The True Darcy Spirit (15 page)

The cascade was indeed quite unlike anything that Cassandra had ever seen, but although she was entertained by the image of the water mill, its wheel turning, and an apparent stream of water tumbling down to the bottom, her heart was no longer in the mood for that kind of amusement. She felt bruised, and was longing for solitude. How often her evenings with Mrs. Nettleton seemed to end with her wishing for them to be over, so that she might retire to the tranquillity of her chamber.

Lord Usborne was behaving in a most gentlemanlike fashion, although when he suggested a postprandial stroll along one of the walkways, she declined his invitation, despite urgent nods and becks of encouragement from Mrs. Nettleton. Afterwards, as they left their box, she heard her landlady whispering to Lord Usborne about an unfortunate chance that had left Mrs. Kent alone in a deserted place with Mr. Gimpel, at least that was what she concluded must have happened, and it was not to Mrs. Kent’s taste.

“I shouldn’t think Gimpel was to any woman of sense’s taste,” she heard Lord Usborne reply in a testy voice.

Cassandra awoke early, after a dark, oppressive dream. She had slept with the curtains around her bed drawn back, since she never liked the feeling of being hemmed in while she slept. But in her dream, she had had the sense of being confined to an uncomfortable degree. She had dreamt she was in the drawing room downstairs in St. James’s Square, a room which in her dream was entirely green, a shadowy, ominous colour that spread over floors and windows and walls and ceiling. All the furniture was green, as well, upholstered in thick velvet, a velvet that seemed to come out and smother her so that she found it difficult to breathe.

The walls appeared to close in on her, stifling her further. She wanted to reach the window, to throw up a sash and let in the outside world, but when she struggled to one, the panes were also green and blank and let in no light; the windows were in fact mere painted shapes, as was the door when she tried to escape from the room that way. She was in a closed box that was shrinking towards her, drawing the life out of her, silencing her attempt to call out.

She woke with a scream sounding in her ears. Her own scream, she realized as she lay blinking in the early light of dawn. Had she really cried out, had she woken the household, would servants, Mrs. Nettleton, come hammering on her door to enquire what was amiss?

Silence reigned, the scream must have been lost in the dream;
nightmare, rather, that had left her shaken and not at all inclined to sink back into slumber. It had been so vivid, it made her look anxiously around the bedchamber, as though the images of her mind were more real than what she saw before her, with her eyes.

Yet she knew there was truth in the dream, for the house in St. James’s Square, which had seemed a refuge, a place of comfort, and one furnished with some elegance, was becoming uncomfortable. She felt uneasy when she was there, and could not imagine why this should be so. Perhaps she was simply spending too long indoors. Country bred and raised, she was a vigorous walker at home, and there were few days when she did not go out riding. If bad weather kept her within doors for any length of time, then she would be almost desperate to escape outside, to work off the fidgets that came over her if she did not exercise.

Home! She no longer had a home. No park to ride in, no elm walk to stroll along with Emily or her little sisters, no more impromptu dances at neighbouring houses or the delights of private or assembly balls. All that lay beyond a door that had slammed behind her as firmly as the door of the carriage that she and Eyre had travelled in on that fateful night.

Now she dwelt in a town house, a good size for London, but less than a cottage in comparison to Rosings. Outside, were streets and people and noise, and only parks or river walks for Londoners to take the air and exercise their limbs.

Well, today she would not stay indoors with her paints and brushes. She would go to Rudge’s. Then she would walk back via the Receiving House. There might be a letter from Emily, although it seemed unlikely; her friend would be deep in wedding plans, which would take up all her time and thoughts. Still, it made an object for a walk, and would keep her out of the house for a little while longer.

By the time Betsy came in to bring her dish of chocolate and draw the curtains back, Cassandra was up. Mrs. Nettleton, she was informed, was still abed and likely to be so for at least another hour, she had been up very late the night before, not retiring until gone three in the morning, Betsy said, unable to hide a yawn.

It was a bright day, but there was a brisk wind, which made Cassandra glad of her pelisse. She had managed to come out alone, assuring Betsy that she was only going to walk for a little while in the park to get some air, she found it stuffy indoors and needed to clear her head.

Was Mrs. Nettleton really concerned for her safety in the big, bad city, as she claimed, or was Betsy’s job to keep a watch on her, as though Mrs. Nettleton was afraid she might run off? It could merely be concern for the rent, or maybe the whole thing was just a ridiculous fancy, and Mrs. Nettleton, who appeared to be all consideration, was in fact chary of her lodger venturing out alone.

