Mr. Darcy's Daughters (21 page)

“One should have a mind above gossip and speculation,” said Letitia.

“One may, but the rest of the world doesn’t,” said Mrs. Gardiner, very sharply for her. “Now, you will please allow me to advise you in this matter. The twins have often been seen at Lydia’s house, and it has been wrong of them to go and in such an underhand manner; however, if all of you, and myself and Sophie, are there, it will give the lie to some of the wilder stories that are about town. I move enough in the world to hear what is being said, and I have not brought up a family of girls without learning how to counter foolish chatter and gossip, which springs up at the slightest opportunity, as well you know; it is the same everywhere, London or Derbyshire. I have no doubt that your dear mother and father are discovering that Constantinople is a perfect hotbed of scandal. It is the way of the world.”

There was no gainsaying this. The twins smiled and sparkled at the promise of a delightful party, Letitia’s face took on a brooding, sullen look, and Camilla resigned herself to the inevitable, although she was not in the mood to make the prospect of any kind of party seem agreeable, least of all this one.

“And am I to go, Mama?” asked Sophie. “I should so like to if Belle and Georgina are to be there.”

“Indeed, yes, you shall go with us, as I told Lydia,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “For she is to send an invitation to Mr. Wytton, indeed, has probably already done so, and I am sure he will accept, so you need have no qualms.”

How odd, Camilla thought, noticing a petulant, disagreeable look flit across Sophie’s face. One would imagine she would rather he were not to be there. She dismissed the notion; what nonsense, you had only to look at them to see how passionately they felt about each other.

“I think Sophie is a little frightened by Wytton,” said Mrs. Rowan, as she and Camilla walked together the next morning. They both had their sketchbooks with them, having agreed to meet and sketch some of the Greek items from the Towneley Collection, presently housed in the British Museum. Mrs. Rowan, who had considerable skill with her brushes, planned to paint some scenes on the walls of her morning room and had decided on the pastoral as a theme. Nothing could be more pastoral than classical nymphs, did not Camilla agree?

Camilla’s mind was on a present-day nymph. “Why, have you seen them together recently?” she asked, as they threaded their way across the building site that would in time form part of Regent’s Street under Nash’s ambitious scheme of London improvement. They reached the other side of a muddy road without mishap and brushed down their pelisses before setting off for the ungenteel squares of Bloomsbury. “I was not aware that you were particularly acquainted with my cousin Sophie.”

“I am not, but I have often seen Mr. Wytton in Sophie’s company.”

“He seems very sincerely attached.”

“Besotted,” said Mrs. Rowan. “We take a left turning here, I think you will find. Wytton is a man with an ardent nature, and his feelings for Sophie are strong. I think she would prefer a milder man, one more within her powers to control and subdue.”

“I am sure she is very much in love with him.”

“I think she fell in love with his handsome face and romantic appearance. All this travelling and cosmopolitan address gives a man great charm, especially when combined with a good income and a fine abbey and those dark looks. He is an attractive man. She was attracted, she felt flattered and liked him well enough—many a marriage has been founded on much less.”

“Oh, but this is dreadful,” Camilla said, distressed by her friend’s cynicism. “What a bleak picture you paint; how can their future together be happy if it is based on passion on one part and mere fancy and fortune on the other?”

“I do not think they will be happy at all. I think they will be wretched together, and it saddens me, for I know Wytton well, have known him all my life, and he deserves better. He fell for Sophie on the rebound, as the saying is, after that unfortunate liaison with Mrs. Beecham.”

“Mrs. Beecham!” Camilla had heard murmurs and whispers of an old relationship; she had not known the lady in question had been Mrs. Beecham.

“Why, yes. It is all history now, of course. I may tell you privately that she has the morals of an alley cat. She got Wytton thoroughly into her clutches, but she is rarely content to have but one man at her beck and call. Wytton would not stand for her sharing her favours, and so openly. There were some violent scenes, one gathers, at their parting; Mrs. Beecham is not used to being thrown over in quite that fashion.”

“Is there not a Mr. Beecham?”

