CHAPTER XLIV

They spent two miserable nights on the road. The heavens opened as they passed Harrow and did not close again. Lady Matlock lost herself in watching rain drops trickle down the window as the grey English countryside passed her by. She sang quietly to herself to stave off thoughts of what she had left behind and what awaited her – only occasionally stopping to wipe away a tear.

They turned into the town of Scarcliffe late on Friday afternoon. She pulled the curtains over, feeling unequal to the curious faces attracted by the sight of her husband's carriage. The thick, cast iron gates creaked open as the carriage passed through the gatehouse and into the grounds. The sound of the locks shutting echoed through the gentle patter of rain.

Peeking through the curtains, Lady Matlock saw the inner walls pass by, till they stopped in the courtyard, in the shadow of the Little Tower. She clenched her jaw and stepped out.

Mrs. Gallagher rushed out to welcome her mistress, telling her in quick succession that she should find everything to her liking, even with the relatively short notice of her arrival!; that the Countess's rooms were made up for her, with the hope she would find them pleasing; that a new maid had already been found for her, a good English girl, given how unreliable her French maid had been – Lady Matlock cut her off and went to refresh herself, assuring her housekeeper she knew her way. Of course, she did: it was the same suite of rooms where the Dowager Countess had presented her with Matlock jewels, what felt like a lifetime ago. Stepping in brought back the memory of the last time she had been in those chambers. Perhaps Susan had been right to warn her after all? With all the misery of knowing herself to have been completely naïve, and all the regret of hard-won wisdom, the current Lady Matlock fell onto the strange bed and wept till she fell into a dreamless sleep.

She woke in this unfamiliar room with her heart still aching. What would become of her children; her husband; her friends? Of her?

It was early: the faint summer sun was just cresting the hills. In her youth Elizabeth always found a long walk the best remedy for sorting through unpleasant feelings. Washing the dried tears from her face, she decided a similar approach was needed. But going outside risked detection – and the various questions that would invite. She did not wish to be thought a lune so soon after arriving. Scarcliffe had enough halls she had never ventured down, and its dark wood and cold stone suited her bleak mood. Her feet carved out a path, treading lightly and retreating at the sound of other early risers.

As much as she was loath to admit it, the old house did need modernising. The thought of her William, grown to manhood, rattling round the ominous halls was too distressing. She vowed, for his sake, that she would make it comfortable. Harder thoughts followed that: would she see him grow to manhood? When would she see him and Bennet and Catherine next? Had she really thought herself so clever as to not get caught. How could she have been so reckless? And what she would not give, for one more chance to be reckless. Would her husband truly condemn a man to death? Had he not already done so five times already? She had not even said a proper goodbye–

She soon found herself in the long gallery, standing under the withering glare of the seventh Earl. He looked even more familiar now. She knew too well that look of ill-hidden irritation. What had that earl suffered, she thought bitterly, to make him scowl so?

"I was a simpleton," she said to the portrait, "to think a man such as you would ever really change. You started this! All of this! You fiend!" She clutched at her stomach as the rage began to take her. "How dare you! How dare you do this to me! I wanted none of it! How dare you! How dare you! How dare you! How dare you!"

The footmen who heard her told the butler, who sent urgently for the village physician, so that not half an hour later, Lady Matlock was being soothed by Mrs. Gallagher as the elderly Mr. Balcombe forced a spoonful of laudanum into her mouth. The world grew blurry as she lost herself to sleep. Her dreams were feverish and unsettled; a man with blond hair, who looked too much like her husband, in the arms of a girl who looked too much like Lydia; herself, standing on a scaffold at Ludgate Hill with Robert Weir next to her, too far to reach with her hands shackled, and her sister Mary – of all people – looking up at them and tutting; a naval ship sailing west, caught in a great storm. At some stage she must have awakened: someone was serving her soup. She may have told Mr. Balcombe he was a disgrace to his profession, and when her particular friend, Mr. Latham, heard of her treatment he was sure to have his licence revoked. She lapsed back into sleep.

When she finally woke with a clear head it was bright outside, though the rumble in her stomach told her it was unlikely still Saturday. Gingerly, she pulled the chord for a maid. Mrs. Gallagher answered, bringing with her a tray of tea and pound cake.

"Mr. Balcombe said no coffee, and nothing too sweet. Nothing to excite the nerves. You had us all so worried, your ladyship. Now Mr. Balcombe has left the laudanum, should you need more, and we are to call him at any time, should you feel too agitated in your spirits. I've written to Lord Matlock, so you need not worry on that account. It is such an honour, knowing we can give you this bit of peace. Such a lovely thought, to think of a babe in Scarcliffe again. But you must rest, for your own sake and the little master's."

"What day is it Mrs. Gallagher?"

"Sunday, your ladyship."

She groaned. "Pray, will you write to Pemberley for me, please, and check my children have arrived safely? And to my sister, Mrs. Harrison. Will you ask her to visit me please, as soon as she is able?" That earnt a stern look, so she added: "It is never taxing, talking with her, I assure you."