Cassandra had found a copy of
The Picture of London
in her bedchamber, a fat volume, only a year or two out-of-date, and surely London could not have changed so very much in that time? It was packed with useful advice, apart from the many worthy pages about the history of the Great Metropolis, and as to crime and the safety of walking abroad, it pooh-poohed the notion that the city was a dangerous place.

Travellers arriving in London, she read, might be held up by foot-pads on Blackfriars or Hampstead Heath, or, apparently, have any luggage that was strapped to a coach cut off and stolen; well, she had escaped that inconvenience. Other than that, the author of the guide merely warned tourists to be wary of the nimbleness and address of pickpockets, avoid hawkers, and take care to note the number of any hackney-coach before getting into it, and, most comfortingly, asserted that no city was more free from danger to those who passed the streets at all hours.

She knew that none of this sound advice applied to ladies of quality; such women, especially young and pretty ones, did not venture abroad unaccompanied. Well, she might have been born one of these privileged persons, but she must now number herself among the less fortunate of London’s citizens, and fend for herself.

Provided she did not dawdle, she told herself, but looked as though she were a native of the town rather than a lamb for fleecing, then she did not believe she would be offered any insult or suffer any
assault; how could she be, in such a bustling, populous place, where a call for help would bring a dozen stout citizens to her aid and probably the watch besides?

She tucked the little volume into her reticule—it contained several useful maps apart from such valuable information as the quantity of milk drunk in London each year and an account of London’s various prisons; which pages made grim reading. At the thought of debtors’ prisons, a coldness came over Cassandra, aware as she was of how slender were her resources and how precarious her existence must be until she could find some kind of employment.

And not the kind of employment Betsy hankered after, either. What had she said? “They may call them by fancy names, but it is one, they are but whorehouses, however fine the women dress.”

Cassandra had caught the resentment and envy in Betsy’s voice, the regret of a plain woman for her lack of looks. Yet she had employment, and Mrs. Nettleton seemed a good enough mistress, would she rather work in one of those establishments? Cassandra thought it better not to ask the question. It was an old profession, she knew, if not an honourable one, and most of those women would do the work not out of pleasure but from chance or necessity, a pretty, fresh country girl cozened into the trade by a woman pretending to be looking for a servant. Or a young woman seduced and betrayed.

Like her. No, not like her. She hadn’t been seduced, she had fallen willingly into Eyre’s arms and into his bed. Her passion for James and her longing to escape from the more respectable life that beckoned if she married Mr. Wexford had been the cause of her present condition.

Would Mr. Partington and Mrs. Cathcart, and her mother, even, have forced her to marry Mr. Wexford? Of course not. And Mr. Wexford would not have wanted an unwilling bride; the days of weeping brides dragged to the altar by an enraged father or a brutal brother were long past, and even in the last century, Cassandra doubted if there had actually been many such matches.

Her spirits, dampened by these lowering thoughts, rose as she left
behind the streets around St. James’s and came to the less fashionable streets where Mr. Rudge had his establishment.

Mr. Rudge himself was busy with a customer, a big man with bushy eyebrows, dressed in a snuff-coloured coat. Mr. Rudge’s assistant, a Mr. Fingal, a gangly, intense young man with copper-coloured hair and intelligent eyes, attended to Cassandra, and he whispered to her that Mr. Rudge’s customer was Mr. Haydon, the history painter, she must have heard of him?

She had, and was intrigued to see him, and to listen surreptitiously to his conversation with Mr. Rudge, as much about his fellow painters as about the sable brushes he was buying. Henry Lisser’s name was mentioned, and she tried hard to hear what was being said about him, but just then Mr. Fingal brought out a sample of a yellow newly come from Germany, where they were, he told her, experimenting with several chrome paints, and began to tell her why it was superior to the Naples yellow she normally used. She was obliged to listen, and, indeed, found his enthusiasm and knowledge of the new paints being developed fascinating; by the time he had finished, Mr. Rudge and Mr. Haydon had concluded their business, and the painter left the shop with a courteous bow to Cassandra and a bluff “Good morning” to Mr. Rudge and Mr. Fingal.

The paints were ordered, yes, Mr. Rudge would send the bill to Mrs. Nettleton, and, yes, he would place her notice offering lessons at reasonable rates among other such announcements pinned on his wall. Many of them had a faded appearance, with curled edges; Cassandra could not hold great hopes of any success through this means of advertisement.

