In the perpetual heat and bright sunshine, the city had a lazy feel. Dogs sprawled on the pavements; the people moved slowly, took their time over meals. Their party had a seat by the open window on a table for six, adults facing children. As usual the earl ordered for all of them, after a conversation in rapid Italian with the head waiter. Ham with melon. Tagliatelle in broth. Fresh bream with greens sautéed with garlic. All accompanied by the delicious unsalted Tuscan bread, and flasks of robust Chianti in straw baskets. The children ate everything. Robert and Samuel talked of lizards, their latest interest. Grace watched other diners, especially the ladies: she was developing an eye for fashion. Julia and Henry talked about La Giovane Italia, the movement founded by Mazzini to promote Italian unification.
Elizabeth was now in half-mourning, and hence relieved from wearing black in the unrelenting heat. She had bought two modest grey dresses, a light bonnet, a parasol. Her mind wandered as the Mountjoys discussed Mazzini and Garibaldi. Grace was eavesdropping on a couple at the next table: she was fast picking up Italian. The boys too, partly from Miss Staddon, now enjoying her day off, but mostly from other families staying at Villa la Pietra.
Elizabeth looked out of the window, at a barge inching along the Arne. In six weeks they would begin the journey home, to a new life. She had come to Italy to convalesce, both physically, and spiritually, if that high-sounding word meant anything. To her it meant a reflection on Fredo, a settling of accounts that would give her peace.
She had devoted many days to a final revision of Fredo’s writings. At first the aim had been to create a publishable version of the unfinished tract on Purgatory. But she had brought his other works, and on re-reading them saw ways in which they could be improved. The idea grew of collecting them in a magnum opus. With a preface by the Bishop of London or Professor Neville, it might be taken seriously and serve as Fredo’s memorial.
A more painful task was to disentangle the reasons for their falling out. She could not easily forgive his treatment of her. Fredo had seen her as the law saw all women: as a resource to serve her husband’s interests. Yet she could not think of him as a bad man. Emotionally such a valuation was unbearable, since she saw Fredo in Grace and Robert. It was also unfair. He had been gentle. Kind to children. He did not gamble or drink. He worked conscientiously towards an intellectual and moral purpose. He might have lived in harmony—with a different wife.
In a way the problem lay not with Fredo, but herself. Many women were content to play a submissive role. She was not. As a child she had enjoyed her father’s respect as a conversational equal. He did not always agree: he had overruled her, for instance, on Lydia’s trip to Brighton. But he had listened, admitted when she was right, valued her acuteness. There had been no brother to usurp her role. If Mr Bennet wanted intelligent conversation he had turned to her. Not his wife, nor Mary or Jane. Her, Elizabeth. Together they had discussed books, dissected the vicar’s sermons, made fun of neighbours. And so her personality had been formed. Confident, argumentative, humorous …
Not an ideal wife for a man who longed to succeed as a theologian, but lacked security and quickness of mind.
So what could she have done? Change her character, curb her love of discussion and banter? Had her unusual upbringing made her eccentric, unable to participate in a normal marriage?
But Darcy loved her, and what was more, he knew her better than Fredo had ever done. For over a year they had talked intimately. With Darcy there had never been cause to dissimulate. She could relax, in the knowledge that he would not misinterpret, recoil in shock, or take offence at her frivolity. He loved the very attributes Fredo had deprecated.
Julia touched her arm. ‘A lira for your thoughts.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Not for sale.’
‘What are your thoughts on dessert?’ asked the earl.
She looked at the children. ‘Gelato?’
The boys cheered. Grace nodded demurely.
They walked lazily over Ponte Vecchio, an ancient bridge over the River Arne lined with jewellers shops. Outside the Palazzo Vecchio stood Michelangelo’s David, alongside a statue of Hercules. They entered the Uffizi with its long galleries full of Greek, Roman and Egyptian antiquities, and paintings from all over Europe. The children looked with wonder at statues showing the naked human form, such as the Venus de Medici, claimed by many to represent an ideal of female beauty. A youth was drawing the statue in charcoal; his face, with its deep brown eyes and dark curls, seemed to fascinate Grace, who moved to glance at his sketch.
