The True Darcy Spirit (27 page)

The dining room in Harte Street was on the ground floor, to the rear of the house. While Camilla had her hand on the door handle of the dining room, Cassandra paused in the hall, her attention caught by a striking portrait of a woman, not in the first flush of youth, but in the height of a mature beauty.

“This is a very fine portrait, who is the woman?”

Camilla came back and stood with Cassandra in front of the picture.

“That is Lady Hermione Wytton, my mama-in-law. She was strikingly lovely as a girl, and this portrait was painted when Mr. Wytton was a little boy, he remembers her just so, he says. And even now, she is a very fine-looking woman for her age. Some people are afraid of her, for she has a caustic tongue, but I go along with her very well, and Mr. Wytton thinks the world of her. That is,” she corrected herself, “he thinks the world of her when they are not under the same roof, for when they are together too long, they argue, which is very amusing, for her wits are as quick as his, which he does not always like. Mostly, she lives in Italy. This portrait was painted by an Italian, a painter called Strozzoli. There are other, more formal portraits of her at the Abbey; she was painted as a bride by Gainsborough, although Mr. Wytton says it is not one of his best works. Mr. Wytton wanted to have this one here, in our London house, where he can see it often.”

They passed into the dining room. The walls were painted in the Pompeian red that Camilla had shown Cassandra, with two panels outlined on either side of a handsome marble fireplace.

“It is a good colour,” said Cassandra, looking around her, “but perhaps rather sombre, unrelieved as it is here.”

“Exactly. It was always our intention to have some frescoes in those two panels on either side of the fireplace, but we can never agree on what should be the subject. So I have now taken matters into my own hands, and he can have classical figures, such as you showed me, based on those in his own sketchbook. What do you think? I have cleared the room as you can see, so you will have plenty of time to work. No, don’t look down your nose like that at me; how you remind me of Papa when you do that. It is not charity, in fact, you are doing me the favour, as you can see.”

Camilla’s enthusiasm carried the day, and in fact, Cassandra’s fingers were itching to get to some paper and start sketching. The figures presented no difficulty, and as for the faces, well, such women were generally of a type, but Cassandra had another idea. As they went back into the hall, she spent some more minutes looking intently at the portrait of Lady Hermione, before joining Camilla upstairs.

“I shall pay for all the paints and materials you need,” Camilla said. “No, do not argue with me. I shall come with you, really, there is very little for me to do now that Mr. Wytton is away, and a colourist’s shop is the very thing to amuse me. I have never been to one, you see. Where is his establishment situated? Can we walk, or shall I order the carriage?”

Mr. Rudge welcomed the ladies with bows and smiles, while Mr. Fingal hovered in the background. He was all obliging attention as Cassandra discussed her needs, for the paint she would use on the panel, although oil, was not quite the same as was suitable for her canvases.

“And there is a matter of paints supplied for Mrs. Nettleton, of St. James’s Square,” Camilla said. “Since Mrs. Nettleton has no further use for the paints, please have them collected, and then you may deliver them to Soho Square on my account.”

Cassandra was astonished by this high-handed way of dealing with her former landlady, but Mr. Rudge seemed to see nothing unusual about it, and said that he would send Mr. Fingal round to collect the paints.

“And brushes, also, I believe,” said Camilla.

“It is all perfectly fascinating,” she said to Cassandra, as they left. “Although the smell of the paints is very strong, I hope that Griffy is not averse to the smell of linseed oil.”

Fortunately, Miss Griffin was not. “In fact,” she said to Cassandra, “I do not have a very developed sense of smell. My eyes are as keen as anyone’s, and my hearing is acute, but I do not have much sense of smell. And what I can smell of your paints and so forth, does not offend me at all.”

Petifer, of course, was used to the smells, and settled comfortably into something like her old routine, sharing her household duties with the hours she spent assisting Cassandra in the studio. She received the delivery from Mr. Rudge’s, which was brought round by his assistant, Mr. Fingal, rather than the boy. “I was coming this way,” he said, watching Petifer checking over the order. “Looks like you know something about paints.”

“I’ve learned what I need to know,” Petifer said repressively. Then, because Mr. Fingal was a pleasant enough man, she unbuttoned enough to ask him to help her move the easel, and to call out the items listed on the bill.

“It’s all correct, I made the order up myself, and there are also the paints retrieved from Mrs. Nettleton’s house, not that she was eager to let them go. But I said, ‘You may keep them if you pay for them,’ and she handed them over without further ado.”

