Darcy's Redemption

by M. A. Sandiford

  ‘I’d like you to stay, Harriet. I will be living here, and I trust the children will join me soon. As for references, if you serve me honestly, you will both leave with an excellent recommendation.’

  A sigh from Harriet. ‘Thank you, ma’am. Will you be needing anything more tonight?’

  The prospect of passing this night in Carter Lane was chilling. The hour was late, but Lydia would be worrying what had happened.

  ‘Has Dawson returned?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago, ma’am.’

  ‘Then ask him to call me a cab directly.’

  As the hackney neared Mayfair, Elizabeth saw the time on a church clock. Ten past eleven. She had paused at Chandos Street to pass on her news to a shocked Lydia. Now she was bound for Mountjoy House. She needed her familiar room, and the company of friends.

  Her thoughts kept returning to Fredo. The manner of his death overshadowed any other consideration. But she had experienced bereavement before, and knew that the focus would shift later to his life as a whole. She would seek, somehow, a way of making peace with his memory.

  Yet now, only hours after the tragedy, another feeling struck her with startling force. She was free. In Caroline Norton’s words, she existed as a legal entity. She had control over her possessions. She could go where she liked. Sign contracts. Keep any money she earned. Servants would obey her instructions. The children would live with her.

  At Mountjoy House the earl and countess were abed. Elizabeth preferred not to disturb them. She returned to the cab and directed the driver to Grosvenor Street.

  Since Georgiana was present as well as Darcy, Elizabeth told her story without identifying Wickham as the man employed by Fredo to shadow her.

  ‘What a terrifying ordeal!’ Georgiana rose. ‘Let me order a hot drink to revive you. And feel free to stay for the night. Anne’s room is available.’

  Georgiana left to make these arrangements, and Elizabeth lost no time informing Darcy of the full story. He listened in silence, his face giving little away. But between them hung a thought that she dared not express. Sibley was no more. After mourning him for a year, she would be free to marry the man she loved. The idea of welcoming a man’s death was so abhorrent that she buried it at the back of her mind.

  Darcy showed no sign that his thoughts were running on these lines. Instead, he thanked her for her consideration to Georgiana.

  ‘So that devil returns to torment us again.’ He sighed. ‘I am shocked that he so nearly caused you harm. Whatever we may think of your husband, he died bravely trying to protect you.’

  ‘I believe Fredo wished us to be reconciled, at the end. But the trauma was so great he could not speak.’ Elizabeth paused to thank a maid, who had brought a mug of cocoa. ‘I feel riven apart, William. I want to think about Fredo, and assimilate what has happened. But there is so much to do.’

  ‘That is often the way. Responsibilities descend on you when you can least cope.’

  Elizabeth explained the actions she had taken so far.

  ‘You’ve made a good start,’ Darcy said. ‘Do you have enough money for your immediate needs?’

  ‘I found the cashbox, which will meet our household expenses for this week.’ She grimaced. ‘I also have some banknotes that Wickham dropped during the struggle. A constable handed them to me later.’

  ‘I would urge you to consult a lawyer, not only to sort out the finances, but to support you at the inquest tomorrow. I will ask Soames if you wish.’

  She flinched. ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘I strongly recommend it, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Then please ask him to attend.’

  She studied Darcy’s grave countenance, realising how much she relied on him.

  26

  The Old Bell Tavern opened out from its narrow facade to a fair-sized room, set up with chairs in rows facing the coroner’s table. Two constables guarded Wickham, shackled hand and foot; opposite, near the front, the deceased was laid out. Attired in black bombazine trimmed with crepe, Elizabeth sat beside Lydia and Soames. Colleagues of Fredo’s were in attendance; so were a group of reporters. As yet she saw no sign of the Sibleys.

  She had conferred with Soames at Carter Lane, where Peter was now in Harriet’s care. The lawyer’s advice was to answer all questions truthfully, without elaboration. If asked explicitly about their history with Wickham, they should give the bare information requested, but no more. Similarly, there was no need for Elizabeth to mention her rift with Fredo except in response to a direct enquiry.