“Indeed there is, but he prefers to rusticate, and is indifferent to the behaviour of his wife. He has found his own consolation in the country, so people say.”

“And so, Wytton fell in love with Sophie; I can see how a man might well do that. From one extreme to the other, it could be said. Well, I hope that, after all, they will be happy. Such a deep attachment must be a good foundation for any marriage.”

“Sophie will bore him quickly enough; within a twelvemonth Wytton will be wondering why he ever fell in love with her, and as for Sophie, once she is grown used to her abbey, she will realise that they have very little in common.”

Camilla was silent for a while, lost in thought. It grieved her to think of Sophie—and indeed, of Wytton—trapped in a loveless marriage. It would arouse no concern outside the couple’s immediate family; it was hardly an unusual story, but it worried her. Then she remembered the glow in Wytton’s eyes when they rested on her cousin. Mrs. Rowan was mistaken in supposing such feeling would quickly vanish. “Sophie has no wickedness in her, she is as good a girl as you will find anywhere. She will strive to make him happy.”

“No amount of striving will give her a spirit of adventure; she is not the sort. Whereas with him, love of adventure and exploration of new places and new ideas lie deep in his makeup. And it is impossible for her to be any kind of a match for him in intellect or understanding. If you mean she will pander to his wishes and foibles, that in itself is enough to ruin any man, or any marriage.”

“Oh, you are quite wrong, you know you are. Neither Wytton nor any other man looks for intellect and understanding in a wife. Prettiness and an amiable temper are the qualities a man seeks in a wife, and those Sophie has.”

“You sound bitter, Camilla, I don’t like to hear you saying such things with that tone in your voice. And, forgive me, but is Sophie so perfectly amiable as you make out? I have some idea that she has a sharp tongue and a lively temper when she is not striving to be on her best behaviour.”

Camilla recalled the tantrums of Sophie’s youth. “She did have a wilful streak, but all that is behind her now.”

Mrs. Rowan said nothing more, for they had come to Montagu House and she had to hunt in her reticule to find their tickets of admittance. They went upstairs and into the room where the treasures brought back from Greece and Turkey by the late Charles Towneley were on display.

“I intend to draw the great vase,” Mrs. Rowan said, opening the stool she had brought with her and settling herself down before the giant Roman urn that had been discovered in a thousand pieces and carefully reassembled for the benefit of admiring Londoners.

Camilla began to wish she had not come. Mrs. Rowan quickly became absorbed in her work; for her part, she was restless and had no desire to sketch any of the antique objects set about the room in a dusty display of past glories. For a few moments she amused herself by imagining the finer pieces cleaned up and set out in one of the great rooms at Pemberley, but as an occupation it soon palled. She wandered over to one of the windows and leaned over the table to look out into the square. The trees were bright with new foliage, children ran about the central garden, a squirrel flitted across a path and ran up a tree.

Then she saw a familiar face. “It is Mr. Roper,” she said over her shoulder to Mrs. Rowan. “I wonder what business he has in this part of London. I am sure it is not to visit the museum, it is not his kind of place at all.”

To her great surprise, he crossed towards Montagu House and then disappeared from her view, only to reappear a few minutes later, an apologetic smile on his face, at the entrance to the room.

“Why, Mr. Roper, whatever are you doing here?”

He grinned at her. “It is not my idea of a lively place, I can tell you. Those stuffed giraffes doing guard duty on the stairs, however did they come by such a pair of horrors? The fellow below didn’t want to let me in, either, said I had to have a ticket of admittance or some such thing. There’s no point to that, I told him, you’d have to pay to get me through the doors in the ordinary way, let alone me going to the trouble of obtaining a ticket. However, I told him I had an urgent message for you ladies, and so he obligingly let me in—after I’d greased his palm, need I say. What a dreary collection,” he added, looking around the exhibits. “You’ll cast yourself into a gloom if you stay here long, and on such a fine day.”

He wandered over to look at her friend’s drawing. “My word, you do the thing most prettily, Mrs. Rowan, you do indeed.”

“So do you have a message for us?” she asked.

