Darcy's Trial Read online

  Elizabeth hesitated, then in a strangled voice said:

  ‘I’ve brought a witness with me. My maid Bertha is one of Sir Osborne’s victims, the girl rescued by Mr Darcy.’

  ‘I though Bertha was your aunt’s maid.’

  ‘She is, now. We decided to employ her …’

  ‘So that she could assist in your investigations,’ Bridget interrupted.

  Elizabeth blinked, sensing her friend’s hostility. ‘Partly. However, Bertha was delighted to be offered the position, and will return to my aunt once we are back in London.’

  ‘Let me get this clear.’ Bridget took a deep breath. ‘When you accepted my offer to come here to Coleorton, I assumed you did so out of friendship for me, and perhaps also from an interest in the other guests. As for Bertha, I assumed you brought her out of consideration for your host, so that there would be no need for you to share with someone else. Now …’ Bridget screwed up her face, as if struggling to keep her composure. ‘Now I discover that in reality you came with quite another purpose, and that Bertha is here purely as an accomplice. All of which I might have accepted, had you seen fit to inform me of your designs beforehand. But no, despite my steadfast support over the last months, I am not to be trusted. Instead I am to be lied to, or at least misled, while you pursue your plans in secret, using me and my family as a mere convenience. For shame, Elizabeth!’

  For a while Elizabeth was speechless, deeply shocked and upset by this outburst. Eventually in a small voice she said:

  ‘I was so afraid …’ She coloured. ‘Afraid that you and everyone else would try to stop me.’

  She looked imploringly at Bridget, who responded acidly, ‘And so you equated me with the gentlemen, and withheld your trust.’

  ‘And was I wrong?’ Elizabeth said, her courage returning. ‘What would you have done: support me, or try to dissuade me?’

  ‘I suppose I would have discussed the details—with what result nobody can say, so the question is immaterial.’

  ‘And now?’ Elizabeth said softly. ‘Now that you know, will you help me?’

  ‘You mean give practical assistance? Provide a coachman to drive you to Wistham and look after your safety? You ask a great deal, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.’

  ‘I could make the trip by stagecoach, since Wistham lies on the routes into Essex and Norfolk.’

  ‘Go if you must,’ Bridget said, ‘but do not return here. If necessary I will hold some of your luggage and take it back to London, but you are not welcome here any longer as my guest.’

  A cold shiver passed through Elizabeth. ‘You misjudge me if you believe I came only to assist Mr Darcy.’

  ‘No doubt you have found some pleasure in our company, but do not tell me, Elizabeth, that this was your main reason. I’m tired of being used and lied to, and will tolerate it no longer.’

  Elizabeth shook her head slowly. ‘I never thought you so severe.’

  ‘I never thought you so deceitful.’

  After a long silence, Elizabeth asked: ‘What would you have me do?’ She tried hopelessly to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Sleep in the stables?’

  Bridget waved this away. ‘We are not barbarians. Take the Cambridge coach tomorrow, if that is your wish. After making your enquiries you could return towards Leicester to pick up the London service. If you need money, Thomas can lend you some. Or if you think better of the whole scheme, we can put you on a stagecoach direct to London.’

  There was another silence, as if both women were struggling to absorb the new situation. Finally Bridget said:

  ‘We’d better rejoin the others.’

  ‘Can you give my apologies? I’d rather go to my room.’

  They returned and parted in silence.

  Chapter 22

  Next morning at six o’clock, Elizabeth was woken by Bertha, as arranged, bearing a mug of tea. There was no need to rise so early, since the coach would not pass until eight thirty, but she was keen to avoid any further contact with her hosts. She had passed a miserable night, alternating between bouts of weeping, and obsessive reconstructions of her painful encounter with Bridget. She was reminded of her quarrel with Darcy at Hunsford, but in a way this latest trauma was worse, for she had come to value Bridget’s friendship as one of the consolations of her life, and to lose it so suddenly and completely was devastating.

  ‘Are you all right, madam?’

  Awoken from her daydream by Bertha’s concerned voice, Elizabeth rose from the armchair and went to the dressing table to rinse her fingers. Her eyes, sore from tears and lack of sleep, stung as she splashed them with cold water.

