Mr. Darcy's Daughters (27 page)

Had Camilla actually seen what she thought she had, up in the gallery? No, it was impossible, she was imagining it, it was a trick of the light, nothing more.

If only the music would stop, and this wretched quadrille come to an end. How hot it was, how glaring the lights and colours of the ballroom. The music was too loud, it thrummed in her head, a tiresome, relentless tune. Why had she ever agreed to dance with this man, what an oaf he was, why did he keep wanting to make conversation when the dance brought them together, couldn’t he see that she was not attending to a word he said?

At last the dance was over. The unfortunate man thankfully offered her his arm, ready to escort her back to a seat beside Fanny. She excused herself, almost tearing herself away from him in her haste.

It was a fancy, nothing more, yet she must be sure.

She moved as quickly as she could without attracting attention. But before she could leave the ballroom, the throng of people gathered at the doorway fell back to make way for a small group of new arrivals.

Rooted to the spot, Camilla looked, looked again. Oh, no, it couldn’t be!

It was. Where was Letty? Nothing mattered now but finding and warning her sister.

She was too late. At that very moment, Letty, dancing with grace and beauty, turned to come back into the dance and found herself face-to-face with Tom Busby.

And not just Tom Busby, who stood there beaming with delight at seeing his old friend, but his wife, as well. Petite, dark—oh, why did she have to be dark?—a slighter, more kittenish version of Letty herself, with wide eyes and a soft, wilful mouth. An enchanting creature.

Letty took one look, faltered, lost her place in the dance and stood still, the colour fleeing from her face as she stared first at Tom and then at the woman standing beside him. He stepped forward to greet her, took his wife’s hand to lead her forward and then paused, stunned, as Letty, her eyes a blank, turned round, cutting the pair of them dead, and with unsure, unsteady feet, resumed her place in the dance.

It had lasted no more than a minute. Letty had done well to recover herself so swiftly, but those few moments were enough, the damage was done. She had exposed her feelings and her mortification and her temper to the whole company; those who had seen the confrontation gave an immediate account of it to those who had missed it, and in seconds the story was flying round the entire assembly.

Fanny was appalled. She knew, better than anyone, what a disastrous encounter it had been. So public! Letty’s reaction so quick, so marked. “How could that man be such a heartless fool,” she said to Camilla. “He must have addled his wits, however much he seems to have recovered from his accident.”

“Tom never had the least sense, or sensibility,” Camilla said. “I have no patience with him, no, nor with Letty, neither.”

When the dance finished, Letty, her colour still high and a wretched look in her eyes, had come back to where Fanny and Camilla were sitting to ask Fanny to take her home.

“No,” said Camilla, before Fanny could say a word. “There can be no question of that. You must stay, you must smile, you must carry it off by behaving exactly as though nothing has happened. The more you are seen to mind, the more tongues will wag.”

Camilla had ruthlessly sent her sister back into the next dance in the kind and capable company of Barleigh Barcombe. He had been engaged to dance with Camilla, but his understanding was excellent, and it had needed no more than an exchange of glances and a few words before he led Letty away.

“It is better for her to keep moving and think about the dance,” Camilla said to Fanny. “And, frankly, I do not think I can bear to hear another word about Tom Busby.”

“It is unfortunate that his wife is so very pretty.”

“Yes. Letty would more readily have forgiven a plain wife. What business has a Belgian to look like that? I thought they all favoured Anne of Cleves, and here is this exquisite creature come among us.”

Fanny hesitated. “Tell me, do you think Tom’s loss of memory was genuine? For people have been saying, you know, that it was no more than a ruse to slide out of his engagement with Letty.”

Camilla had also heard this suggestion, pure malice in her opinion. “No, I believe it happened as he said. Tom was for ever getting himself into scrapes, but he never lied to get himself out of trouble, he has never been a deceitful person.”

Mr. Valpy approached, smooth and sleek and neat, his eyes veiling the curiosity he undoubtedly felt. He sketched a bow. “Not dancing, Miss Camilla? May I have the honour?”

“Thank you, but I am not dancing at present.”