He swung round to face her, pausing to blink at a winged creature—a dog, perhaps?—with a smug-looking human face. “Whoever would wish to look at such things? I cannot think what Towneley was about, bringing all this back to London at such vast expense. Have we no sculptors here? Is not Wedgwood good enough for any Englishman?”

“It is classical, Mr. Roper,” said Mrs. Rowan, amused. “Historical, you know.”

Roper eyed a rather rampant satyr with an air of discontent. “I don’t see it myself, but then I don’t set up for a connoisseur, of course. Now, as to the message, Miss Camilla. Well, it is not precisely a message, but a piece of news I think should be told you. Belle and—Miss Belle and Miss Georgina are aware of it, for your aunt has told them of it, but I’ve a notion it won’t have reached you or Miss Darcy.”

Camilla fought a sense of rising exasperation. “Yes, very well, Mr. Roper, but what do my aunt and sisters know?”

“Oh, did I not say? Mr. Busby is to come to London, will be in town very shortly, and is invited to Mrs. Pollexfen’s rout. You are all going, are you not?”

“Mr. Busby!” She was dismayed. “Oh, no! Drat the man, why could he not stay away? If he has not felt the need to visit London these three years, why come now? Lord, will he be accompanied by his wife, or is she left in Belgium?”

“She has come to England with him. They are presently with his family, and they will post up to London shortly.”

“And the twins know about this?”

Mr. Roper gazed intently at a frieze depicting a group of spirited nymphs engaged in a dance. He did not meet her eye.

She sighed. “You do not have to tell me. They know, but do not intend to tell Letitia; that is it, is it not? They no doubt think it will be amusing if Letty comes face-to-face with Tom Busby in front of three or four hundred of the greatest gossips and scandalmongers in the country.”

“They do not mean to do any harm,” said Mr. Roper quickly. “They are very young, they merely think it fun, they do not quite understand.”

“If they are old enough to behave as they do, they are old enough to know what is funning and what is spite,” she said.

“Spite?” Roper was horrified. “No, really, Miss Camilla, they are the sweetest-natured girls, you must not say such things about them.”

“I only say what is true. Allow me to be much better acquainted with my sisters than you, Mr. Roper.” She saw Mrs. Rowan’s shocked expression, wished the words unsaid even as they fell from her lips. She forced a smile. “Do not take me so seriously, Mr. Roper. I am sure you are right; it is only their youth and inexperience that leads them astray.” She wished this were the case, knowing that the twins most likely saw an unexpected encounter with Mr. and Mrs. Busby as a splendid payback for Letty’s bossy ways and attempts to restrict their outings and her often expressed desire to pack them off back home.

“I am very grateful for your telling me this news, Mr. Roper. I shall tell Letitia at once; she must be prepared for such an encounter. It was bound to happen, I suppose.”

A more private meeting would be so much better. Were they still at Pemberley, then in the natural course of things the families would meet, and it might all pass off with no more than a few moments of embarrassment for Tom and Letitia.

“You didn’t mind my mentioning it to you?”

“Not at all; indeed, I am very grateful to you.”

He gave a relieved smile. “I am so glad. One mostly knows pretty well how to go on, you see, only nothing of this sort has ever cropped up before and so I wondered what was the correct thing to do.”

“You followed the dictates of kindness, Mr. Roper,” said Mrs. Rowan, who had been listening to the conversation with intense interest, even while she worked on the drawing of the vase. “To do so can’t ever be wrong; that is something to remember, by the way, as you get older and acquire more knowledge of the wickedness of the world.”

The young man flushed. “Just as you say, Mrs. Rowan.” He backed towards the doorway and hovered there for a moment or two, unsure of how to take his leave.

“We shall see you at the rout, Mr. Roper?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, to be sure, most certainly. You are all to go, is that not so? Except for Miss Alethea, of course. She informed me—for she happened to be passing through the hall when I called, indeed it is to her that I owe my information as to your whereabouts—that wild horses wouldn’t drag her to such an affair, all people and heat and noise. I suppose she will think differently when it is her come-out.”

“I hope so,” Camilla said doubtfully.