Mr. Rudge seemed to read her thoughts, and he shook his head in a regretful way. “It is the same as with everything, it is connections that count, it is whom you know and who knows you that matters. However, do not despair, I shall mention your name whenever it seems appropriate, you may depend on it.”

Mrs. Nettleton had promised the same, so perhaps, in spite of her doubts, something would come of her or Mr. Rudge’s efforts.

Not wanting to return to St. James’s Square quite yet, Cassandra
set off for the Receiving House. To her surprise, there was a letter from Emily after all, or rather a note, a few brief lines, begging Cassandra to write again, not to disappear as she seemed to have done, she would write further when she was more at leisure, but remained always, her most affectionate friend…

Cassandra read it through swiftly as she left the office, then tucked it into her reticule. She didn’t notice the figure that slipped out behind her and followed her as she walked slowly down St. Martin’s Lane. She wouldn’t have noticed if someone far more noticeable had been dogging her footsteps, no, nor if her shadow had jumped in front of her and called her by name.

For Cassandra was far away from London, back in Kent, in her attic room at Rosings, five years before, painting Emily, who was dressed in her favourite blue dress with a yellow sash, holding a kitten in her lap. Cassandra’s painting was full of faults, but it had a life and a freshness to it that made Mrs. Croscombe open her eyes when a triumphant Emily carried it home.

Now Emily was a woman, not a girl, and about to become a bride; the kitten had grown into a sleek kitchen cat, famous for her mousing ability, and Cassandra…well, Cassandra had grown into an artist and an outcast from her family, from her attic, and from her home. Even from her oldest friend, from Emily.

Cassandra walked into St. James’s Square, hesitated, then went into the garden, not wanting to go back yet into the house. She spied a bench, went over, and sat down upon it. A nursemaid was standing by the railings on the other side, flirting with a young man wearing the leather jerkin and gaiters of a groom. She was pretty and happy, and not too wrapped up in her companion to forget her charges, casting them a glance from time to time to make sure the little boys were still scampering up and down, one inexpertly bowling a metal hoop, the other pretending to ride a horse.

Cassandra drew out her sketchbook and was instantly absorbed in catching the pert tilt of the nursemaid’s head, and her sparkling eyes. So absorbed, that at first she did not catch the voice whispering her name.

“Miss Darcy. Miss Darcy!”

Horror-stricken, she dropped her pencil and half stood up, looking to see who was there, who it was who knew her as Miss Darcy. Although she knew who it was, even before her eyes found her, lurking behind a large shrub.

“Petifer! For God’s sake, what are you doing here! What a fright you gave me!”

“I’m sorry for that,” said Petifer, emerging from her hiding place. Then she froze, and vanished out of sight again, as a tall, elegant figure came along the path towards where Cassandra was sitting.

“My dear Mrs. Kent,” said Lord Usborne, as he made a leg. “They told me you were not at home, and then by the merest chance I spotted you here, in the square.”

Cassandra hastily picked up her sketchbook and stuffed it into her reticule.

Lord Usborne raised his eyebrows. “Running away from me, Mrs. Kent?”

She reddened. “No, I have finished what I was doing here.”

“Which was?”

Up went her chin. What right had he to question her movements or activities. “I think that is my business, my lord.”

He laughed. “Oh, I stand rebuked. If you are finished here, allow me to escort you back to your house.”

“I thank you, it is but a step as you know.”

He walked alongside her, and she wished he would not. He was too close to her, observing her more closely than she cared for. Eyre’s looks of admiration had given her pleasure, Lord Usborne’s made her wary. And she was eager to find out what Petifer was doing here, Petifer, of all people! Thank goodness she had withdrawn so swiftly; she just hoped that Lord Usborne had not been passing on the other side of the railings at that point when Petifer called out to her as Miss Darcy. Had she come from Kent? Could she have a message from Rosings for her? Oh, why did the tiresome man have to appear just at that moment?

He clearly meant to accompany her into the house, but she forestalled him, holding out her hand in a firm way.

“It was my intention to wait upon you—and Mrs. Nettleton, of course,” he said, mounting the steps beside her.

“As to Mrs. Nettleton, I cannot say, but I find I have the headache, and so you will excuse me.” As soon as the door was opened to his knock, she was inside and making good her escape. She knew his eyes were following her up the stairs, so she moved swiftly to the next floor. Let him go and chat to Mrs. Nettleton if he felt so inclined; yes, as she paused outside her room, she heard him being admitted into the morning parlour below. She opened her door, went in, walked across the wooden floor with deliberately heavy feet, then tiptoed back, and was out, flying down the stairs and letting herself out of the front door.