  The coroner was a stout, affable man, straightforward in dress and manner, and brisk in speech, as if in a hurry. At 3.30 pm, the scheduled start, he called the meeting to order, only to be interrupted by a voice from the back.

  ‘May I speak?’

  ‘If you must, Mr, ah …’

  ‘Flynn. Representing the family. I request a postponement so that Sir Nicholas Sibley, brother of the deceased, can attend.’

  ‘He is expected shortly?’

  ‘Half an hour, sir.’

  ‘Denied. The proceedings will last at least that long, so Sir Nicholas can have his say at the end. I call Constable Albert Trott, first officer to arrive on the scene.’

  Elizabeth recognised the policeman who had accompanied her to St Bartholomew’s. He gave his testimony as expected. He had heard a lady, Mrs Lydia Cobb, crying for help outside St Paul’s Cathedral. Found Mrs Sibley at her husband’s side. Sent a junior colleague to the hospital to fetch a medical transport team.

  Another constable had seen Lydia punch Wickham, a testimony that brought contemptuous laughter from the audience. While being handcuffed, Wickham had protested that the stabbing was accidental—so admitting that he was not merely an innocent passer-by.

  Next came the junior surgeon, who described the scene that had awaited him in the churchyard, and the injuries to heart and lungs recorded on the death certificate.

  Then it was Elizabeth’s turn.

  She was seated at the front, at an angle allowing her to see the audience as well as the coroner.

  ‘My deepest condolences,’ the coroner began.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘We have established the location of the tragedy, the dramatis personae, the outcome. What is not yet clear is how the various parties arrived on the scene.’

  Responding, Elizabeth found it hard not to elaborate. She explained why they had trailed Wickham across London. As she spoke two people pushed in at the back, and she saw Sir Nicholas and Martha Sibley glaring at her with undisguised hostility.

  ‘Mrs Sibley?’ prompted the coroner.

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘I was asking why you remained in concealment.’

  ‘I was curious what business my husband had with Mr Wickham.’

  ‘You overheard their conversation?’

  ‘Some of it.’

  ‘Can you summarise?’

  ‘They seemed to have met before and arranged for Mr Wickham to track my movements. He described my visits to friends in Mayfair; then he demanded payment. At this point I came out to warn my husband not to trust him.’

  A hush descended over the gathering as they moved to the denouement.

  ‘So in your view, Mr Wickham had no reason to harm your husband?’

  ‘None. He wanted to extort money, then flee.’

  ‘Did you witness an action of stabbing?’

  ‘No. They fell while fighting for control over the knife. I assume that by mischance the blade was pointing at my husband’s chest when Mr Wickham fell on top of him.’

  ‘In other words, you believe the stabbing accidental.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You described Mr Wickham as untrustworthy. Was he ever, to your knowledge, guilty of violence?’

  ‘Formerly, never. Which is why I was astonished when he held a knife to my throat.’

  ‘You must have been terrified.’

  ‘Shocked rather than terrified. I simply did not believe that the man I once kne
w would injure me.’

  She glanced at Wickham, who gave a slight nod.

  The next witness was Lydia, who showed great skill in giving non-committal responses. Elizabeth knew she had testified at trials in Sydney, after the riots, treading a thin line between obstructing the court and grassing on her fellow-convicts. By the end, she had added little to Elizabeth’s account, which she confirmed in every detail.

  Wickham was next. Elizabeth expected outright denial, since nobody had actually seen him fight Sibley except for herself and Lydia. But from the start Wickham admitted his prior agreement with Sibley. This part of the story was new, and Elizabeth listened anxiously, fearing he might take the opportunity to blacken Darcy’s name.

  To her relief, he did not. Yes, he mentioned that she had stayed in Mountjoy House and visited Darcy House. But he alleged no impropriety. At one point he looked at her with a slight raise of the eyebrow. Perhaps this was a quid pro quo, she thought. She had declared the stabbing accidental. In return, he would gloss over the intimacies he had reported to Sibley.