Further conversation elicited the fact that he hailed from the same part of the world as Petifer’s brother-in-law, and they parted on the friendliest of terms when he eventually recollected that he had duties elsewhere.

Cassandra found, as so often in the past, that work was the best
balm for bruised spirits. Now she discovered it was also a healer, or at least a distractor, for a bruised heart, and, indeed, for a bruised selfesteem, for her narrow escape from the clutches of Mrs. Nettleton and Lord Usborne had left her feeling she was not so well able to look after herself as she had thought; how would she have managed without the timely assistance from Petifer and from Camilla?

Well, she would learn from her mistakes, and be a great deal warier in future.

So she set to drawing the designs for Camilla’s panels, for that, as her cousin pointed out, was a matter of urgency, if the work were to be completed before Mr. Wytton returned from Scotland.

She took the dancing lines of her figures from Wytton’s sketches and from drawings she made of figures on the vases in the British Museum, but the faces were not idealised women from antiquity but living images. Then she took time away from the studio and the portrait of Belle to go to Harte Street, where she painted away happily, often perched on the top step of a ladder, much to the disapproval of the Wyttons’ stately butler.

Mr. Wytton arrived back from Edinburgh late in the evening, tired after accomplishing the return journey in the shortest possible time. He had been travelling for more than fourteen hours since leaving the inn where he had stayed the previous night, and it was a weary traveller whom the butler admitted to the house in Harte Street.

Although it was late, Camilla was there seconds after she heard his voice, exclaiming at the lateness of the hour; at how quickly he had returned; how very, very happy she was to see him.

He was not too tired to sweep Camilla into his arms the second they were alone, kissing her soundly and whispering into her ear that this was why he had cracked on so, not wanting to spend another night apart from her.

She kissed him back with equal passion, before reluctantly disengaging herself and insisting that he shift his clothes, such a state as they were in, and while he did that, she would make sure a comfortable supper was laid out for him in the parlour.

Mr. Wytton was not the man to be feeling any strain from such an arduous journey, nor from the undoubted pleasures of the night that followed his reunion with his wife, so he was up at his usual hour the next morning, calling out to Camilla as to where she had put some papers he had by him and declaring that he was hungry enough to eat
a horse. So he was in a thoroughly good mood when Camilla ushered him, after preparing him for a surprise, into the dining room.

He stopped at the threshold, took in the novelty in an instant, and strode over to have a closer look at the panels. Then he burst out laughing. “Well, my love, I had thought that the decoration for this room was going to be a matter of agreement between us, and I see that you have made the decision yourself.”

“You are not vexed?”

“I? Never. It is charming, quite charming, and I am vastly pleased to have pictures of you and my mama, a young mama, I notice, quite in all her beauty, in the shape of these elegant nymphs. How came you to do this? Who is the artist? He has the details perfectly correct, I am astonished.”

“You should not be, my dearest, for the figures were taken from your very own notebook, which I took the liberty of showing to the artist. As to the faces, that was…the painter’s notion; with my features taken from life, and Lady Hermione’s from the portrait outside.”

“She will be amused to see herself in such a guise. But how came this to be done so quickly? You must have had it arranged before I left, to have the work done so quickly in my absence and spring it on me as a surprise. Although I do not know how this may be, as my journey to Edinburgh was not planned, as you know; it was a spur-of-the-moment decision on my part to go to Scotland.”

“The scheme appealed to the artist in question, and since it is intended as a birthday tribute to you, I insisted it be completed as swiftly as possible.”

“Well, my dear”—putting his arm around her waist and drawing her to him—“it is a lovely surprise, and how much I shall look forward to dining in here this evening.”

He went out shortly after that, leaving Camilla well pleased with the success of her scheme, and she despatched a note to Cassandra saying how much Mr. Wytton had liked her work.

But this was premature, for it was a frowning husband who joined her in the dining room later that day. They dined at a fashionably late
hour, and Mr. Wytton had only returned from his club in time to change his clothes for dinner, so she had not seen him since that morning.

She knew at once that something was amiss. But before she could ask him, in her usual direct way, what had happened to make him out of sorts, he glanced behind him at the panels. “It occurred to me, just as I was going into the museum, where I was to see Haroldson, that the artist whom you employed to paint these figures is none other than your cousin Cassandra Darcy. Is that not so?”

