the cathedral, while retaining two parishes where nominally he is vicar. Curates perform most of the work, while he collects most of the tithes.’
‘Is this not a benefit for your family?’
‘Absolutely! We have a large house near St Paul’s Cathedral. Our own carriage. Fredo is admitted to the highest echelons of the church. He is content in every respect, except one. His wife.’
‘But Lizzy, you have worked so hard! Would his writings have been published, without your help?’
‘Almost certainly not. But this must never be said, or even hinted at. The trouble is that when Fredo’s seniority rises, so does his insecurity. He fears I am a liability, as his family has always maintained. My opinions are flippant. I express them too freely. I write for a popular magazine. My sister is a harlot and a convict. I am a bad influence on the children.’
‘But Lizzy, this is absurd. Mr Sibley married you in full knowledge of your history. What is more, his success is substantially due to your assistance.’
‘Just so, and consider how this humiliates him! Rationally he should be grateful. In reality he hates me all the more.’
Jane gasped. ‘Hates is a strong word.’
‘He holds it in.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘Fredo seldom expresses anger. He has never struck me. Yet a dark cloud overhangs our lives. Mistrust. Disapproval.’
Jane put a maternal arm around her shoulder. ‘Dearest Lizzy. Is it not strange how things turn out?’
Elizabeth’s eyes filled, and she walked on in silence as the path led into a wood.
‘Do you still think of Longbourn?’ Jane asked.
‘Often.’ Elizabeth breathed deeply. ‘Oh Jane, what a mess I made of everything.’
‘If only we had never met Mr Wickham,’ Jane mused. ‘Was he ever caught?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘He probably went abroad in search of further victims.’
‘I never expected to be a farmer’s wife.’ Jane laughed. ‘But there are compensations.’
‘Mr Bingley loved you, dearest.’
‘Perhaps he did. But not well enough to overrule his friend.’
Elizabeth began a reply, but hearing hoof beats they both turned, to see Jane’s eldest son riding after them.
He drew up a few yards away, and cried breathlessly, ‘Aunt Elizabeth, a post-boy’s come with an express. He’s at the porch now in case you have a reply.’
Jane looked at Elizabeth. ‘What can this be?’
‘I have no idea.’ But she could not hide her anxiety.
Back in the drawing room Elizabeth recognised Fredo’s handwriting on the folded note.
You may imagine (or perhaps not) my shock and dismay at returning home to find my children gone. If you would restore them to me forthwith I should be grateful.
Hovering near the door, Jane asked, ‘Is all well, Lizzy?’
‘No-one has come to harm, at least.’ Elizabeth handed the note across, and observed Jane’s startled expression as she read it.
‘Unpleasant.’ She gave it back. ‘How will you reply?’
Elizabeth considered. They had planned to stay three more days, and it would upset her to inconvenience the Gardiners by cutting short their visit. ‘Fredo knows the date of our return, since I left a note with Harriet. I shall thank him for his enquiry and inform him that our plans are unchanged.’
‘He will be displeased, Lizzy.’
‘I cannot answer for another person’s moods.’
They had moved to a house in Carter Lane, at the back of St Paul’s Churchyard. It was a more prestigious area than Spitalfields, and within walking distance of Cheapside, as well as the magazine publishers in Paternoster Row. Elizabeth found Fredo with his sister, who had been visiting. They had a spare bedroom, so Martha could have stayed. Instead she demanded a hackney, sweeping past Elizabeth without a word.
With the children Fredo was sweetness and light, but over dinner he faced Elizabeth with the air of one striving to be lenient despite relentless misuse.
‘I thought I had made it clear that such outings should be undertaken only with my permission. Can it be that I was insufficiently explicit? I could write it down, if that would help.’
‘I’m sorry, Fredo, but the opportunity arose suddenly, and you know how the children love to visit their Aunt Jane. It does them good to leave smoky London for a few days and breathe fresh country air. I did leave word, and hope that as their mother I can take such decisions during your absence.’