  ‘I’m fine, Bertha. Are you packed?’

  Bertha pointed to a bundle beside the door. ‘Packed and ready, madam.’

  Elizabeth made a final check of the room, and added a towel and her nightdress to the carpet bag; the rest would have to come later in her trunk. Raising a finger to her lips, she padded in stockinged feet into the corridor and down the main stairway, carrying her bag in one hand and her boots in the other. To her relief they met no-one except for a maid cleaning the stairs. Continuing down to the kitchen, they slipped out a back door into the vegetable garden, then round to a sidepath leading to the green and the village beyond. Curiously exhilarated by their escape, Elizabeth’s head began to clear; it was as if by putting distance between herself and the Beaumonts, she felt freer and less racked by guilt.

  While lying awake at night she had composed in her mind dozens of letters to Bridget, trying to account better for her secrecy, and to underline how much she treasured their friendship. In the event none of these letters was ever written; instead she left only the one-word message ‘Sorry’, along with a note to Sir George Beaumont thanking him for his hospitality.

  On arriving at the Angel Inn, from where the coach would leave in nearly two hours time, they took the opportunity to buy bread, cheese and apples for the journey, then sat on a bench and waited. A few minutes after the clock struck eight, a chaise drew up carrying a small trunk, and beside the driver she recognised Mr Constable.

  ‘Miss Bennet!’ He approached her less diffidently than before. ‘I had no idea you were also leaving. We could have shared a carriage from the hall.’

  ‘You must know by now that I am a great walker, Mr Constable.’

  He frowned at this odd explanation. ‘And may I ask where you are bound? The London coach does not pass until noon.’

  ‘We are dismounting a few miles past Leicester, where I will be visiting an acquaintance.’

  ‘Ah.’ He paused, as if uncertain whether it would be proper to ask further details, and Elizabeth took the opportunity to redirect the topic to his future movements rather than hers. With such an interesting companion time passed more quickly, and it did not seem long before they were continuing their conversation in the coach.

  An hour past Leicester, Bertha suddenly gasped and indicated a spire about a mile away.

  ‘Look madam, St Margaret’s!’

  Elizabeth studied the landscape, looking for signs of a large house. ‘And where is Wistham Court?’

  Bertha pointed excitedly. ‘And over there is Midhurst, and our cottage is this side of the church. There should be a turning soon.’

  A minute later a dirt road appeared on their right, and Constable attentively helped Elizabeth and Bertha descend, even suggesting to the coachman that they might interrupt their main route in order to carry the ladies closer to their destination—an idea politely endorsed by the other passengers, but vetoed by the driver and also by Elizabeth, who preferred to walk. She thanked Constable warmly for his companionship, and parted from him reluctantly, aware that she might never again enjoy the privilege of consorting with the artists and writers in Sir George Beaumont’s circle.

  Like the road to Coleorton the track was soft and churned, but after several fine days there were only small puddles left, and in their half-boots they made fast progress. Nearing the first clutch of cottages they met a carter who paused a moment to greet Be
rtha, and also to take a good look at Elizabeth, reminding her that her presence in the neighbourhood would not pass unremarked. They veered right towards another cottage, where a young man was chopping wood, and with a cry Bertha ran a few steps forward, before catching herself and turning back to face Elizabeth.

  ‘It’s Joe, madam. My brother.’

  Elizabeth laughed. ‘Don’t wait for me, Bertha. Go and greet your family.’

  By now the young man had heard their voices, and he swung Bertha around in huge meaty arms before the commotion brought out Mrs Dobbs, who tearfully embraced her daughter. Elizabeth rested the carpet bag against the gate and took the opportunity to look around and recover her breath, until Mrs Dobbs tentatively approached and curtsied.

  ‘Sorry madam. I did not realise you were with Bertha. Are you from the Court?’

  She was a stocky, strong-looking woman, making Bertha seem frail by contrast, and although polite, she stood proudly, obviously unfazed by the arrival of an elegantly dressed lady. Elizabeth answered her calmly, explaining in general terms how Bertha had come into her employ, while omitting her mistreatment at the hands of the Kayes.