He looked up and smiled. ‘Ti piace?’ Like it?
Grace’s lip curled: she was offended perhaps by the pronoun, suitable for a child or an intimate. ‘Passabile.’
His eyebrows flashed. ‘La signorina ha la lingua tagliente.’ The young lady has a sharp tongue.
‘Allora, sta attento!’ Then watch it!
Grace walked past with head held high, the young man observing as if bewitched. Elizabeth exchanged a smile with Julia and Henry. Now 13 years old, Grace was nearly Elizabeth’s height; in a year she would be taller. Already one could foresee the woman she would become: a willowy dark-blonde with delicate profile, a proud bearing, and yes, la lingua tagliente. She had put the young artist in his place and gained his admiration. Her first victory, possibly, but not her last.
With clear skies and full moon, Villa la Pietra was silhouetted in silvery light. Supper was over; the boys had gone to bed. Ahead, Henry and Julia walked arm in arm in the gardens, while Elizabeth followed with Grace.
‘Were you here with … Father?’ Grace asked.
‘Yes, the gardens are just as they were. I think paradise must be like this.’ Elizabeth rubbed her wrist. ‘Except for the mosquitos.’
They passed a tangled shrub where fireflies twinkled. ‘What was Father like then?’
Elizabeth breathed deeply. ‘He had a kind of dignified charm. Gentle, courtly. Treated me as if I were an angel.’ She grimaced. ‘Until he realised I wasn’t.’
Grace hesitated. ‘I talk to him sometimes. At night, after saying my prayers.’
‘I don’t, much. But I imagine that I’m talking with my own father.’
‘When we go home …’
Grace broke off, and after a few seconds, Elizabeth said, ‘Yes, dear?’
‘I was wondering where home will be.’ Her voice trembled. ‘You will marry Mr Darcy, no?’
Elizabeth was tempted to equivocate, but sensed that Grace wanted security. ‘Yes. We will live on his estate in Derbyshire.’
‘Pemberley.’ She rolled the word on her tongue. ‘You said you had visited once.’
‘Only when Mr Darcy was away.’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘I was afraid to meet him again, because we had quarrelled.’
Grace snorted. ‘So you fight with him too.’
‘Not any more, except over trivialities.’ Elizabeth took Grace’s arm. ‘You’ve seen how I am with Mr Darcy. We tease, but we don’t lose our tempers.’
‘Then why did you quarrel before?’
‘I foolishly let myself be deceived by a man that spoke ill of him.’
Grace fell silent, then said, ‘It’s strange. People say you are arrogant and opinionated. Aunt Martha, Uncle Nicholas, even Father. But you are also the only person I know who points out her own failings.’
‘Perhaps I have more reason.’
‘That is just more nonsense, but what I find unusual is that you admit mistakes without shame. I think that’s why people find you arrogant. It’s as if you have so much self-confidence that you can live with your weaknesses.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘The trouble with you is that you see other people more clearly than they see themselves.’
‘If so, I get it from you.’ Grace met her eye. ‘But unlike you, I keep my observations to myself, and tell people the lies they want to hear.’
‘You’re not telling lies now.’
‘That’s because you can accept the truth, whether flattering or not. You just think it’s amu
sing.’
‘I haven’t found much to amuse me the past year.’
‘Nor I. But we’re recovering, aren’t we?’ Grace sighed. ‘I’m glad we’re going to live with Mr Darcy. I found him daunting at first, when you came to rescue us from Uncle Nicholas. But he always treats me with respect.’
‘Do you think Robert likes him?’
‘He feels safe when Mr Darcy is nearby.’
‘It won’t be long now.’
They began climbing the steps up to the house. It was a relief that Grace and Robert looked forward to life at Pemberley—as did she. Nevertheless, a quiver of unease remained as Elizabeth contemplated a second foray into marriage. To live with the man she loved, she would have to surrender her right to control her own destiny. She recalled Caroline Norton’s brutally accurate warning: a married woman has no legal existence.
