CHAPTER XXXIII

The rain returned on Tuesday. Elizabeth spent the morning with her sons, sitting in on their Greek lessons, before summoning up her carriage, daughter and nanny. She sat with Catherine on her lap as they made their way into the City. They were marveling at St. Paul's when she recalled some business at the bank and directed them there. Leaving Jenny with her daughter, she went in and withdrew fifty pounds – her entire annual allowance from her father. When her marriage contract was drawn up, Darcy had insisted on a clause that waived his entitlement to it; it was to be hers, and hers alone. It was a pittance for him, but it was her pittance. The memory of the gesture stung; they had been so excited by the thought of this life together.

Half she took as a cheque and sent to Mrs. Wickham, by care of Mr. Harrison. The other half she took in bank notes, folding them carefully into her reticle. She wanted nothing that could tie them to her. That evening she would claim to be too fatigued to dine with the Goulburns – her husband would go anyway, and she would retire early, to rise with the sun. Feeling rested, she would tell Mrs. Janssens she needed to stretch her legs, with an umbrella if needs be, and make her excuses should any morning callers come by.

Through such a scheme, Lady Matlock found herself back at Elliott Row, stood in the rain, calling on her courage. She reached out her hand – and knocked at number twelve. Her grip on her umbrella tightened as the door began to click; she was not confident of her welcome.

It was a young man who opened the door; Elizabeth thought he could not have been more than fifteen. His light hair marked him out as one of Sarah Davidson's, from her first marriage. The fact he was not his mother meant she greeted him with a smile of warm relief. Giving her false name, she followed him into the Davidson's small set of rooms.

"Mam, there's a Mrs. Gardiner to see you."

Mrs. Davidson looked like she had not slept since the last time Elizabeth saw her. She had lost weight, and patience judging by her frazzled look and the three sheepish infants stood by her. In a corner her youngest cried in his crib. It took her a moment to realise who her guest was.

Elizabeth stepped forwards: "I shan't intrude long. I heard the address and wanted to make sure you had this," she put the bank notes on the table and took a step back. "I couldn't send it."

Mrs. Davidson looked down to the money. Twenty-five English pounds. Annette's wages for a year. "I'm not looking for your charity," she said stoically, though her eyes lingered on the notes.

"It's not," Lady Matlock placed a sealed letter next to the notes. "I need that to be passed to Mr. Weir, and him only. Consider the money payment for a service rendered."

Mrs. Davidson gave her a curious look. She reddened. "It's not like that. I just – it is an essay, of sorts, that he's expressed an interest in."

"I see." Mrs. Davidson took the letter and then glanced down at the bank notes. "I cannot take them just for me; we are sharing whatever is donated; each family, to their needs. And I do not know if the others would accept Lord Matlock's–"

"It's not his," she blurted out. "That is from my own funds. I am sorry it cannot be more. It – it is all I have. The rest is gone to my sister."

Mrs. Davidson sat. Elizabeth followed her lead, though the offer was not formally made. "I heard her husband is in the Mancs gaol? On sedition too?"

"I had thought Mr. Weir a more trustworthy confidante than that."

"We've not had it from him." She leant forward and took the letter. "Your brother's not been shy, from what we hear, about his grand connections now he's inside. How they won't let him fall into disgrace. He's turned faster than a weathervane."

"That sounds like Wickham."

A quizzical frown passed over the older woman's brow. "Why are you here, Lady Matlock?"

What could she say? As Elizabeth sat under her hostess's questioning eyes the words started to tumble out of her. "There was a time when I counted every penny of how my fifty pounds a year would be spent. Granted, it was only days, not years and I know – I realise now that even that sum is a king's ransom for most but, it was a fear I had all the same. What we would do if my father died, and my sister dragged us into her ruin? It was an unjust fear, one I have no reason to have anymore and I had forgotten it, until just recently. Until I saw my sister, Mrs. Wickham, after Peterloo. And now I've remembered it," she paused. She did not know what she was doing now she had remembered it. "There's a guilt I feel, that I should have been so lucky. And I don't know how to correct that. I only sense that you, and your husband, and Mr. Weir and all of these others do. And I want to help, if I can, to share that good luck."

