The True Darcy Spirit (12 page)

Cassandra folded the letter, and sat with it in her hands, staring at the wall and seeing only an image of Emily’s merry face, of Mrs. Croscombe’s kind one, of the skipping, capering figures of her little sisters. Tears sprang to her eyes, she brushed them away with a furious hand, but it would not do, they would come, and she threw herself on the bed, racked with sobs, desolate beyond anything she had ever known.

Cassandra was angry with herself for her weakness. What difference did it make, that Horatio Darcy had been told that she was now residing with Mrs. Norris? Nothing had changed; she was no more truly cut off from her family and from Rosings than when she sat in Mr. Darcy’s chambers and said that she would not marry Mr. Eyre. That was the moment when—no, it was not. The moment when she turned her back on her family, on Rosings, on her natural place in the world, had been the moment she stepped into the carriage with Mr. Eyre in Bath. Or was it later, when she discovered they were not bound for Scotland, but were on the London road? Then, she might still have said she would have gone no further and insisted that James turn back. Petifer would have let her into the house somehow, and no one, but herself and James and Petifer, would have been any the wiser.

Petifer, who had stood outside the house in Laura Place, her face white and worried. She knew she could not dissuade her mistress from taking this rash plunge into disaster; she had known, Cassandra suspected, that James Eyre was not a man to be trusted, but was Cassandra at that time capable of listening to anyone who spoke sense or reason to her?

Where was Petifer? Back in Kent, no doubt, with new duties. She must write to her in due course, when she had established herself, and could say that she was well and happy.

What did it matter, she asked herself, what Mr. Darcy, or anyone, thought of her? She went over to the jug of water in the corner of her room and splashed some on her face and wrists. But the thoughts still went round and round in her mind. Mr. Darcy had cared enough to go all the way to Rosings, a fair way from London, to remonstrate with her stepfather. She liked him the better for that, but why had he done it? For the sake of the good name of the family, she supposed; he was strong on the family name.

Summoned to take tea with Mrs. Nettleton, she found herself almost glad of the distraction from these painful thoughts. To take her mind off Mr. Darcy and Rosings, she asked Mrs. Nettleton who the man and woman in the other carriage were, when they were out in the park with Lord Usborne.

“Which carriage? We passed so many, as one does at that time of day, when anyone who is anyone is in the park.”

“The first one we encountered, when we were just inside the gates. A dark-haired woman, with a young man. The woman had a hat with several plumes, dark red and pink, very smart.”

Mrs. Nettleton looked, for the first time since Cassandra had known her, slightly lost for words. “I am not sure who…oh, I suppose you mean Lady Usborne.”

“Lady Usborne?” Cassandra had a moment of wild conjecture. A stepmother, a dowager Lady Usborne? Of course not! “Lord Usborne’s wife? He has a wife?”

“My dear, of course he does, a man of his fortune and background and his years, for he is eight-and-thirty, is bound to have a wife.”

“Good heavens, what must she have thought of him, driving with other women in the park.”

Mrs. Nettleton broke into a peal of laughter. “Lord, one can see you have lived a retired life! She is quite used to it, it would be very unfashionable to be seen out driving with your husband, let me assure you. They are not on good terms, in any case. There are no children in that marriage, and they grew bored with one another very soon after they were married. People said at the time that it was a love match, but that was all nonsense. She could have had her pick of the
eligible men, for she is very well-born, related to the Melbournes, if that is anything to boast about these days. And she brought a considerable fortune with her. He was a good catch, too, with a reputation for being a gallant soldier when he fought in Spain, and with an ancient name. However, they found they were not quite as fond of one another after all, once the knot was tied, as is so often the case, and the marriage dwindled into indifference. Men like variety, let me tell you, they don’t care to fall into a pattern of domesticity and faithfulness.”

“Then shame on them,” cried Cassandra.