  Mrs Dobbs frowned, as if puzzled by these attentions. ‘I’m grateful to you for allowing Bertha to visit, madam, but I’ve not been worried on her account.’

  Elizabeth stepped forward and dropped her voice. ‘There are details I have not yet mentioned, Mrs Dobbs. Could we perhaps talk in private?’

  The cottage proved cramped but clean and well-ordered, increasing Elizabeth’s respect for Bertha’s mother. Mr Dobbs, she learned, had died over ten years ago from smallpox, but the family had managed well by dint of hard work, with Joe adept at odd jobs like fencing or thatching, and Bertha in service at the Court. Alone with Mrs Dobbs at the kitchen table, Elizabeth sipped a welcome mug of nettle tea as she tried discretely to find out what the family thought of the Kayes, and how much they knew of recent developments.

  First, Mrs Dobbs confirmed what Elizabeth had already learned from Bertha: that in common with most of the villagers, she rented the cottage and small plot from the Kayes. The rents charged were not excessive, but Sir Osborne’s reputation in the community had been mixed. As a jovial man who enjoyed hunting, fishing, and village festivities, he had some admirers; on the other hand there were tales of ill temper and random acts of cruelty, especially when he had been drinking heavily. The news of his quarrel with Darcy, and subsequent death from injury, had spread quickly, and there was much debate on the character of the new baronet, who was an unknown quantity, having lived very much in his father’s shadow and taken little part in the running of the estate. Indeed, since inheriting the baronetcy, Sir Arthur had spent only a few days at Wistham, preferring to reside in town, and according to some he was a mere fop lacking the strength to maintain order. In reality, however, the pattern of life had continued unchanged, since the management of the estate remained in the hands of the men Sir Osborne had appointed, in particular his steward Mr Pritchett, and his gamekeeper Mr McGill.

  Sensing that little by little she was gaining Mrs Dobbs’s trust, Elizabeth finally felt able to relate the circumstances under which Bertha had been rescued from the attentions of Sir Osborne, including the subsequent duel; she took care, however, to give no inkling of her own acquaintance with Darcy. At first Mrs Dobbs’s response surprised her. Bertha’s mother seemed not so much angered or shocked as alarmed—alarmed, that is, that her daughter had occasioned the quarrel that had led to Sir Osborne’s death. Quickly comprehending this reaction, Elizabeth wondered why she had not anticipated it: obviously Bertha’s family might fear that they would be blamed for what had happened, if only by association, and subjected to reprisals.

  While Elizabeth was taking this in, Mrs Dobbs asked leave to fetch Bertha, who had been chatting with her brother. Marching her daughter into the kitchen, she sat her down firmly on a stool, then addressed her in a low hiss, as if afraid someone would overhear.

  ‘Have you told Joe of what happened?’

  Bertha coloured. ‘What do you mean, ma?’

  Mrs Dobbs threw a glance at Elizabeth. ‘Miss Bennet has told me why you had to leave the master’s service. Have you told Joe?’

  Bertha shook her head emphatically.

  ‘Or anyone else in the village?’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Let it stay that way.’ Mrs Dobbs rested a hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘I’m not saying it’s your fault, see? I’m saying it’s best if folks don’t know. Not a whisper. Understand?’

  Bertha looked at Elizabeth, who nodded assent.

  ‘Another thing.’ Mrs Dobbs leaned forward. ‘You’re not with child?’

  After a hesitation, Bertha shook her head.

  ‘My aunt arranged for a doctor to see Bertha,’ Elizabeth said. ‘She has recovered well, and there is no difficulty of, ah, that sort.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mrs Dobbs thought for a few seconds and then asked Bertha, ‘Will you be returning to London?’

  ‘Mrs Gardiner has been kind to me. I can send money if you need it.’

  Mrs Dobbs sat up straighter. ‘We can manage.’

  There was an awkward silence, after which Elizabeth rose, thanked Mrs Dobbs for her hospitality, and explained that she would like to explore the rest of the village—if Bertha would be so kind as to serve as her guide.

