The True Darcy Spirit (20 page)

“And, not being one to waste much, I know her sort, Mrs. Nettleton will find some other starving artist to finish the work for her. I couldn’t carry away a lot of paints, or I’d have asked for them.”

“I think that would have been impossible,” Cassandra agreed, but with a sigh, for the little bladders of paint would have been appreciated. “But however am I to pay such an account? It is far more than the rent.”

Petifer was practical. “Go to another paint shop, if you need one, that is all you can do. He will dun Mrs. N., first, and when she sends him after you, with no address, I dare say he will write it off as a bad debt.”

Cassandra was frowning. “No, I must pay him, it would not be right, he has been so pleasant and helpful and friendly. But I cannot do so until next quarter day when I shall have some money, and that is five weeks away. And there is the matter of the card, I put a card in his shop, offering my services as a teacher, and directing enquirers to St. James’s Square, I should remove it.”

“Then I shall go and ask him to take it down, on your behalf, he will not be in the least concerned about the money owing yet, no one in London pays their bills on the dot, you may be sure.”

“Petifer, it is a good thing that your mother or nan cannot hear you now.”

Petifer grinned. “That it is, and my sister Margaret would have more than a few words to say if she knew what I was up to, but there you are, needs must when the devil drives, as the reverend himself used to say. I’m a grown woman, and answerable to no one, and it’s for me to decide what’s right and what’s wrong.”

Cassandra laughed. “That is true for both of us, and I am very sure that your judgements are a great deal sounder than mine, for I fear that I choose the wrong path every time.”

“Now don’t go falling into a fit of the glums,” said Petifer. “I’ve got your clothes to get in order, for they’re in a shocking state. I’m glad to see that Miss Emily saw to it that your pattern dress got put in, for you’ll need new clothes if you’re to stay in London, we need to give you a more modish appearance; your clothes are countrified, if I may say so.”

Stay in London? Cassandra was lost in reflection as Petifer busied herself with the contents of trunk and portmanteau, shaking her head over a crumpled gown and searching tenaciously for the missing half of a pair of stockings.

How could she stay in London? She was more shaken than she would admit to Petifer by the whole Mrs. Nettleton business; it brought home to her just how insecure her existence now was. She had thought she could take care of herself, but look how easily she had been duped by Mrs. Nettleton. She was not used to people living as it were behind masks, that was a lesson she must learn, she supposed.

But for now, what a fix she was in. Her heart sank as she considered the alternatives. To go back to Rosings, with her tail between her legs, and to be bundled into a carriage, the thunderbolts of her stepfather’s wrath raining about her as she was sent off in disgrace to live a miserable life in the company of the ferocious and unpleasant Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Rushworth, who had a reputation for being mighty disagreeable—well, would not any woman be, in her situation?

What had happened to the man Maria Rushworth had run off with? No virtual imprisonment for him, with Mrs. Norris as gaoler, no indeed. He had an estate in Norfolk, and was, so she remembered
hearing, now married to a sweet and gentle girl, of large fortune, who doted upon him. Hardly an uncommon story.

Although if Lady Usborne were anything to go by, it was possible for a married woman with a complaisant husband to have her own amours. Maria Rushworth’s mistake had been to marry a man she did not love, who was not in the least inclined to turn a blind eye to his wife’s affairs.

She had run off with her lover, that was the difference, and Lady Usborne clearly had no intention of running off with any man. She would be too shrewd, she would value her position and the respectability of her marriage too much ever to do anything so rash.

None of this was any use to Cassandra. She had no husband, no home, no money, and there was nothing to be gained by allowing her mind to drift away from these facts to think of the lot of other women. What could she do?

Was there truly any possibility of her being able to earn a living for herself, here in a town thronged with eager artists, no doubt of far greater accomplishment and experience than she was? As Mr. Rudge had rightly said, it was whom you knew that brought you work—and whom did she know? Nobody.

No, she saw no alternative. She would have to do what she had sworn she would not do. She must go to James Eyre and throw herself on his mercy. It was not too late, Mr. Partington would doubtless come up with the money he demanded, and then they must rub along together as best they might. Could the flames of their affection be rekindled, after such a violent parting? Perhaps. They would live abroad, at least for a while, and that would bring new scenery, new acquaintances, new prospects, into her life, which might soften the penance of living with a man who did not care for her, but for her fortune.

“No, Petifer,” she said, when she was dressed and Petifer had arranged her hair and twitched her skirts into proper order. “I am going out alone; there is something I have to do. It is broad daylight, my destination is not far from here, I shall come to no harm.” She fastened the ribbons under the wide-brimmed straw hat—Lord, the last
time she had worn that, it had been in Bath, when she had slipped out for an illicit meeting with James Eyre. “I shall return directly.”