Both letters were swiftly dispatched and by the afternoon, Lady Matlock had all the response she could ever wish for. A soft knock at the door woke her from more sleep and sheepish maid announced that Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Bingley were downstairs: should she like them to be sent up? Lady Matlock said she would like that very much indeed.

Her door flew open, leaving Elizabeth barely enough time to sit up before Kitty ran in, with Jane hot on her heels. Mrs. Harrison flung herself onto her sister's bed and pulled her into her arms. "Lizzy! What on earth has happened?"

Safe in Kitty's arms, Elizabeth found herself crying again. Jane rubbed her back. "Dearest, please tell us what it is?"

"I am sorry, it is just my silly emotions. They keep getting the better of me. I shall be well again soon, I promise."

She looked between them. Jane, as beautiful as ever; Kitty, with her wide-eyes and simple grace. Neither looked convinced.

"Why did you not send word sooner?" Catherine asked. "And what are you doing here? Why are you not at Pemberley with the children? Miss Darcy said they arrived yesterday."

"It is just while I recover myself. It is so peaceful here."

"You should have told us you were returning," Jane scolded in her gentle way.

"I am sorry I have not written. It is just–" What could she say?

Fortunately, Mrs. Bingley took pity on her. "I am sure it has been so very exciting. It is perfectly understandable that you should need some quiet after it all. Poor Lord Matlock though, caught up in all of this! How busy he must be."

Poor, simple Jane, who never doubted a false word from anyone. She turned to Kitty, who looked distinctly less persuaded.

"There will be time enough for all that soon though. Come, tell me of everything that has happened here since I have been gone. How is Lydia, Kitty? Is she still with you?"

"No Lizzy, she is not. She returned to Manchester some three weeks ago. She felt all the awkwardness of her staying at Kympton. Wickham is still a prisoner."

"So I hear. How hard it must be for her. And how good you have been Kitty."

"What will happen to him Lizzy?"

That earnt Kitty a shushing from Jane. There was apparently some argument on that point she was not privy to. "It is fine Jane. I expect he will be transported."

A sudden pain stabbed at her chest. Neither of her sisters seemed to notice.

"Good. Lydia is determined that if he is, she will use the funds you sent her to apprentice as a milliner, but that will come to nought if Wickham is free."

"Really?" Her mouth tugged into its first genuine smile in almost a week. "That sounds a fine idea."

"Have you anyone for company Lizzy?" Jane asked. "I do not like to think of you in the grand place all alone. I could stay, if you would like, for a few days at least?"

"No! No, Jane. But thank you. I am just in need of rest."

"Oh. Well perhaps, when you are feeling more recovered, you would like to visit us at Sandall. With the children too? Our Aunt and Uncle Gardiner are visiting soon. I am sure they should love to see you. I understand you did not get much opportunity to call on them, in London?"

"No. We were in quite different circles. How is my aunt? And Isabelle. I am so glad to hear she will still have her journey north."

"Oh Lord Jane!" Kitty cried. "You must tell her or I will!"

"Tell me what?"

"Now Lizzy," Jane began gently, "we know it will not be your fault–"

"Our aunt wrote that she had told you not to visit Cheapside, which is the only reason we know, because you have not told us anything of substance for over four months now! Jane only learned of your babe from Bingley! I am sorry if we are not as exciting as the ladies of Almack's, but we are your sisters! Now, will you please tell us why you are here and not at Pemberley!"

"Kitty!" Jane barked.

Mrs. Harrison was thoroughly scary in her indignation. "I am sorry Kitty, I wanted to, but–" Lady Matlock's mind flew to Annette, who had been sent away; to Newgate, and the stench that hung in the air around it; to another five months of Mr. Balcombe's laudanum, and not seeing her children. "But Jane is right. Town was just too hectic. Now, I would like to rest. Jane, thank you for the kind offer, but I shall be quite content here, in my home. I am to work on some alterations, for when Kirkdale is ready for a seat of his own."

"Kirkdale?"

"William has taken on his father's viscountcy. Kitty, will you kindly ask your husband to call on me later this week. Lord Matlock believes he has the makings of a bishop and I would discuss with him what we can do to start promoting his name."

"John has no interest in being a bishop–"

"Don't be daft. It would give him a seat in the House of Lords and would add greatly to his living. I will discuss with him directly. I am sure he will see the sense in such a move. Thank you sisters."

She leant over and tugged on her bell pull. A maid arrived to escort the confounded Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Harrison to their carriage. Watching them leave she told herself it would get easier. This was the first lie: the next would come more naturally. Maybe it was for the best after all. Her sisters could never understand her life now. That was becoming obvious while she was just Mrs. Darcy, but now– She had played the countess the first time; soon it would not even feel like acting. The choice was that or being honest with them, and that she could not risk. She could live with being disliked, as long as they were all secure. They would forgive her in time. Or, like her aunt, they would realise the ties of family could not stretch so great a social gap. At least they would have each other, and she would learn to fall into the confidence of Jane Goulburn and Lady Castlereagh.