“My dear, you speak as one who is still very young, and, I was forgetting, who lost a husband after only a short time of being married; your experience of matrimony is limited, is it not? How long did you say you were wed before your poor husband breathed his last—eighteen months before he fell into a consumption, I think you said.”

Cassandra had said no such thing. “He died of a wound he received at Waterloo, that never quite healed, and then grew worse, there was some metal that was inside the wound, some shrapnel, which later festered.”

“Of course, how foolish of me,” said Mrs. Nettleton, with what Cassandra considered a knowing look.

“But before you take up cudgels on behalf of Lady Usborne,” Mrs. Nettleton went on, “only think who was in the carriage with her. That is her lawyer, it is a new name for a lover, but then the likes of Lady Usborne must try to protect themselves from the clack of vulgar tongues. Reputation is all, in London, as I am sure you are aware, dear Mrs. Kent.”

Mrs. Nettleton’s words were barbs. How much of Cassandra’s story did this woman, who might not be nearly as kind as she had at first seemed, believe? Cassandra went hot and cold at the thought of discovery; she had been so careful, and her story of widowhood was not such an uncommon one; why should it not be true? She must take great care, however, not to over-egg the cake, as Emily would say.

She assumed a nonchalance she did not feel. “So Lady Usborne has found consolation in the arms of another; well, one cannot blame
her, I dare say. But with a lawyer, why does she not choose a man of her own sort?”

“Oh, as to that, he is a Darcy, we have spoken of them, and there is no older family in England, I dare say, they may go anywhere. He has no money, of course, but he is not a cit or at all low. He is a younger son with his way to make in the world; she is influential and no doubt he thinks she will help him in his career.”

“You do not think he cares for her?”

Mrs. Nettleton shrugged. “She is a pretty enough armful, but some seven or eight years his senior. It is a fair exchange; she has a handsome young lover, and he has a valuable patroness.”

And this was the man who had preached morality to her, Cassandra thought indignantly. To dally with a married woman, to commit adultery, in fact, was no slur on a man’s reputation, it seemed, whereas…Well, that was the way of the world. What was allowed to one-half of creation was not permitted for an instant to the other.

“I suppose, then, that Lord Usborne has a mistress,” Cassandra said. “Why was he not out driving with her?”

“Oh, do not be jealous,” Mrs. Nettleton cried.

“I? Jealous? Whatever can you mean? I have only the slightest acquaintance with Lord Usborne, as you very well know, and if I never saw him again, I should be very happy.”

“Do not you like him? Do not you find him a very fine gentleman?”

“I do not like him, no.”

“Ah”—this with a broad wink—“but you said yourself, you barely know him. As you get to know him better, you will come to appreciate what he has to offer.”

“What can he have to offer me, pray?”

“I mean, as to—he is very good company, and a clever man. I myself can’t abide a stupid man, and I feel sure you are the same.”

She sounded flustered. Cassandra had no desire to talk any more about Lord Usborne, but Mrs. Nettleton was not inclined to let the subject drop.

“As to a mistress, he had a very fine young lady under his protection,
a Harriet Foxley. But she was a foolish girl, and she left him for a penniless artist, or some such person.”

Cassandra was finding this whole conversation distasteful, and it confirmed what she had begun to suspect, that Mrs. Nettleton had not a right way of thinking about such matters. She was a kind woman, that was true, but not one with whom Cassandra had much in common.

Mrs. Nettleton seemed to sense the unease on Cassandra’s part, and she adroitly turned the conversation to the painting of the downstairs parlour.

“I have drawn the designs and coloured them on large sheets of paper,” Cassandra said, “so that they may be pinned to the wall and you can see how they look and whether the whole meets with your approval.”

“I am certain it will, such a clever creature as you are with your charcoal and paint, I am all admiration. Tomorrow you shall show me, and then we may discuss what else you need from Mr. Rudge. You are to buy whatever you please, put it all down in my name, I will settle his bills myself.”

Camilla Wytton and her husband had taken a house in Harte Street. Wytton owned a large house in Grosvenor Square, which he had inherited from his father, but he had never cared for it.