He raised his eyebrows, pouted a smile and went off on springy feet.

“Clergymen should be banned from the ballroom,” said Camilla crossly. “They have no business in such a place.”

Fanny was watching Letty and Barcombe. “Barleigh Barcombe is an exception; only see how good a dancer he is. He looks quite at his ease at a ball or in the dance. He is a worldly clergyman, to be sure. Of excellent family, that is what makes the difference; he knows how to conduct himself.”

“Not when in Belle’s company. He gazes at her like any moon-struck booby.”

“Camilla, you are peevish tonight. Do not dwell on what Letty did; you must not look cross, you know, it will set people talking again. They will say that you, too, are upset by Tom Busby appearing with his wife, and that will only make matters worse. Besides, that fierce look will frighten all the men away.”

“Let them be frightened.”

Camilla recollected herself; shame on her, Fanny was only trying to make light of what had deeply distressed her, for Letty’s reaction to seeing Tom Busby had been more than enough to set all her cousin’s social nerves on edge. No one knew better than Fanny what a censorious world would make of Letty’s display of emotion. She had no right to add to her cousin’s woes; unfortunate Fanny, who had started the season with such light-hearted and happy anticipation of delightful times.

There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on what had happened. Tom and Letty were, after all, stale news, the excitement and talk would die down soon enough, there could be nothing more to say on the subject. And there was nothing she could do to mend matters, other than to put on a cheerful face and appear in good spirits, unconcerned by her sister’s gaffe.

She would not dance with Valpy, no, but the evening was young, many hours must pass before they could leave the ball without causing comment, much as she might long to be anywhere but here, so she had best set her mind to dancing and talking and laughing and pretending to revel in the magnificence of the occasion just as though nothing had happened.

First, she must go up to the gallery. A quick glance upwards showed her nothing to cause her concern; she had imagined it, of course she had. Still, her mind would not be at rest until she had seen for herself that her fears were unfounded. She excused herself to Fanny and slipped round the edge of the ballroom and out of the door nearest to the gallery where the musicians were playing.

A man stepped forward in front of her; she damned him mentally, moved to one side to pass out of his way.

It was Wytton, and he wasn’t going to be sidestepped. “Are you in some distress? Is something wrong?” he asked. “May I be of any assistance?”

“It is nothing. I thought I saw someone—it is of no importance.”

“Your face betrays you, it is clearly of the greatest importance.”

She hesitated.

“You may trust me.”

His voice was slightly bored, which she found reassuring; he was showing no awkward curiosity, nothing beyond courtesy and politeness. Yet she might be mistaken in what she thought she had seen, and if so, she would be furious with herself for revealing her suspicions to him—and for believing, even for a moment, that her sister could have done anything so outré, so unpardonable.

What, though, if it were her sister she had seen? In that case, how could she deal with her on her own? Without assistance, she would only draw everyone’s attention and bring about the very scandal she wished to avoid. There was Fanny, but how much better if Fanny knew nothing of what was going on. Once she knew, Fitzwilliam would know; she would be certain to tell him, she told him everything. Camilla shut her eyes at the horror of the thought: of the shocked faces, the scenes, the accusations and condemnations that would ensue.

Had she any right to involve Wytton in what was essentially a family affair? Oh, if only Mrs. Gardiner were present. Bother her ankle, bother her not being able to accompany Sophie to the ball. Because she had chosen not to go, Mr. Gardiner, also, had stayed at home—with no great reluctance, she supposed. He would have been the very man in such a crisis; why were people never there when you needed them?

Wytton would soon be part of the family. If he were to be outraged by her sister’s behaviour, well, then, he could cut himself off from any connection with the Darcys. Sophie was not on such close terms with her cousins as to make daily or regular contact necessary or likely. A greater consideration was that it would put at risk her own friendship with him, a friendship, she now realised, it would pain her to relinquish. She could not, however, set that against her sister’s predicament. In any event, if her sister’s appalling exploit became public, Wytton would learn of it along with everyone else, and if he chose to shun her acquaintance because of it, she could do nothing to prevent him.

“Very well,” she said.