“And where are you going?” said Petifer, looking at her with suspicious eyes.

“That is a private matter, something I have to do.” And Cassandra whisked herself out of the door before Petifer could say another word.

The maid who answered the door at Cecil Court gave a start of recognition when she saw Cassandra. She was a slatternly girl, who had come to the door with a mop in her hand.

It seemed she was about to close the door in Cassandra’s face, but Cassandra was too quick for her, and was inside the hall before she could be denied. “Is Mr. Eyre at home?” she asked.

“That he is not, and I’ll thank you to leave directly, you hussy, we want none of the likes of you in this house!” Mrs. Dodd stood before her, red and angry, her hands on the hips, the picture of outraged womanhood. “I won’t forgive you for what you’ve done to Mr. James; you had no right to treat him like that. So be off with you.”

Cassandra had gone pale, but her voice was steady. “Is he not here at present? When may he return?”

“Don’t you look down your nose at me, missy, I know you for what you are. Throw over an honest man, entrap him like you did and then just walk out. Well, he won’t be back tonight, nor this week or month, or next year, neither.”

Cassandra was beginning to feel alarmed. “Pray, tell me where he is. He has not met with an accident, surely?” Ridiculous visions of his challenging Mr. Partington to a duel and being struck down, or of him casting himself into the Thames in a morbid—and inebriated—fit of self-pity rose before her eyes. “He has not come to any harm?“

“Harm, is it? I tell you this, I’ll be glad to see him home and well and in one piece, but there’s not much chance of that, not where he’s gone.” She noticed that the slatternly girl was listening to every word, with her mouth hanging open. “Get back downstairs,” she snapped. “And take that mop with you, what are you thinking of, to answer the door with it in your hand”—with an angry look at Cassandra—“even if what’s standing on the doorstep is the likes of her!”

Cassandra wasn’t leaving until she had the truth out of Mrs. Dodd, and she told her so. “I shall camp on your doorstep and ring the bell all day until you say what has become of Mr. Eyre.”

Another glare from Mrs. Dodd. Then, with a glance down the staircase, for she knew as well as Cassandra did that the girl and the mop had retreated no further than the foot of the flight of stone stairs leading down into the basement, she opened the parlour door and held it for Cassandra to go through.

She did not invite Cassandra to sit down. “I’ll tell you, Miss whatever your name is, where he’s gone. He’s gone to the other side of the world, that’s where he’s gone. And the only good thing about it is that he’s out of your clutches, because there’s no way you can reach him now.”

Cassandra looked at her blankly for a moment. “The other side of the world?” Then she realised what Mrs. Dodd must mean. “He has a ship, that is what you are saying.”

“He has gone to be first lieutenant to Lord Cochrane, who’s away making mischief among the foreigners in South America, all natives and papists they are, from what Mr. James tells me.”

“The famous Lord Cochrane?”

“There’s only one I ever heard tell of.”

“How is Mr. Eyre getting there?”

“He sailed on the
Nautilus
this very morning; he was up before dawn to catch the tide at Tilbury. He’s been gone these five hours and more, he’ll be out at sea and likely to be away for two or three years or more. ‘I may settle and make a new life for myself out there,’ he says to me. ‘For there’s nothing left in this country or Ireland for me.’”

Cassandra saw angry tears start into Mrs. Dodd’s eyes. “So he has gone to Chile,” she said slowly. “I am grieved to hear it.”

“And so you should be, for if you’d had a heart inside your breast, you’d have let him make an honest woman of you, that you would, and he’d never have gone off where he’ll be drowned or have his leg blown off!”

“He has not had that misfortune yet, although it is a hazard of his profession,” Cassandra pointed out.

“Oh, much you care! Now, I’ve told you what you wanted, so be off with you, and I hope I never set eyes on you again.”

Cassandra went towards the door, then, as a thought struck her, she turned back to Mrs. Dodd.

“How came he by the posting? I know he was hard put to find a position, it is very difficult to get a ship these days.”

“He is not a nobody, his father is a lord, that’s what you forgot, with your pride and stubbornness. He has influential relatives and friends, and one of those, Lord Usborne, who is a friend of the Prince of Wales, no less, arranged for him to get a ship. I can only be thankful he has some friends, he who deserves them, a sweet boy as he always was, and grown into a kind, good man, and far too good for the likes of you!”

“He’s gone, hasn’t he?” Petifer said, as Cassandra came into the room.

“He?”

“That Mr. Eyre, that’s the
he
I’m speaking about.” Petifer was on her hands and knees, smoothing out the pattern dress, and now she sat back on her heels, a large pair of scissors held in her right hand and a fierce expression on her face.

