Mr. Darcy's Daughters (26 page)

“Ah, you see, the captain has cut Mr. Forsyte out,” said Mrs. Rowan, her eyes full of amusement. “He has great address, if not many brains. What a nice young man he is; what a pity he has to go to India, where very likely he will succumb to some deadly fever.”

Sophie stiffened, and her smile of thanks to Captain Allington died away. For a moment she looked quite forlorn, but then she smiled again, thanked Mr. Forsyte for enlightening her about the low value she should place on the works of Mr. Wordsworth and presented a polite and neutral countenance to Captain Allington. He looked rather startled at the change that had come over her, ventured a light-hearted remark, which was met with a stony look, and retreated.

“Pagoda, do go over and talk to Miss Gardiner,” Mrs. Rowan said. “Before someone else takes the chance of boring her to death as poor Forsyte was in danger of doing.”

“She don’t want to talk to a man of my age,” said Mr. Portal. However, he rose dutifully and went over to Sophie.

“Now, you see, I shall cut out all the eager young fellows and claim you for myself; won’t they be envious to see me sitting here beside you? Am I not a lucky dog to have the company of the prettiest girl in the room?”

“What a flirt he is,” said Mrs. Rowan, her eyes resting on Pagoda Portal’s wide back with great affection. “Now, Camilla, how are things with you? You look rather pale; I know you will not mind my mentioning it. You take plenty of exercise, I am sure, with your habit of walking everywhere, so it is nothing physical that ails you. Perhaps the closeness of the weather and the dirt of London is depressing your spirits—it can be so unpleasant when it is hot and there has been no rain.”

“Oh, my spirits are not depressed at all,” she lied. “How could one be depressed in London, where there is always so much to see and do?”

“You are worn out with dancing, then, that must be it.”

Camilla’s laugh was quite genuine. “Oh, no, you are quite wrong; I am never tired from dancing.”

“Do you go to the Mershams’ ball? It will be the high point of the season; when they give a ball—which they only do every three or four years—it is always the most brilliant occasion.”

“Yes, indeed, we are all looking forward to it. Belle and Georgina have received invitations as well; they are wild with delight about it.”

“They will adorn any ballroom, they are so very beautiful. What a shame your mother is not here to see their success. I am sure it would make her very happy.”

It was kindly meant, but it made Camilla wince. It was a mercy her mother was not here; she would not be at all pleased to see the twins’ headlong pursuit of pleasure and dalliance. And it was an even greater mercy that her father wasn’t here, although if he had been, the twins would never have been permitted the social whirl they had thrown themselves into with such zest, and she herself might be enjoying her season in London rather more.

“They will marry soon and settle down,” said Mrs. Rowan, giving Camilla a shrewd look. “Do all your sisters cause you concern? Is that why you are looking so serious?”

“I have come to the conclusion that London is a dangerous place—for young, single women in particular.”

“A dash of danger adds spice to life. Would you care to have them lead safe, dull lives instead of following their natural inclinations?”

“Natural inclinations invariably lead to trouble. The twins will be branded incorrigible flirts and will find themselves cold-shouldered by the very men that would suit them best—if they were looking for husbands, which they should not be, not when they are only seventeen. And as for Letty and her societies and moralising, I don’t know what has got into her; she has always had a tendency that way, but not like this. It is all the fault of that toadish Mr. Valpy.”

“Such behaviour is seldom anyone else’s fault. I expect your sister wanted a refuge from a world in which she found herself at a disadvantage. Her good sense will reassert itself, though, and the scales will drop from her eyes as far as that particular clergyman is concerned. Sooner rather than later, one hopes, since you clearly find her taste for the man alarming. As well you may; he is an odious man.”

Mrs. Rowan paused, greeted a new arrival and beckoned to a servant to bring Camilla some refreshment. “And how is your musical younger sister? At least you need not have any worries on her behalf.”

Camilla did not share her friend’s confidence on that score. “She has a look of extreme self-conscious innocence about her these days. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I feel sure she is up to something she ought not to be.”

“She has a good governess. Whatever it is, it cannot be anything very serious, or anything that has to do with the outside world. The schoolroom is a blessing.”

“While it lasts.”

And provided that the governess in question did not devote so much of her time and attention to her literary efforts that she did not notice what her charge was doing. Camilla was almost sure that Alethea was doing something she ought not.