They were standing at the side of the room now, with a clear view of the gallery where the musicians were situated. She raised her eyes, as though she were merely looking around the glittering company, then swept her gaze upwards to the gallery.

It was just as she had feared.

She met her sister’s amused eyes for the briefest moment; then the slim, dark-haired figure took a pace backwards into the shadows.

Wytton was looking curiously up into the group of musicians. “Do you see someone you know up there?”

“That dark youth, standing back from the others.”

“With a flute in his hand?”

“Yes.”

“What of him?”

“That is my sister Alethea.”

Wytton’s reaction was as swift as it was surprising. He gave a shout of laughter and then moved at great speed towards one of the doors further along from them.

She followed him, a wavering smile pinned to her face, hoping they were not as conspicuous as she felt they must be. “What—” she began.

“Your sister sees that we have recognised her. She will try to slip away. To do so, she must come down the stairs to the side of the gallery. They are this way.”

They were just in time, for as they reached the foot of a spiral staircase, Alethea came flying down. Wytton put out an arm to block her way. She stopped, apparently quite calm, and looked at them with dancing eyes.

“The devil, you spotted me, and now you’ve caught me.”

“Alethea!”

“Hush,” said Wytton. “Keep your voices low! Do you want the whole room to hear?”

She looked Alethea up and down. Her sister was dressed in black breeches and stockings, with a serviceable if worn velvet jacket and a slightly tatty lace jabot round her throat. Just like the other musicians, and so like a boyish young man that she was amazed.

Wytton was laughing again. “No, I shan’t let go, or you’ll be off. You’ve been discovered, so give in with a good grace, and be glad it is your sister and I who are here and not Lord or Lady Mersham. Do you have any notion what trouble those musicians would be in if your disguise were discovered?”

Alethea gave him a startled look. “It never occurred to me.”

“Many things seem not to have occurred to you,” said Wytton. “The question is, what are we going to do with you?”

“I shall slip away, no one will notice. I can take a hackney, or walk, and go back to Aubrey Square.”

Camilla gave a cry of dismay. Even she, with her propensity to shun convention and take herself about the town on foot and on her own, would never dream of venturing out alone after dark, let alone taking a hackney carriage. “In London? At night? Alethea, have you taken leave of your wits?”

“It is not yet quite dark.”

“And that makes it all right?”

“No one will know I am not a young man, and I am not alone; Figgins is here.”

Camilla looked round the small lobby. “Is she wearing men’s clothes, too? Apart from a cloak of invisibility?”

“I mean she is here, in the house. Dressed as a man, yes.”

“Can you find her?” Wytton asked.

Alethea nodded.

“Then do so. Discreetly, if you please.”

“And I warn you, Alethea,” Camilla said in a ferocious whisper, “that if you do not do exactly as we say, I shall write to Papa even before the night is out.”

Alethea looked alarmed for the first time. “You wouldn’t!”

“I would. I may have to in any case, if we do not somehow manage to get you out of this scrape without it becoming the talk of the town. You silly goose, whatever made you think you could get away with such a mad scheme?”

“I have until now,” she retorted, and vanished through the door that led to the servants’ quarters.

Wytton and Camilla stared after her.

She could feel her heart thumping. Until now? What in heaven’s name had Alethea been up to? Could Griffy be so remiss as to have allowed other escapades?

“An astonishing girl, your sister,” said Wytton, and she caught the note of admiration in his voice.

She turned on him. “This was the stupidest prank to play, as you must be aware. She is not astonishing, just foolish and naive.”

“She does not seem naive to me. And she plays the flute very well. I was not aware she played that instrument.”

That was why she had been practising and playing the flute with such dedication since they came to London. What company had she been keeping? How long had she been sneaking out of the house in men’s clothing? How had she got away with it without being noticed?

All these questions tumbled through her mind, together with an unreasoning rage against Miss Griffin. A rage she knew was unjustified. They should not have depended so entirely on Miss Griffin’s ability to control the vagaries of a sixteen-year-old who was as self-willed as she was cunning. Alethea was a law unto herself, and always had been. It had made life less complicated for her family to consider her still a schoolroom miss; they should have known better.