On his return from Egypt with Camilla, his bride of only a few months, he had wanted to sell the house, in order to be rid of it altogether, “for I am quite sure we shall never want to live there,” but his man of business had made tut-tutting noises at the suggestion.

“London is expanding, and the demand for property, now that the war is behind us, will increase. I do not say that the recent unrest, the very distressing incident in Manchester, has not depressed the market, but it will recover, mark my words. Let me find you an acceptable tenant, and then you and Mrs. Wytton may rent a smaller house, more to your liking.”

He was as good as his word, and the house in Grosvenor Square was let for a handsome rent to the ambassador from the Court of Hanover, who had come to London with a cheerful wife, numerous offspring, and a large entourage of attendants and servants. Meanwhile, Wytton and Camilla viewed several houses, and took a long lease on one in Harte Street, with a pleasant prospect over the park, and not too many stuffy neighbours. It was convenient for Wytton to visit the Royal Society, and Camilla, too, felt that she was only a step
away from the many delights London had to offer to a rich young married woman.

They gave frequent dinner parties, for they enjoyed company, and Camilla was going through the menu for one that evening when Wytton came into the breakfast parlour. He took a seat, picked up the
Morning Post
that lay on the table, glanced at some of the notices, and put it down. “We shall be one more at dinner tonight, with your agreement, my love,” he said.

“Why, whom have you invited? Someone new?”

“He is but a very recent acquaintance of mine, but you know him, indeed, you are related to him. It is Mr. Horatio Darcy.”

Camilla wrinkled her brow. “He is a cousin, I know, although I am not sure exactly how we are related. He is in his twenties, is he not? And a younger son. He came sometimes to Pemberley, but I confess I don’t remember much about him. He thought himself superior to all us young ladies, that I do remember, and he had a good deal of reserve about him, although he may just have been shy.”

“He is not shy at all now. A rising man in his profession; it turns out that we are both members of Pink’s, and falling into conversation there, and realising that he was your cousin, I invited him to dine with us. I think you will be pleased with him.”

Camilla was. She found him a good-looking man, with excellent address and lively, unaffected manners, not at all like some of the stuffy lawyers she had met in London. He enquired after her parents, and her sisters.

“Not that I knew any of you well, for you were but children when last I saw you. I had the honour of meeting Lady Mordaunt while I was in Paris recently. She has a twin sister, does she not?”

“Isabel, you would remember her as Belle.”

Mr. Darcy put his head on one side. Camilla liked the good-humoured quirk of his mouth as he recalled the uppity little miss that Belle had been.

“Golden hair and very pretty, but bidding fair to be a handful.”

“You have her to a T,” Camilla said. “And, since we are cousins, I may tell you that she is even prettier now, but still very much inclined
to have things her own way. She is in London, staying with our cousin Fitzwilliam and Lady Fanny, I dare say you will meet her by and by. She was not here earlier in the season, for she was sent down to Rosings.”

She was surprised to see his face darken at the mention of Rosings. He must know the house, must have been acquainted with Lady Catherine, did he have unfortunate memories of Rosings?

He spoke in a low voice, after a quick glance to make sure the person sitting on his other side was engaged in another conversation, and would not hear what he said.

“It is a coincidence that you mention Rosings, for I was there only yesterday.” He hesitated. “I dare say you have heard of Cassandra Darcy’s folly? It must be known to all the family.”

Camilla drew in her breath. “No, she is in Bath, is not she? Belle travelled to London in her company, but Cassandra only spent a single night in Aubrey Square, it appears that her stepfather, a most odious man, did not want her to stay in London, although Cassandra very much wanted to. She is a most talented artist you know, and longs to visit the collections and study the works of the masters, and that you can only do in London.”

“Unfortunately, she is no longer in Bath, and I doubt if she will ever come to London again. While in Bath, she met a man, a half-pay naval officer, and eloped with him.”

“She is married? I had no idea! How come we were not told?”