  ‘So I acted in defence of my rights,’ he said, appealing to the whole gathering. ‘I was hired to perform a job for £15. Reverend Sibley refused to pay. I was left no alternative. Of course I’d never have harmed Mrs Sibley, whom I hold in the highest esteem. I assumed her husband would see sense and pay up. Instead he attacked me and tried to grab the weapon. For my own safety I resisted. It was an unfortunate accident, and I extend my sympathy to Mrs Sibley and other members of his family.’

  Wickham retained his charm, Elizabeth thought. Even facing a potential prosecution for murder, he simpered to the audience. But this last declaration was too much, and a groan echoed round the tavern.

  The coroner raised a hand. ‘Silence! We are not here to try Mr Wickham. In due course I imagine he will be prosecuted for extortion. But in regard to Mr Sibley’s death, our witnesses concur on all essential points. I see no evidence of pre-meditated murder. My conclusion is that Mr Sibley died through an act of involuntary manslaughter.’

  A nod from Soames suggested he welcomed this outcome. But heads turned to the back as Sir Nicholas Sibley rose with such force that he knocked his chair over.

  ‘With respect, sir, this investigation is a travesty. You have overlooked a factor that casts the whole episode in a far more sinister light.’

  The coroner frowned. ‘And what is that, pray?’

  ‘The witnesses are old confederates, all of dubious character.’ He pointed at Lydia. ‘This woman is a convict who in collaboration with Mr Wickham committed harlotry with theft. Her sister, the wife of my unfortunate brother, has disgraced him by her improper conduct. Is it not plain what occurred? All this talk of an accident is theatre. Nobody else observed it. I submit that in reality, Mrs Sibley wanted rid of my brother, and found willing accomplices in her sister and old acquaintance.’

  Soames rose to his feet before the coroner could reply. ‘May I remind all present, and especially members of the press, that this accusation is slanderous.’ His voice was as usual impassive, as if making a routine announcement.

  The coroner addressed Sir Nicholas. ‘Your opinion is noted, sir, but you have advanced no new evidence. Mrs Sibley has already testified that her family was acquainted with Mr Wickham. She has also acknowledged a dispute with her husband. The rest is supposition. My verdict remains as before.’

  There was an excited murmur as heads turned back to Sir Nicholas. Red-faced, he pointed to Elizabeth.

  ‘Do not imagine, madam, that you will get away with this atrocity. I intend to initiate a private prosecution on the charge of conspiracy to murder.’

  27

  The week that followed saw Elizabeth at her lowest point since the death of her father. She dreaded a further confrontation with the Sibleys at the funeral. First came the gauntlet of the newspapers, which alighted on the tragedy with the alacrity of a pig sniffing a trough of swill. For the first time, Elizabeth truly appreciated what Caroline Norton had endured.

  The Times gave the inquest a full column under the title Baronet accuses sister-in-law of murder. Pens had been busy in the back row: much of the testimony was recorded verbatim. An artist had drawn Wickham sitting in chains next to a constable. Another reporter had dug up Lydia’s court case from 1813. Elizabeth glanced at other dailies, which carried less detailed reports with no pictures.

  She understood now why Darcy had wanted a lawyer to support her at the inquest. In her innocence, she had not foreseen how the episode might appear to others—not only the Sibleys, but society in general. The coroner had accepted her testimony, but others noticed only that a woman quarrelling with her husband had been present at his violent death, along with a sister transported for theft, and an acquaintance of poor reputation.

  At the funeral the scandal was not mentioned: the focus was on Fredo’s career in the church. The ceremony was held in St Paul’s with the Bishop of London presiding. Clergymen and theologians spoke of Sibley’s dedicated pastoral mission at Spitalfields, and the tracts through which he had contributed to the Oxford Movement. The bishop expressed sympathy for the family, with a brief reference to the deceased’s wife and children.

  After the funeral, she was obliged to sit opposite Sir Nicholas Sibley as lawyers read the will. The estate would be held in trust for Robert, the trustees being Sir Nicholas, and Fredo’s lawyer. For Elizabeth a jointure had been allotted in her marriage settlement amounting to £200 a year. To this would be added a small contribution from a fund for clergymen’s widows.