"I thought I was lucky once," Mrs. Davidson began. "My first husband, Mr. Long, he was too fine for me. My parents couldn't even afford the ink to have my name written in the baptism book. But, he taught my letters and he was kind. Then, when he died, William was introduced to me, and he was so young and handsome and passionate, he took my letters and he taught me to think. To have a voice. That lawyer stands on Speakers' Corner and says it is the loss of our husbands' income that we fear; but it is not just that. It is the loss of our hope. And that is not yours to give Lady Matlock."

"I understand."

"I do thank you for this payment, but I cannot absolve you of your guilt. My children will not starve tonight, but they may another night. Yours never will. My home will be warm tonight, but in the winter it will grow cold. Yours never will. My husband will swing at the end of a rope, robbed of justice. Yours–"

There was no need for her to go on. Elizabeth nodded her understanding. Her unease made her shy. There was no arch remark or witty insight that could mend Mrs. Davidson's situation or opinion of herself. From her perspective, Elizabeth supposed, it made little difference what Lady Matlock's feelings were; she still benefitted immensely from her position, even if she disliked it. She felt humbled, but more than that she felt angry. Not towards Mrs. Davidson, but towards the injustice of it all, and whatever part she played in that. It followed her around like a cloud for the rest of the week. She saw Almack's as Sarah Davidson would have; pompous men and pampered women, living off undeserved luxuries while honest families starved in the streets. She watched her boys learn languages that had no practical use in the modern world, other than to reinforce a division between those who knew them and those who did not – including her own daughter. She saw herself and her family, all her luck, and wondered at the price of her little sister's misery.

They dined out every evening that week, so Sunday arrived as a welcome rest. Returning to Matlock House after church, she hid herself away in the nursery – spending the afternoon weaving tales of gallant heroes and dour villains for Catherine and the boys, free from the watchful glare of Miss Hindmarsh. As Jenny put the children down for a nap, Elizabeth made her way to the library. She found her husband there, scratching viciously through briefs, heavily annotating those worthy of redemption and tossing those beyond any hope into fire.

"Do they not teach young men to write anymore. I'd give half of Pemberley for a clerk who can actually draft."

She sat down with her book. "What is the matter?"

He considered her a moment. "It is nothing. We've been sending clerks all week to Sessions House to take notes of the trial – well, on how the trial is being received. The mood of the gallery, the looks of the jury. But what they've sent back is so dry; just transcripts of what was said. I can't get any sense of the feel of the people from it. How can we prepare for any upswelling of emotion if we do not know what that emotion is?"

"I could go?"

"Pardon?"

"You know I love to study character and – barring a few exceptions – I believe my assessments are accurate. And – I wish to be more supportive," she lied. "Let me go. I will tell you, truthfully, what I see and sense."

He sat for a moment, face inscrutable. "The Lord Chief Justice is presiding. I'll write to him and tell him to expect you. I do not need the facts, Elizabeth. I'll get those from the transcript. Just the feeling, as you read it. Especially any anger."

She nodded and opened her book. The one which had arrived the previous day, gifted from a bookseller in Marylebone.

"What are you reading?"

"Keats."

"I thought you did not rate poetry?"

"Only the poor sonnets of lovesick fools."

"My point stands."

She smiled placidly and returned to her book. The binding was prettily done and the pages thick enough that a quick glance would not have revealed the letter tucked inside. That was hidden away for now, but she turned to the page it had marked: Robin Hood. To a friend. She read the words, committing them to heart to sing to the children later.

On the fairest time of June,
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you.

But you never may behold,
Little John, or Robin bold –
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!

Though their days have hurried by,
Let us two a burden try.

Historical note: Sarah Davidson's history is also taken from 'An authentic history of the Cato-street conspiracy; with the trials of the conspirators' and what I could gather from parish records (FindMyPast, paywalled). That was probably over fastidious - but I figured if I was telling even a little bit of her story, I wanted to do right by her.