She pulled herself up; she was becoming as bad as Letty, with her endless fears and frets about people’s health and safety. If this was what living in London did to her, then Letty was right, and she had better decamp for Pemberley as fast as the carriage would take her.

Only not until after the Mershams’ ball.

Mrs. Beecham’s private life was one long scandal. Whether or not this gave her extra expertise in sniffing out the scandalous aspects of other people’s lives, as some of her victims claimed, the fact remained that her insatiable curiosity and lively tongue made her feared by most of the fashionable world.

She liked the sense of power this gave her, and therefore went to great pains to see to it that no illicit assignations, no exchanges of words or shots, no lovers in the cupboard or extreme losses at the gaming tables, went unremarked. She had a circle of like-minded friends and delighted in knowing all that went on in the drawing rooms—and bedrooms, whenever that was possible—of London society.

From the moment she first set eyes on the Darcy sisters, she was on the alert. Four fine-looking, rich girls, new to London, parents abroad—they must put at least one foot wrong, and there was a fair chance of wholesale flouting of the rigid rules of society as applied to young, unmarried women. Especially when two of them were far too young to be out—whatever was Fanny Fitzwilliam thinking of? Those twins combined memorable beauty with a voluptuous air that Mrs. Beecham instantly recognised as being certain to lead them astray. No dutiful matches from this pair; oh, no, that was most unlikely.

She had bided her time, relishing the Busby story, licking her lips over the Leigh fiasco, but waiting until the hour was ripe for a mass scything down of any social aspirations or marital expectations they might misguidedly have formed. That they were cousins of that Gardiner chit, who had nothing to recommend her but her fortune, would have been enough to arouse her ire—yet there was more. Darcy, with that absurd haughtiness and pride of his, had once snubbed her with no pretence of civility. Mrs. Beecham never forgot or forgave a snub. It would be a pleasure of a rare kind to cast down no fewer than four of his wretched daughters.

How unhappy he and that upstart Mrs. Darcy would be when the news reached them in whatever outlandish part of the world they had so foolishly taken themselves off to! How annoyed that fool Wytton would be, to have connected himself with the Darcy family.

Mrs. Beecham greeted George Warren with sharp-eyed warmth. She liked him for himself, for his handsome looks and rakish ways, but she valued him most of all for the vicious gossip he so often brought to lay at her pretty feet.

He had a rare liking for a pretty foot and had recently given her more than a dozen pairs of shoes he had purchased on his travels abroad.

“I know your foot by heart,” he had told her, “so they will all be a perfect fit, and I wish to see you wearing every single pair, a new one for every time I visit you.”

Which was why, upon hearing his characteristic knock at her front door, she had hurried into her dressing room to remove from their wrapping of silver paper a pair of exquisite black velvet slippers with tiny glass heels. She slipped them on to her feet and went back to the salon, ready to greet him. Without the shoes to stimulate him, he was not half the man he was when his eyes fell on a prettily shod foot, and she was a woman who greatly appreciated ardour in a lover.

Even gossip could wait while more intimate matters were to be discussed and enjoyed, and it was with an air of great well-being and satisfaction that Mrs. Beecham, smoothing down the front of her silk dress, finally asked him to relate the latest news.

“Rumour says that Rampton is thinking of making an offer for Belle Darcy; there are bets being laid in the clubs.”

“Do you think it likely?”

He considered this for a moment. “Rumour does not take account of her father’s likely views on such a proposal. No, no, it’s my belief it would take an elopement or a rape to make any such marriage possible.”

Mrs. Beecham’s eyes lit up. “Would Rampton take such an extreme course? I know he is in desperate straits, but even so. He is not a brave man, and it might well come to pistols at dawn, do you not think so?”

George shrugged. “I doubt it. Who is to come flying to defend the girl’s honour? Mr. Gardiner, the merchant?”

They laughed.

“Or I believe there is a grandfather, a gouty fellow, I dare say; no chance of his running to town in his bath chair to take up the cudgels on his granddaughter’s behalf.”

“There is Fitzwilliam; the girl is in his care, and he is one of the finest shots in London.”