“Because she is not married, nor will she be.”

“What?” Camilla’s exclamation came out louder than she had intended, and the talk around her stopped, as her husband and the other guests looked at her.

“What is it?” Wytton asked. “Is something amiss?”

“No, no,” she said. “I have just heard some news, about a member of the family, which surprised me, no, do not look concerned, no one has fallen out of the carriage and broke their leg, nor been carried off by an apoplexy.”

She turned back to Horatio. “Tell me everything. Does my father know of this? He always felt that Cassandra did not have an easy life
at Rosings, with such a mother and with the younger ones taking all her mother’s affection.”

“That is all over, now, for Mr. Partington declares, like some character in the play, that she is an ungrateful, unnatural wretch, who shall never darken his door again. I forbore from pointing out that it is not exactly his door, but never mind that. However, Cassandra has thrown her bonnet over the windmill, as the saying goes, and now she must suffer the consequences.”

“How like a man to say that,” Camilla said with some indignation. “As though men didn’t do such things every day of the week, and nobody takes any notice of it. But tell me, this officer abandoned her, you say? This is quite dreadful! Where is she now?”

“He did nothing of the sort,” said Horatio, a trifle stiffly. “She refused to marry him when it came to the point. It was all arranged. He was after her fortune, of course, he would not consent to marry her unless she had a dowry. Mr. Partington fretted and fumed, although it is not his money, and in the end he agreed, with certain conditions as to their living abroad and so forth.”

“So what went wrong?”

“Why, Cassandra, who is as obstinate a young lady as I have ever met, flatly refused to marry the man! She said that if he did not care enough to marry her without a fortune, then she wanted none of him.”

“I applaud her for her feelings, which I can understand, but, Lord, what a dreadful position this must leave her in. Surely she can be persuaded, somehow? She must have a great liking for the man, to run away with him. Or did she,” she added shrewdly, “run away from home for other reasons as well? Was she in Bath, or did this take place at Rosings?”

“She met the man in Bath, although I gather there had been some contretemps at Rosings not long before. She was sent to stay with a Mrs. Cathcart, a sister of Mr. Partington’s.”

“And probably a narrow-minded, unpleasant woman, just the sort to make a creature like Cassandra feel wretched. If I am not mistaken, there is more to this than meets the eye, and she has been ill-treated in some way.”

Horatio Darcy drew himself away from the table to allow the footman to remove his plate and pour him more wine. “Do not have any romantic notions about this, Mrs. Wytton. Whatever the provocation, or the reason for her flight, and I myself am sure it was no more than an unwise passion which drove her to do what she did, it has deprived her of her family, of her position in society, and of any hope of establishing herself in a suitable marriage.”

“But where is she?”

“Apparently, she has gone to live with one Mrs. Norris, who resides in Cheltenham, with a young lady whom I believe also suffered some kind of disgrace, a Mrs. Rushworth.”

Now his other neighbour was paying attention. “Do you speak of that terrible Mrs. Norris? I would not let my pet dog live with her. Poor Mrs. Rushworth, what she did was very wrong, but such a punishment; not even purgatory, but a veritable hell, living with Mrs. Norris. Mrs. Rushworth was Maria Bertram, you know, before her marriage. It is an old scandal now, but it was one of the Crim. Cons. of its time.”

“What is Mr. Partington’s connection with this Mrs. Norris?” Camilla said to Horatio when the rest of the table were talking of other matters.

“She is the widow of a clergyman, and Mr. Partington, who is in holy orders, although no longer in a living, was at one time curate to the late Mr. Norris.”

“So he has decided to punish his stepdaughter by packing her off to live with this unpleasant woman and repent her sins.”

Horatio Darcy shrugged. “She should have considered what the consequences of so rash an action might be.”

“I dare say when you are eloping with the man you love, the prospect of a Mrs. Norris does not enter your mind.”

“Perhaps it should.”

“You are cold-hearted, I find, Cousin.”