Francis Pollexfen took Camilla by surprise. For some reason, she had been expecting to meet a buck, a beau, and had pictured to herself a corpulent, fashionable figure with florid face and swelling calves. Nothing could have been more different from her imagined uncle than this small, wiry individual in a well-cut dark velvet coat and frothy necktie, who extended a hand and bade her welcome. His face was full of wrinkles and crinkles that made his expression difficult to read. His glinting eyes, of a dark blue shade, were a different matter. They were full of shrewd intelligence and also, if she were not mistaken, contained a gleam of amused malevolence.

His manners were well bred, his polite smile growing in warmth as he looked her up and down, an act that made her feel distinctly uncomfortable, as though she were standing there in her shift. “We meet at last, niece, for I may call you so, may I not?” His voice had a husky quality that might charm some; it alarmed her.

Letitia won a more directly approving smile, her beauty often having that effect on older men. And when it came to Belle and Georgina, Pollexfen’s gaze had little of the avuncular and much of the amorous about it.

The twins were quite at their ease in the glittering throng. They had complained of arriving so early, so provincial, so dowdy, they said, to be early for a rout, yet the lemon-yellow rooms were already full to bursting and she could not imagine them fitting another soul.

Mrs. Gardiner soon put her right. “That is the very reason we came early, for there will be three times this number before the evening is out.”

Camilla stared, shook her head in disbelief. Why anyone should choose to spend their time in such civil discomfort was a mystery to her.

“Oh, you are so dull,” said Belle in her languid way. “You have no notion of fashionable life; the crush and the squeeze are all part of the enjoyment.”

“Yours, maybe,” she retorted. “Not mine. I prefer not to have my gown crumpled and my shoes trodden on, and I like to breathe my air fresh.”

The smell of hot humanity and the mingled odours of scents and perfumes worn by both men and women were overpowering. She knew that her nose would adjust to it in due course, but for now she found it unpleasant. And underlying these familiar smells she was aware of another, intangible muskiness—the smell of intrigue and arousal. This was not one of the genteel gatherings that she was used to. For a start, there were very few of the young debutantes here. These men and women were older, much older in some cases, and their faces and bodies and clothes bore a maturity and sophistication that made her feel uneasy and gauche.

She had encountered roués enough in London and in Derbyshire, for that matter, for not the most closely chaperoned and gently nurtured of girls could be unaware of the tendency of friends’ brothers, uncles, fathers and even grandfathers to slip an arm around a slim waist or touch and squeeze under the table at dinner or press up against a pleasing young form in a tight corner.

This was different. So many men who had a rakish and even dissipated air; so many women with bold, roving eyes; so many under-currents beneath the polite words and trivial gossip. There were sidelong glances, the fluttering of a fan, the tilt of a shoulder, the brushing of a masculine thigh, the direct look of an eye magnified by a quizzing glass, a man’s hand lying on a plump and naked arm. The heat was intense, and she, who had never been in the least prone to the vapours, began to wonder if she might actually be going to faint.

She pulled herself together, accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman and found herself being addressed by Francis Pollexfen once more. Beside him stood a dark, almost swarthy man, elegantly dressed, with the physique of a sportsman and the face of a corsair, down to the curling lip and the enigmatic eyes.

“May I have the honour to present George Warren to you, Miss Camilla? He is a connection of yours, you will find.”

Warren bowed. Pollexfen slipped away into his throng of guests, leaving them looking at each other.

“You are Lord Warren’s son.”

He bowed again. “I am. And Lady Warren, who is my stepmother, is Charles Bingley’s sister. He is married to your aunt, your mother’s sister, is that not so?”

This man must be in his late twenties. She had been puzzled for a moment, for she could not see how Lady Warren could have a son of his age. A stepson, well, that explained it.

A large, fair, full-complexioned man in a coat that stretched with alarming closeness of fit across his well-fleshed belly and shoulders rolled over to join them. He nodded to Warren, but his bulbous eyes were fastened on her for a few disagreeable seconds. Then his interest faded; he said some words in a surprisingly high voice to Warren about his travels and went on his way.

Camilla was startled by this rudeness and found that Warren was looking at her with some amusement. “Do you know who that was?”