‘Then I remind you of the law. You have no right to act against my instructions, whether I happen to be present or not.’
She sighed, longing to puncture his self-importance, but afraid of starting a quarrel that would upset the children. ‘Come dear, no harm resulted, and Grace and Robert had the happiest time. Tell me about Oxford. Did your colleagues admire your tract on Holy Baptism?’
His manner relaxed for a moment, but he steeled himself. ‘I shall not be deflected, Elizabeth. It’s time you understood your responsibilities. On which subject, there’s another point I must raise. This work at the, ah, magazine.’ He waved his arms, disdaining to mention the full title. ‘Do you not see that it is unseemly, for the wife of a man in my position?’
Elizabeth could not help smiling. ‘When has that been a problem? My reviews are signed only with my initials. Have your colleagues said anything?’
He hesitated. ‘The anomaly has been, ah, noticed.’
‘Your family then?’ He coloured, and she realised what must have happened. ‘Of course. Martha!’
Unusually his control wavered, and he spluttered, ‘It is not your place to interrogate me. Contributing to this, ah, publication is unseemly. It has been remarked upon. It will stop. Do I make myself clear?’
Elizabeth fell silent, trying to hide her distress. They had argued before, but seldom so disagreeably.
‘Well?’ he pressed.
‘I understand what you are saying.’
She resumed eating, hoping this would satisfy him for now.
Next day Fredo’s duties took him to the Bishop’s Palace, and Elizabeth took the opportunity to visit the Mountjoy residence in Mayfair. Julia had a boy now, Robert’s age, an only child: the earl, delighted with his heir, remained cautious over Julia’s health.
The countess’s usual calm gave way to anger as Elizabeth described her difficulties. She could accept the dispute over the children as understandable, if unfortunate. But to prevent someone from publishing was bizarre, and seemed motivated by sheer spite.
‘He cannot do this to you!’ she said.
‘Legally he can.’
‘Legally men can do anything they want, but it is ridiculous. Have you spoken to John Allsop?’
Elizabeth nodded: she had passed by the editor’s office on the way. ‘He suggests I ignore Fredo and write the pieces anyway. They can sign them with different initials and keep my authorship secret.’
‘Did you agree?’
‘No. Why should I be obliged to deceive my husband, when I’m doing nothing wrong?’
‘Poor Lizzy.’ Julia covered her face. ‘I blame myself. I should never have introduced you to Fredo and his Medusa of a sister in the first place.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘My marriage has not been that bad. We have had happy times in the past, and may do again. Fredo just feels under pressure, with so much expected of him.’
‘I would not be so charitable.’ Julia smiled. ‘You make no effort to defend his sister.’
Elizabeth snorted. ‘Is Henry well?’
‘So-so. We had bad news during the weekend. About someone you know, in fact, Mr
Darcy. His wife Arethusa is sick, with consumption. He has been advised to prepare for the worst.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Elizabeth coloured, recalling her attack of jealousy on seeing Mrs Darcy at the opera. ‘Have you met her?’
‘Once or twice. Unusual woman. Reserved, studious, interested in science. Devoted to Darcy.’
‘Do they have children?’
Julia shook her head. ‘To their great regret.’
Elizabeth thought of her beloved Grace and Robert. Yes, she had problems. But much to be thankful for, too. Perhaps she should make more effort to see Fredo’s point of view. Even sacrifice her writing, if it distressed him so much.
They drank Chianti, a reminder of Tuscany, and talked of happier things.
Part II: After
7
Spring 1838, London
In the tearooms at Vauxhall Gardens, Elizabeth sat opposite Sir Nicholas Sibley and his wife Lady Beatrice. The baronet was a stouter version of Fredo—long-faced, but of only middling height. She could find in him none of Fredo’s gentleness or ambition, only a brittle disavowal of anything unconventional. His wife was small, with prettyish features in a puffy face; in conversation, she seemed content to echo whatever her husband said.