By Monday she had convinced Mrs. Gallagher that her agitation of spirits was over. There was no need for Mr. Balcombe or his drugs. As reports of her movements were likely finding their way to London, she decided to act the recovered invalid. Monday and Tuesday she passed inside the castle rooms, throwing herself into learning the staff and layout – keeping her mind too busy to entertain darker thoughts. A note arrived from Georgiana, sending all her sisterly love and wishes for a swift recuperation, and promising that the children would be safe and well cared for while she recovered. In the past, Miss Darcy's unquestioning acceptance that she was sick would have stung at her vanity. But Georgiana had no reason to believe her brother would lie – excepting all the fibs he had told to save her own reputation. She would never doubt his word or go against it. Elizabeth knew better than to think she could ever win her over. He knew that too.

Three letters arrived on Wednesday, along with Sunday papers. One was from Jane Goulburn, full of exhilaration at living through history and regret that her friend had quit town so suddenly and was thus missing all the fun (though she supposed Lord Matlock knew best). The second, from Lady Castlereagh, was far more sombre in tone. She thought it wise of Lady Matlock to remove herself and the children: town was no longer safe.

"The lower orders are all out for the Queen. Of the higher set, only those endeavouring to acquire power through mischief are with her. I will be retreating to the country myself soon. I hope to see you next season my dear, once the present danger has passed."

The final letter was addressed in neat, tight handwriting. She set it aside and allowed herself the indulgence of reading the papers first. It was there she learnt of what else had happened the previous Tuesday. While the Queen was parading through the streets of London, the King had dispatched Liverpool to the Lords and Castlereagh to the Commons each bearing a message that the Queen's arrival had forced him to disclose painful evidence about her misconduct. Two great Green Bags were delivered to each House of Parliament, containing within them – the King claimed – identical evidence of the Queen's infidelities, including evidence she had born an illegitimate child: a treasonous act. Each House had set up a secret committee to examine the evidence and advise on what action should be taken. Mr. Brougham was having none of it and had told Lord Castlereagh that such an act of aggression from the King meant that the time was fast approaching when he would no longer hold 'the state of silence which he had hitherto imposed' as the Queen's counsel. Newssheet after newssheet speculated this meant he would expose the underhanded methods the King had used to spy on his wife. Would he tarnish the King's reputation, by laying out – in a court of the House of Lords – the monarch's own infidelities, and how badly he had mistreated his queen?

She stopped. Any mention of Brougham could only cause pain. With no hope of news from Newgate, her imagination plagued her with all manner of dark scenarios and regrets. How desperately she wished to know how was he faring? Did he hate her yet, thinking she had been sent to entice and entrap him? Did he forgive her? Did he love her? He had never said, not explicitly, but surely every look, every kindness that had passed between them pointed that way. She had seen it once before. She turned to her husband's letter.

"Matlock House, Mayfair, 12 June.
DEAR WIFE – I understand from Mrs. Gallagher that you have arrived safely at Scarcliffe. I expect you to rest and cause no further danger to my child. You have done enough already to risk the security of the other children.
The evidence against the Queen continues to mount. This foreigner she had sullied herself with is an ugly fellow, by all reports, all square jaw and curls. We are confident that once the country has been exposed to her wickedness, support for her will cease and this whole rotten episode will end.
I trust you to speak with Harrison soon. Get him on some project that is fitting for a countess's patronage. MATLOCK."

She had in fact received a letter from Mr. Harrison the previous day. Kitty was right, of course. The young parson was very flattered to be considered for such a position – even so many years off – but he was sure Lord Matlock knew more suitable persons to bestow his patronage on. Lady Matlock wrote back, asking him to consider one thing he would do – if money and law were not a consideration – to leave the world a better place. And to let her know when he had reached a conclusion.

Sat in the gallery, she looked up at the stern gaze of the seventh Earl and wondered again why there was no portrait of Lady Catherine and Lady Anne's mother. She needed to remember to ask Mrs. Gallagher. She inked her pen, took a steadying breath, and wrote:

"Scarcliffe Castle, June 14, 1820.
MY LORD HUSBAND – Miss Darcy has written to say the children are doing well, though I am sure you have had this from her hand too. You'll remember, I am certain, that it is Kirkdale and Bennet's birthday next Sunday and Monday. If you are confident of my restoration, may I join them?
You will want news of the county. I heard from Mr. Harrison yesterday. I have set him to thinking about what he might hope to achieve in the position you have in mind for him.
You were, of course, correct: Scarcliffe is in need of renovation. I am sure you recall my dislike of the place, but – with investment – it may become more like somewhere one would want to live. I intend to order a survey, but I think indoor pipes and gaslighting will be in order first. And more windows.
If this business with the Queen allows, perhaps you can visit soon and we can discuss our future plans? I keep you, our King, and his Government in my prayers.
Your obedient servant, ELIZABETH DARCY."