“I have not the least idea.”

“Ah, you are not an admirer of our royal family and their brood of dukes, then? I honour you for it.”

“Dukes? Good heavens, was that one of the royal dukes?”

“Do not seem so astonished. I assure you, it is very bad form to seem astonished in the sight of royalty. You must pretend you are accustomed to rubbing shoulders with them and think nothing of it.”

“I don’t think I should care to rub shoulders with him. Is he acquainted with my aunt?”

“Certainly he is acquainted with your aunt. Pollexfen is as thick as thieves with Prinny, you know, and quite at home in those court circles. Here you see the very cream of that part of society. It is a different set of people from your normal social round, I dare say.”

She looked around her; the room was fuller than before, as Mrs. Gardiner had predicted, and still there was hardly a face that she recognised. “I find I know very few people here tonight.”

He smiled at her. His smile held little humour or warmth. “Which is fortunate for me, since you won’t be carried off by a bevy of your friends and admirers. I am sure you have many admirers.”

She wasn’t sure she cared for this line of conversation, but her attention was diverted by seeing the royal duke standing beside Letty, his eyes feasting on her bosom. Letty’s colour was high, and she knew perfectly well that her sister was longing to edge away from the duke, but was hardly in a position to do so. Now he was laying a large hand on her arm, and guiding her towards a sofa, whose occupants rose like birds at the approach of royalty. He ignored them, placed the broad royal posterior in its straining breeches on the gold damask cover of the couch and patted the space beside him for Letty to sit.

“Oh dear,” she whispered to Warren. “I fear my sister is in some distress.”

“Oh, he will attempt nothing in so public a place, he will merely ogle in that disagreeable way he has, and make her feel uncomfortable; look how the colour flies to her cheeks!”

She didn’t quite like the tone of cold mockery with which he spoke, but she was too concerned for Letty to wonder at it. No doubt her sister was having a wretched evening, waiting for her first sight of Tom Busby—of whom there had not been the least sign—and now to be hemmed in by a fat, lascivious duke! It would confirm all her worst prejudices of the wickedness of the world. Unfortunately, she thought, although the prince would pass, the moral reflections inspired by his bulky presence would linger far longer.

“Come, this is an occasion for enjoyment; downcast faces and gloomy looks are never allowed at Mrs. Pollexfen’s parties. Take care, you will attract attention if you show your feelings so clearly in your face. Smile at me, if you please, and laugh; that is better.”

His look was quizzical, his assurance complete, and she did smile, more at the truth of his words about this brittle world they both inhabited than from any real feelings of amusement. He was right. Among the well-born and the successful you kept a smile on your face; you never, ever let anyone for a moment suspect that all was not well with you and your life.

A rival snatched a lover from under your nose? You smiled and joked, and shrugged it off. Your husband was unfaithful, a child ill? Keep your anger and fears to yourself; that was a reality that had no place in the crowded public rooms of the polite world. The price you paid if you forgot to smile and look pleased was a high one. Ostracism would await you; you would be cast into the outer darkness of social exclusion, as firmly as though you had moved from the boundaries of fashionable London to take up residence in Wimpole Street or Kensington.

Her smile faded, and rescue came in the very nick of time, and from an unexpected quarter. A touch on her elbow, and she looked round to see Wytton standing beside her. He gave Warren the briefest of nods. “Servant, Warren,” and received a slight, chilly bow in return. He addressed her.

“Your aunt desires to speak with you. She is over there, may I escort you to her?” Without waiting for her reply, he hooked his arm, she laid her hand on it, and they plunged into the seething mass of velvet, silk, satin and broadcloth. His arm was firm, his back straight, his manner determined, and his countenance, she noticed, while perfectly amiable, had a toughness about it that communicated itself to those through whom he was clearing a path.

I suppose, she thought inconsequentially, that this is nothing after grappling with bandits in Albania or the hostile inhabitants of Egypt. She told him so, and he looked astonished, before bursting into laughter.

“Oh, no, they are not half so dangerous as this crowd, I assure you. There, you know exactly who your enemy is; here, they all hide their ill-will and hatred.”