The gardens were not busy yet; parts were closed so that new spectacles could be prepared for the coronation, just two months away. The children of both families had gone with Fredo and Martha to view acrobats and a tight-rope walker. Elizabeth would have preferred to accompany them, but Lady Beatrice had urged her to take tea.
‘We are relieved to find matters settled.’ Sir Nicholas offered cream cakes to his wife before transferring a jam tart to his plate. ‘The disruption must be troubling for the little ones.’
‘It is such a difficult age,’ Lady Beatrice said.
Elizabeth sipped tea, wondering what could be said in reply to this. Was she being praised for no longer stirring up trouble? Eventually she tried to make light of it, and said with a smile, ‘Is there is an age at which children are not difficult?’
Lady Beatrice twitched, and looked at her husband, as if expecting him to deal with this remark.
‘I see no call for flippancy, ah, Elizabeth.’ Sir Nicholas hesitated over the name, as if it pained him to use it. ‘We are naturally protective of Frederick’s children, given the unfortunate situation of your family.’
‘You refer to my sister’s transportation?’
He frowned. ‘If you must be explicit.’
‘It was certainly unfortunate,’ Elizabeth said. ‘For everyone, Lydia most of all. But I cannot believe this exposes our children to danger. If it did, Fredo would never have married me in the first place.’
‘He assumed, no doubt, that you would take appropriate measures to reduce the risk.’
Elizabeth eyed a cream cake, and to relieve her irritation, imagined squashing it in the baronet’s sanctimonious face. Instead she forced another smile. ‘And what precisely is the nature of this risk?’
He waved his arms. ‘Your family, obviously. Visits.’
‘To Jane’s farm? I can assure you, sir, that there are no dangerous animals there except the bull, which is kept in secure isolation.’
His fists tightened, in a gesture of restrained anger that reminded her of Fredo. Lady Beatrice waited a moment, before saying, ‘As you must realise, we refer to their reputation and moral character.’
Elizabeth faced her, and said earnestly, ‘Your ladyship, you would not speak thus if you had met Jane. She is the kindest person imaginable.’
‘Kindness is all very well.’ The baronet had recovered his poise. ‘Children require firmness, and moral example. But enough of this. I am told you have ended your writing of frivolous material for magazines, and promised no repetition of the escapade in Hertfordshire. If so, well and good.’
‘We do wish the best for you,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘It is just that you are so, ah, argumentative.’
Elizabeth took a deep breath, and made no reply.
Back at Carter Lane, Fredo had left on cathedral business, leaving Elizabeth to continue her editing of a long tract on prayers for the dead. The Tractarian movement was now publishing freely, pressing for a High Church Protestantism which reintroduced traditional doctrines of Catholicism while remaining critical of recent popes. A tract could be any length from a short essay to a book. To Elizabeth’s relief, Fredo’s efforts tended to the former; even so, rewriting his tortuous manuscripts took up much of her time.
Later in the afternoon she went to the nursery to have tea with Grace and Robert—and give their governess a rest. Nearly twelve now, Grace still reminded her of Jane, except that her manner was more outspoken. In accomplishments she was average: played the piano a little, drew a little, read enough to complete her lessons but no more. Her social acumen was remarkable: she picked up undercurrents with a facility incongruous in a child. Robert was different: small, neat, bookish, often so lost in thought that he hardly noticed his environment.
‘You enjoyed the gardens?’ Elizabeth asked.
Robert said seriously, ‘I liked the tightrope walker.’
‘Aunt Martha was terrified,’ Grace put in. ‘But Elspeth was hoping the man would fall.’
Elizabeth gasped in mock horror. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true! When he wobbled she got excited.’
‘Would he have died, mama?’ Robert asked.
Elizabeth had seen the drop, which would be like falling from a second-floor window. ‘Perhaps.’