Cassandra had to laugh. “You look like one of the Fates, snipping life’s thread with your scissors.”

“I’d like to cut something else with these scissors, so I would.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Besides, he’s left Mrs. Dodd’s house, I didn’t see him.”

Petifer snorted. “So he’s gone back to Ireland, has he? Good riddance is what I say.”

“No, he has gone much further afield than that,” Cassandra said, plumping herself down on the bed with a sigh. “How did you know I’d gone to see him?”

“It wasn’t so hard to guess, you had that look on your face, like you were jumping off a cliff, which is what taking up with him again would be, if you ask me.”

“It seemed as though it were the only solution to my problems. I was certain you would approve, for it would restore my good name to some degree, and with the income from my fortune, I dare say we could have lived well enough.”

“That might be so, but a man who will run off with one woman may sooner or later run off with another. No, you’re better off without him, and while there’s life, there’s hope, as my nan always said.”

Cassandra could not feel that Petifer’s nan’s homespun philosophy was of any great use to her in her present predicament. And she felt a bleakness of spirits at James’s departure, for although he had offended her, and she had been so shocked by his scheming to have both love and fortune—if he had indeed loved her at all—she had still abandoned home and respectability on his account, and had enjoyed rapturous hours in his arms.

“Don’t sit slouching like that, Miss Cassandra, whatever would Miss Wilson say if she could see you now? I’d be sent directly for the backboard.”

“Well,” said Cassandra, with an attempt to look more cheerful, “I must put my thinking cap on and see what can be done.”

Petifer put down her scissors, and stood up. “Isn’t there somewhere in London where you can go and look at pictures? For no amount of brooding is going to help you, but I reckon spending a bit of time gazing at those paintings you’re so fond of would do your spirits good.”

“Oh, Petifer, it’s a kind thought, and I should love to go to the Royal Academy, for the summer exhibition is on. But I believe it costs a shilling, and I must watch every penny.”

“If you’re planning to make a living by your brush, then it’s money well spent to see what all the other artists are up to. There’s fashion in art, same as in clothes and everything else, that’s what that uppity youngster who was assistant to Mr. Lisser told me. And I’ve a fancy to see some paintings, perhaps there’ll be one by Mr. Lisser himself.”

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Mantel’s amiable face looked round it. “Sorry to disturb you, miss, but a boy’s come round with this, and he made me promise I’d put it straight into your hands, and no one else’s.”

“For me?” said Cassandra, puzzled, taking the battered-looking casket that was held out by Mrs. Mantel. “Do you know whom it’s from?”

“He said there was a note inside, then he scarpered.”

Her face was expectant, and Cassandra felt obliged to lift the curved lid and see what was inside. It seemed to be a bundle of letters, wrapped round several times in a faded blue ribbon. On top was a scrap of paper, with a few neatly written words: “Pray accept these, and keep them close to you, and indeed, hidden well. They are all I have of value, to repay you for your very great kindness to me.” The note was signed “Harriet.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Mantel,” Petifer said. “It is nothing of any importance, just some bits and pieces Miss Cassandra left behind.”

Cassandra took out the letters and turned them over in her hand. “I cannot imagine why Harriet has sent me her letters. I am sure they are precious to her, but how can they be of value to anyone else?”

“You could read them,” said Petifer. “See what they say, maybe there’s instructions telling you where some treasure is hid.”

“Oh, very likely, don’t you think?” said Cassandra, laughing. “No, these are private letters, and I will put them by and keep them safe. Perhaps, when she is arrived in America, I may send them back to her.”

Petifer pursed her lips, but didn’t press the point.

“Pray do not go looking at them when I am not present,” said Cassandra, serious again.

“Would I ever do such a thing?”

“Yes, you would, if you thought it was to my advantage, but there is nothing to interest or concern us in some old letters. I think you are right as to the pictures,” she went on. “We may walk from here to the Royal Academy.”

The charge for entry was indeed a shilling, but Cassandra would not let Petifer spend another shilling on a catalogue. “We do not need it, it is likely that the paintings will be labelled. Besides,” she said, catching sight of a painting suffused with yellow light, “I am sure we shall recognise the hand of the masters. From what Herr Winter has told and shown me, that painting there, for instance, must come from the brush of Mr. Turner.”

She moved towards it, to inspect it more closely, and collided with a woman in a dark green dress who at that moment took a step back from the picture. An apology died on her lips as she stared at Cassandra; then her face broke into a smile. “Why, if it is not Cassandra! Do not you recognise me? I am Camilla, your cousin Camilla!”