“Fitzwilliam will do nothing. He has spoken out more than once on the folly of duelling and has no wish to appear a greater fool than he is. No, the obstacle to any such action lies within Rampton himself. His manners are too nice for him to embark on such a course, however much he needs to get his hands on a handsome fortune. Besides, even fifty thousand isn’t enough to tow him out of the River Tick, if what I hear is true.”

“A pity,” said Mrs. Beecham with a profound sigh. “And there is the other twin pining for Mordaunt, who will do no more than flirt with her. He is far too knowing a man to allow himself to be caught up in an imbroglio of such a kind.”

“Mordaunt is a man who plays his cards close to his chest. I don’t suppose his servants—?”

“Clams, every last one of them. Neither bribery nor threats can wring a word out of them. It is too bad, I make no real progress with the Darcy sisters. I had such hopes of Busby coming to London, and then your dear mother dropped some hints, and I had thought that you might lead Miss Camilla a pretty dance and give her a taste of her own medicine—however, she does not take to you, it seems.”

She went across to the mirror and regarded her own, more successful self with considerable complacency. Miss Camilla might possess a pair of large and lustrous eyes, and an equally lustrous bosom, but she could not see the virtue and attractiveness of a man such as George Warren. What a simpleton the girl must be.

“She has other fish to fry,” said George Warren laconically, “and besides, she is not to my taste. No, I have other plans for her. Have you not heard how much time she is spending in Wytton’s company? Where he and his affianced go, there goes Camilla Darcy—now, why is that? It is noticeable that he appreciates her conversation and that pert way of hers that some call wit. Is she trying to entice him away from her cousin?”

Mrs. Beecham considered this enchanting scenario, then shook her head. “It is too late for anything to cause a rupture there. The settlements are signed, the wedding day arranged, and whereas she may jilt her lover, as she did so heartlessly poor Sir Sidney, she knows that there is no way that Wytton can withdraw from his engagement to Sophie Gardiner, however much Camilla Darcy may scheme for it. And take it from me, she knows this as well as anyone, and no doubt has far too much of the Darcy pride to be caught in that trap.”

“She made one mistake with Sir Sidney, why may she not make another one with Wytton?”

Mrs. Beecham’s eyes had narrowed. “The chit is unlikely to be in love again so soon; she is full of wounded pride, take my word for it, and is no doubt pining over Sir Sidney, which is a very good joke. What a fool she is; well, she will learn soon enough what life is about.”

“I dare say you are right,” said George. “It is a pity. For any such scandal would leave Wytton high and dry, and you would relish that, would you not?”

“I care nothing for Wytton; he was a bore from the beginning,” Mrs. Beecham said with a shrug. She was turning over Warren’s suggestion in her mind. “Wait. It occurs to me that while we may be aware of this, others may not. I believe you are right, and that a great deal of harm may be done to her character and to the bride-to-be’s peace of mind and indeed to Wytton’s reputation if it were to become generally known that she is set on stealing his affections away from her cousin.”

“Capital,” said Warren, pleased. “I am glad you approve of my scheme. I thought it was an excellent one as soon as the idea popped into my head. Mind you, it will not be so easy. Wytton is generally liked, despite his droll tongue; we should have to employ a good deal of cunning to make a likely story out of it.”

Mrs. Beecham’s mind was running on ahead. “Yes, it is a perfect opportunity to blacken Miss Camilla’s name still further. She has been branded a blue-stocking, you know, and that is doing her no good at all. She should not go to Mrs. Rowan’s quite so often.”

“That will all be in our favour. She is not a blue-stocking at all, we can now say with authority; she only goes because Wytton is there. She attends on Mrs. Rowan for the oldest of reasons, and the rest is mere excuse. I will be believed when I say this, for I was the one who brought into the open her distressing habit of discussing all kinds of unsuitable subjects with Pagoda and his set. Now I can say that was all a hum, it is nothing but a cover for her meetings with Wytton.”

“Perhaps it is so.”

“No, she truly is that worst of prodigies, a woman with a smattering of learning who pronounces upon all manner of topics about which she knows little and understands less. Wytton is undoubtedly merely one of her audience, bored witless by her prattle, I shouldn’t be surprised. However, we do not need to say that. Those who attend upon Mrs. Rowan will think it beneath them to refute any rumours they may hear; they are philosophical types, who have minds above such mundane matters.”