She trusted Darcy whole-heartedly. Even so, she wondered whether he really understood the value of what she was giving up.
36
November 1839, London
A year and a day after her husband’s passing, Elizabeth stood by the Sibley mausoleum in Kensal Green. The afternoon had a mild autumnal feel, with fallen leaves reduced by rainfall to mulch. She had come alone, leaving Grace and Robert behind at Mountjoy House. Her period of mourning was over. It was time for a final farewell.
She had not seen Darcy yet. He knew she was back—she had written promptly—and would be travelling down from Pemberley. That morning she had personally delivered a bulky manuscript to the Church Magazine’s publisher in Paternoster Row. It collected all Fredo’s theological writings, including the tract on Purgatory that she had finished off. Professor Neville had agreed to provide an introduction; the Bishop of London, an appreciation. It was a relief to have consigned this labour which had occupied her for months.
‘Well, Fredo.’ She patted the cold stone, mouthing her words silently. ‘I trust you are in paradise now, purged of your sins, if you ever committed any. I have done my best to secure your legacy. And I too have sought purification, of a different kind.’
Yes, different, she thought, for the months in Italy had not cleansed her through pain, or fire, or prayer. She had lived in a city where people valued art, culture, civilisation: it shone out in their architecture, their gardens, their use of language, their enjoyment of food and wine. Her companions had liked and trusted her. She had become a source of stability for her children. The traumas of last year had been overwritten by the comfortable routines of a normal family. And she had paid her debt to her departed husband—if debt there was.
They had returned from Italy in leisurely style, pausing at the Côte d’Azur where they had chanced upon Caroline Norton at Nice, travelling in the opposite direction. The Custody of Infants Act had passed into law in August, a triumph for Caroline, but she was beset by further problems. Her husband had moved her children to Scotland, out of reach of English law. Despite repeated appeals to Lord Melbourne, she had still not been accepted at court. To cap it all, her beautiful face was so covered in mosquito bites that people feared she might have smallpox. But she had embraced Elizabeth, and whispered in her ear, ‘I suppose you are returning to marry Mr Darcy, whom of course you do not love.’
In London Elizabeth’s first call had been Gracechurch Street, where she was excited to find a letter from Kitty. With her husband Captain Harte, Kitty had crossed from Suez to Port Said, where they were to call at several Mediterranean ports before catching a steamboat for England. Lydia was thriving in Chandos Street, and still walking out with Lieutenant Horrocks, her friend from Sydney. John Allsop, editor of The Lady’s Magazine, had gratefully accepted a set of further entries for Amelia Meanwell’s Journal—sufficient for the next six months. In the society gossip columns the trial was long forgotten, while the Sibleys were keeping a low profile. In short, her troubles appeared to be over.
So why did she feel so jittery?
Excitement, certainly, at the impending reunion. But also anxiety that her dreams were to give way to reality, with all its compromises and uncertainties. She understood all too well what she meant to Darcy. Half a lifetime ago, her rejection had transformed a proud gentleman into one consumed with remorse and self-doubt. Now, after a tragic twist of fate, he glimpsed redemption: the woman he had believed lost for ever was restored to him …
It was a lot to live up to.
When her cab drew up outside Mountjoy House it was dusk, and the cold was closing in. Supper would be served in an hour; the children were already eating in the kitchen. In the drawing room a smiling Julia handed her a message just received from Darcy House.
He had returned.
‘Elizabeth!’ Georgiana’s face lit up. ‘What a joy to see you again. And you look so well.’
‘Have you just arrived?’
‘No, I came yesterday from Molyneux Place. William is dressing for dinner. You must join us!’
In the drawing room, where a cheerful fire awaited, a footman decanted wine and poured three glasses.
‘I hope I’m not calling too soon,’ Elizabeth said. ‘William will be tired after his journey.’
‘Oh, he is fine.’ Georgiana jumped up. ‘In fact I hear his tread now on the stairs. Excuse me a moment, while I inform cook that we have an extra guest.’
Elizabeth rose too as Georgiana sauntered out, to be replaced by the elegant figure of her brother. Elizabeth’s first reaction was relief. Darcy looked well. He came over with a spring in his step, both arms extended.