It was her turn to be amused. “So whose company is preferable?”

“Oh, the foreigners every time. They don’t dress half so oddly, for one thing. Look at that turban over there!”

She looked, saw Lady Warren’s head topped by a magnificent blue turban fringed with gold, and had to cough to hide her laugh—Lady Warren was looking in their direction with shrewd, hard eyes.

They had reached Mrs. Gardiner, and she managed to edge to her side. “You wished to speak to me, ma’am?”

“We have been here long enough,” she said, a tight smile pinned to her lips, her fan waving fast and furious before her face. “Do you think you and Letty could extract the twins? Mr. Wytton, Sophie is over there.”

“Miss Camilla and I will together make an out-and-out assault on our targets and haul them back to their duties,” said Wytton. “Albanian bandits will be nothing to it,” he added, casting a wicked look at Camilla. “Now, who shall we roll up first?”

He didn’t seem a whit perturbed that Sophie was tucked in a corner, flirting with a tall, good-looking young man with brown, curly hair, who was looking down at her with evident admiration.

Wytton followed the line of her gaze. “That is only Gadsby; we shall leave them to enjoy themselves while we extricate your younger sisters, a much harder task, I fear.”

She stood on tiptoe, trying in vain to spot either of the twins. Then a stout man in dark blue moved aside and she caught sight of Belle, standing close to a young man of somewhat foppish appearance. He was popping tidbits of food into her open mouth, and between mouthfuls she was consumed by soft giggles.

“I wonder what she has been drinking,” murmured Wytton. “The punch, I am afraid.”

“It is not the effect of alcohol,” she said. “It is just her way.”

“Is it indeed?”

“You might add, How unfortunate,” she said bitterly.

“I would not be so impolite. I have a young sister who is something of a minx when let out of sight; there is nothing unusual in such behaviour.”

“Would your sister ever be allowed inside this house, let alone out of her mother or chaperon’s sight?”

“Ah, there you have me,” he admitted. “I doubt it.”

“My family do not show up well on this occasion,” she went on, determined to lash herself. “My aunt is our hostess, and I am quite sure my parents would not wish us to be acquainted with most of her guests.”

“Not even royalty?” he said, quizzing her. They had come to a momentary standstill before a group of five or six men talking about a racehorse in loud voices.

“Most certainly not.”

“Do you count George Warren among the members of your family?”

His voice was carefully neutral, and it occurred to her that he did not like Mr. Warren. “He is no relation, merely a connection through an aunt’s marriage.” She paused. “Do you know him well?”

“We were at school together, we belong to the same club.” He began to say more, stopped and then decided to go on. “Take care, Miss Camilla. I have never known George do anything that was not to his own immediate advantage, and he has a destructive streak to him. Destructive to others, not to himself.”

Before she could reply, he had elbowed his way through the group of men, and she had to move swiftly to stay with him. How surprising, what an extraordinary thing to say! And why should he be concerned that she might fall foul of George Warren, what was it to him? Her relationship with Sophie, perhaps; no doubt like many men, he preferred his bride’s family to be as beyond reproach as the bride herself. Did Wytton suppose her to be at the mercy of any gentleman who looked in her direction? She coloured at the thought, trod on a fat admiral’s toes, smiled in apology and squeezed past. That was the price she had to pay for her attachment and disattachment from Sir Sidney being so generally known.

Belle was inclined to be truculent, but when she looked towards Mrs. Gardiner, who had by now gathered up Sophie, she decided not to resist. She made a pretty farewell to her companion, who held her hand too long and said he would do himself the honour of calling upon her.

“Day dealt with; now for Night,” said Wytton.

So he knew their nicknames.

“Please stay close to us, Miss Belle,” he went on, “or you may be trampled underfoot.”

Camilla’s head was beginning to throb. The noise was rising to a deafening pitch: loud conversations, footmen at the door calling out the names of new arrivals in ringing tones, voices in the hall below shouting for carriages, the clink of glasses, the clatter of a tray being dropped. She longed to clap her hands over her ears, or, better still, to be out of there.