  Fredo’s accountant, also present, stressed that the estate was almost negligible. Fredo had set aside no savings. House and carriage were leased. Bank deposits amounted to a month’s pay. Domestic possessions were valued at £250. There would be a trickle of royalties, but tracts on topics such as Transubstantiation and Prayers for the Dead did not command a wide readership.

  Elizabeth decided to make Carter Lane her home, and invited Lydia and Peter to join her. She could afford to keep the servants until the spring, when the lease ran out. It upset her to be distant from Julia and Darcy, but on the plus side she was at walking distance from Cheapside and Paternoster Row. She could write for the magazine in the knowledge that the proceeds were legally hers.

  Soames called often to help prepare the defence. Since Sir Nicholas alleged conspiracy with Wickham and Lydia, all three were charged; Darcy had been subpoenaed, presumably to give evidence on his relationship with Elizabeth. Soames advised Elizabeth to delay any legal action to recover Grace and Robert: this would never be conceded with such an accusation hanging over their mother.

  At nights Elizabeth lay awake consumed by fear and guilt. Fredo dead; Lydia once more in the dock; Darcy’s reputation dragged through the mud. What had she done to embroil the people she loved in such an ordeal?

  Friends rallied round. Jane and Mary sent kind letters. A note from Caroline Norton wished her luck in the trial. Darcy called with Julia to find out whether there was anything she needed. All were aware that servants should not see Darcy alone with Elizabeth. Too obvious an intimacy would only strengthen Sir Nicholas’s case.

  By the weekend Elizabeth was settling into a routine. The servants accepted her without reservation. Soames called most days to discuss preparations for the trial. Lydia liked the spacious house, and Peter finally got used to sleeping alone. Elizabeth did not feel up to magazine work yet; instead, she began organising Fredo’s writings, including an unfinished tract on Purgatory. As a homage, she tried to rewrite it for posthumous publication.

  In the daily newspapers the brouhaha had died down, but she had reckoned without the weeklies, and in particular The Satirist, which specialised in scandalous goings-on in the ton. It was not a magazine she had bought before, but while passing a stall near St Paul’s, Lydia happened to observe the front page. It juxtaposed two caricatures of Elizabeth: first, a widow weeping at her husband’s grave; second, a sorceress urging a ne’er-do-well to murder, under the heading Will no-one r
id me of this meddlesome priest? A question mark linked the cartoons, asking whether she fell into the former category or the latter.

  In Saturday’s post Elizabeth received a very different sort of publication with the compliments of the Bishop of London’s office: the November issue of The Church Magazine included a last-minute obituary of Fredo by an Oxford professor. It focussed on his theological works, and included the following:

  Frederick Sibley will be remembered, not as an originator of new doctrine, but as a lucid expositor who untangled complex theological disputations and made them more accessible to the lay reader—and, if we are honest, to academics as well. The grace and wit of his writings leave a legacy that will long endure. We are all the poorer for his tragic passing.

  For the first time that day, Elizabeth managed a smile. If only they knew!

  28

  December 1838

  As the decisive day approached, the gossip columns again caught the whiff of scandal—all the more alluring when it was decided to hold the trials during the same afternoon. First, the private prosecution of Elizabeth Sibley and her so-called conspirators. Next, Crown against Wickham, in which a charge of paid assassin would be added to Wickham’s other offences if Elizabeth were found guilty.

  For a second time Elizabeth and Lydia found themselves in the Old Bailey Justice Hall. Beneath the judge’s pedestal the opposing teams faced one another across a table. Mr Flynn represented the Sibleys; Mr Soames defended Elizabeth and Lydia; a public prosecutor waited in readiness for the case against Wickham, who had elected to speak for himself. The judge was a wizened man in his sixties with a nasal voice that exuded distaste for lawyers and witnesses alike.

  From her seat beside Soames, Elizabeth saw a stony-faced Sir Nicholas Sibley in the gallery, accompanied by Lady Beatrice and Martha. Darcy sat beside Mr Gardiner, with Julia and Henry Mountjoy nearby.