‘My dearest Elizabeth. And what a lovely dress!’
She took both his hands. How often she had anticipated this reunion, imagining every variation from smouldering passion to stiff politeness. But she need not have worried, for he found a happy medium, leaving them space to regain confidence with one another.
‘As you see, sir, I am out of mourning.’ She dealt him a teasing smile, as if to highlight what this entailed.
He feathered her cheek, still palely tanned by the Mediterranean sun. ‘Are you fully restored to health?’
‘I have not coughed for three months.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ His voice trembled slightly. ‘You are now without a home, I imagine.’
‘I gave up the lease on Carter Lane.’
‘Indeed.’ He paused. ‘I was hoping to provide an alternative. But I should not be presumptuous.’
She smiled. ‘Be serene, dearest. You will find me receptive to offers—of any kind.’
‘Are you sure?’ A raise of the eyebrows. ‘It would give me the greatest possible happiness if you moved to Pemberley as my wife. But I recall your definition of marriage as a swindle, by which a man tricks a woman into surrendering her legal identity.’
‘Caroline Norton’s words, not mine.’
‘You agreed with them.’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘I trust you, William.’
Darcy released her hands, and sat close to her on the settee. ‘I have been quizzing Soames on whether one can build safeguards into the marriage contract. He recommends that I create a trust for you, providing an income that will remain under your full control. In this way you would at least have financial independence. As to the other points, we can sign an informal agreement, in duplicate. It would stipulate, for instance, that you retain custody over your children, and the freedom to live anywhere you want and keep any money you earn. These terms could not be enforced in law, but at least they would provide a clear record of what had been agreed.’
Elizabeth nodded, gratified that Darcy had foreseen her unease and found practical remedies. ‘It seems unfair that all these rules are for my benefit.’
‘I may press for certain conditions as well.’ He smiled. ‘For instance, that you promise never to remind me of my behaviour at the Meryton ball.’
‘Dancing only four dances? She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me?’ Elizabeth collapsed into helpless laughter. ‘You cannot escape so easily. Those disgraceful words should torment you til
l the end of your days, and I shall remind you of them whenever necessary.’
‘In that case I may have to mention your accusations at Hunsford.’
‘So be it, we can fight it out. But I refuse to sign away my principal weapon.’
‘Hmm.’ He glared at her as if he longed to roll her on her back and kiss her into submission. ‘Is this really going to happen, Elizabeth? Can we set a date?’
‘The sooner the better.’ She snuggled against him. ‘We have wasted so much time!’
‘May I suggest mid-December at Pemberley? Followed by a Christmas house party to which all your family will be invited?’
Elizabeth breathed deeply, her eyes wet. The life she had dreamed of was real. It was starting.
37
A quiet wedding, Elizabeth had begged. Family and a few select friends. Even so, Darcy organised a convoy of five large carriages. One held his bride-to-be, and her children. The second held Georgiana’s family, the third and fourth, the Fitzwilliams. The last was reserved for Lydia, Peter, and the Gardiners. Julia had to stay in London, but promised a celebratory ball in the spring. In the end, the Gardiners decided to stay in London and welcome Kitty on her return.
The first goal was Meryton, to pick up Jane and Mary from Hadfield Farm. The day was cold and clear, the road lit by an orange glow as they proceeded towards Leamington Spa, where Darcy had reserved rooms. An early start in frosty darkness got them to Ilkeston by mid-afternoon, where Jane showed composure as she greeted Mr Bingley, and a sixth carriage joined the convoy for the final stage.
As they reached Pemberley Lodge, the children were abuzz with excitement. Throughout the journey they had swapped carriages at every stop, obliging Darcy to check them off on a list. The two Molyneux boys. Two Sibleys, three Fitzwilliams, four Bingleys, Lydia’s Peter. There was a collective sigh as the house appeared silhouetted against the moonlight. Elizabeth laid a hand on Jane’s arm, wishing her brood could have come along as well. But perhaps they were wary of boys and girls who had grown up on wealthy estates—a difficulty also for Peter.
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