‘I liked the pole,’ Robert said. ‘The way it helped him keep his balance.’
‘Who cares twopence about the pole?’ Grace turned to Elizabeth. ‘Aunt Martha doesn’t like you.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Your name is never uttered, only a pronoun. “She is always running off to Hertfordshire. She kept us waiting.” Always she this and she that.’
‘And does she, meaning Martha, talk about me a lot?’
‘Only when speaking to Papa.’
‘They were whispering,’ Robert said. ‘They didn’t want us to hear.’
‘That proves what a bottle-head you are because actually we could hear, and Aunt Martha knew it. I caught her once glancing to see how I reacted.’
‘Grace, apologise to Robert,’ Elizabeth said.
‘But mama, what I said was true.’
‘You can give your opinion without being rude.’
‘My head is not bottle-shaped,’ Robert said seriously, ‘so I think Gracie was joking.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘That’s a diplomatic way of putting it, dear.’
Grace dealt Robert a tongue-poke. ‘Bottle-headed way of putting it.’
Elizabeth let this pass, seeing they were fooling around rather than quarrelling.
‘What does diplomatic mean?’ Robert asked.
Elizabeth had to puzzle about that one. What a boon to have a governess …
In the drawing room Elizabeth poured a glass of claret and allowed herself a rare moment of solitude. Since her last visit to Jane she had worked hard to restore domestic calm. To appease Fredo she had broken off her work at The Lady’s Magazine, rejecting the option of continuing in secret as too risky. Submission went against the grain, but in compensation there were no arguments to distress the children.
Her mind returned often to the encounter with Darcy on the railway line to Euston. They had remained in the open carriage until Harrow and Pinner station, where after a downpour they ran to first class. They talked mostly of children—her own, and also his nephews and nieces. At Euston he suggested a warming cup of coffee, an offer she declined, fearing that whispers might reach Fredo’s family. Darcy had gallantly called her a hackney instead—and insisted on paying the driver.
She wondered whether they would meet again. It had been painful in a way, reminding her of past follies. On the other hand she had enjoyed their bumpy ride. It was as if a woman hidden inside had reawakened, like Snow White on finding her prince.
Harriet entered, holding an envelope.
‘This just arrived, ma’am.’
The message was not sent through normal post; she recognised Mr Gardiner’s handwriting on the inscription, For the personal attention of Mrs Elizabeth Sibley. Inside was a second envelope, addressed to Gracechurch Street. It was frayed and repeatedly franked; from the blurring of the ink it had been damaged by water. But the script was familiar. It was from Lydia.
Dear Uncle, Bill is dead from smallpox and I am left alone with Peter. I want to return home but would need £65 to cover the fare in second-class. I get some work supervising at the Female Factory in Paramatta but not enough to save up. A promissory note would serve. It is a lot, I know, and I would have to stay with you at first when I arrive. You could ask Jane or Lizzy but perhaps they would rather not …
Elizabeth scanned the rest, which described Bill Cobb’s last days, and the room Lydia was renting near the factory. The sum would not have seemed large, once. But Mr Gardiner was retired, and frail. His sons might help. But how to support Lydia after her return? Could Jane take her in?
Elizabeth took the letter to the study and wrote out a copy, so that she could forward the original to Jane.
There had been no mention of Lydia’s letter during dinner. Fredo was excited, expecting acclaim for his latest tract: the Tractarians were winning converts among Anglican bishops. The children were in bed, after Fredo had heard their prayers. The household was so peaceful that Elizabeth was loath to speak.
But sooner or later, the news had to be imparted.
His reaction at first was one of forced calm. A pity about the husband. Apparently Lydia was coping. Perhaps she would marry again.
‘She wants to return,’ Elizabeth said. ‘The poor woman has been away now for 24 years.’
He shook his head. ‘Sisterly affection is clouding your judgement, dear. Would it not be better for all concerned if she stayed?’
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