  Chapter 23

  By early afternoon, Elizabeth was fast losing any hope of success. She had begun with the first name on her list, Bertha’s friend Maggie, who seemed the most likely source of information despite the two-mile trek to Midhurst. They found Maggie at home, where she helped her mother while looking after her baby, but like Mrs Dobbs she was wary of saying anything that might provoke the Kayes or their henchmen. She was even reluctant to admit that Sir Osborne was the father of her baby, although according to Bertha this was common knowledge. Yet again, Elizabeth was forced to acknowledge her own naivety. She had assumed that with a little reassurance, Sir Osborne’s victims would be willing, even eager, to give evidence against their oppressors, overlooking that from their viewpoint she, Elizabeth, was a stranger who would be here today and gone tomorrow, while the Kayes would endure and must be appeased.

  Two fruitless interviews later, Elizabeth was wondering whether to abandon her quest altogether and return by stagecoach to London, when an alternative approach occurred to her. After taking careful directions from Bertha, she left the maid with her mother, reserved a room at the local inn for one night, then set off alone towards Wistham Court.

  On entering the grounds she was overtaken by a man driving a cart laden with wood, who regarded her curiously. Feeling conspicuous she pressed on until, rounding a corner, she saw the house about a quarter of a mile away, a long rectangular building with triangular gables that were also used as a motif above the windows. She reached a stile leading to a sheep pasture, and sat down to rest on the diagonal step. She had left the carpet bag behind at the inn, but in her reticule was an apple that she had bought in Coleorton, and she munched it slowly as she reflected further on the best way to approach Helena Kaye—assuming she could find her at all.

  After throwing the core into a hedge, Elizabeth set off again, and almost immediately heard horse hooves from a bridlepath opposite the stile. Retreating to the verge, she saw two riders, a man and a woman, and with a prickle of alarm wondered whether the man might be Sir Arthur Kaye, perhaps returned for a final inspection of his domain before the onset of the trial. Whether or not this was so, there was nowhere to hide, and she stood her ground as they clattered into the path. With a surge of relief she recognised Helena Kaye accompanied by a young man she had never seen before—probably a groom by the dress, and certainly not Helena’s brother.

  Helena reined in her mount expertly and stared at Elizabeth open-mouthed for several seconds.

  ‘Miss Bennet? Can it be you?’

  Elizabeth stepped forward a fraction, keeping her distance from the horses, who were stamping and breathing heav
ily. ‘Helena, I beg you to excuse my unexpected arrival. I have been travelling in the area and had a sudden impulse to pay you a visit. I hope this is not an inconvenient moment.’

  ‘Not at all!’ Radiant with excitement, Helena dismounted, and handed the reins to the groom before running up to Elizabeth and taking both her hands. She looked well, with cheeks flushed through exercise, and far more confidence than she had shown in London. ‘Where is your carriage?’

  ‘I am staying at the Swan Inn, but since it’s a fine day I decided to come here on foot.’

  ‘But you should stay here, not at the inn! There are no guests at present so we can accommodate you easily.’ She turned to the groom. ‘Harte, can you take my horse? I’m going to return with Miss Bennet. And tell Mrs Partridge to have some refreshment ready.’

  On the edge of the formal garden stood a trellis, where Helena was in the habit of taking afternoon tea when the weather was fine. By the time they arrived a table had been set with sandwiches, cakes and tea, reminding Elizabeth of how hungry she had become. In all sincerity she took the opportunity of complimenting Helena on her hospitality, while enthusiastically loading her plate. Two cucumber sandwiches and a long draught of tea later, she felt strong enough to steer the conversation from polite trivialities to the delicate matters that were the real reason for her visit.

  ‘I fear I have kept you from changing out of your riding habit,’ she began, pointing to the plain linen dress that Helena was still wearing, having discarded her riding jacket and boots.

  Helena looked concerned, as if she might have committed a faux pas. ‘Perhaps you would like to change too, Miss Bennet, having walked so far. Since we are of similar height I believe you will find something suitable in my wardrobe, and Agnes can attend us both.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear Agnes is still with you. I recall that in London you were worried in case she had to leave.’