“How did you jump to such a conclusion?”

“I am as well able to put two and two together as any man, I believe. I knew that you had the intention of helping Miss Darcy if you could, whatever my or your family’s objections might be.”

“Very well, I will admit that you are right. Don’t look askance, you said yourself how much you liked them, do not say you are going to express some antiquated prejudice against a woman artist!”

“I care little for what sex a painter may be, if he or she handles brushes and paint in a correct and pleasing manner. That has nothing to do with what is wrong here. It is not her skill that I question, but her morals, and although you are of age, and may choose your friends—I am no ogre of a husband—I cannot feel but that you should not have anything to do with this unfortunate member of your family. And I am convinced that if your mother or father had any idea of what you were about, they would be as loud in their condemnation as I am.”

“Mr. Wytton!”

“No,” he said, holding up a hand as she attempted to break in. “Let me have my say. I am sorry for her. I have not met her, and I am sure that in essence she is a very agreeable girl. However, she took a false step, which has put her outside the pale, shutting the door for the rest of her life on that circle to which she could expect to belong by reason of her birth and upbringing.”

“You are talking fustian.”

“From what you said, her main fault is pride, which can in some ways be admirable; and I agree that she is probably not of a wicked
disposition, and I can applaud her determination to find herself respectable employment in order to support herself.”

“Only you are going to say that for a female, painting is not a respectable way to earn her living, because that is a province of the male half of humanity?”

“You take my words and twist them, you always do so. I can’t understand how your cousin consented to take on this commission; you must have made it impossible for her to refuse. You should not have done any such thing, you should not be so quick to interfere, you have to learn to let others make their mistakes and take the consequences, without rushing in. You are the same with your sisters, and it is a sign of your kind heart, but sometimes, as now, it causes nothing but embarrassment. I do not think that for the moment you would be wise to have anything more to do with your unfortunate cousin.”

Now Camilla could speak, and, white with anger, she replied with impetuous, scornful words. Camilla was not going to be dictated to by Mr. Wytton, no, nor by anybody else, her judgement was as sound as his, sounder, if she did not pass sweeping judgements on an inaccurate understanding of the facts.

Mr. Wytton was furious. “Facts!” he cried. “What say you to the fact that this Cassandra, this girl who took a wrong step, but who was determined not to let that lapse mar her life for good, has placed herself under the protection of Lord Usborne, is in fact his mistress? And that she lied to Horatio Darcy about being under the care of that Mrs. Norris whom you stigmatised as being such a dreadful woman the other night; better for Cassandra to be in her care than to join the impures, to come upon the town and end up in Lord Usborne’s bed, until such time as he tires of her, and she is passed on to some other fellow of lesser standing and wealth, and so on until she sinks, a ruined woman, into decent or unhappy obscurity.”

“You sound like a character from one of Griffy’s novels,” Camilla flashed back. “Where had you this interesting news concerning Lord Usborne?”

“I met Horatio Darcy in the club, and he told me.”

“Why did he tell you, pray?”

“He is concerned that Miss Darcy brings dishonour on the family name. Since I am married to you, and he knows you are aware of her sad history, he felt that I, and you, should be informed of this further disastrous step which she has taken. Since he handles her financial affairs, such as they are, and is also acting for her family, I think we may assume that he knows what he is talking about.”

“We may assume no such thing, for he is talking through his hat. Cassandra is not gracing either Lord Usborne’s bed or the house where he keeps his fancy pieces—thank you, I know all about men such as his lordship.”

She rose from the table and left the room, high spots of colour on her cheeks, while Mr. Wytton sat feeling that the ground had been cut from under his feet.

Of course, she would never admit that she was in the wrong, that was the trouble with women; once they had an idea fixed in their heads, there was no shifting it.

He was considerably surprised, having imagined that Camilla had gone to lick her wounds in her own chamber, when the door was flung open not ten minutes later, and there was his wife, wearing a most fetching bonnet, saying that she had ordered the carriage to be brought round; he must put on his hat, if he did not want to keep the horses waiting.

He opened his mouth to protest, to demand to know what this was about and to ask why he had to have a drama enacted in his own house; but the steely look in Camilla’s eye made him feel that it might be better to do as she wished.

“Where are we going?” he asked, since, once they were in the carriage, the coachman had set the horses in motion directly, without waiting for further orders.

“You will see.”

Wherever he had expected to go, it was not to Miss Griffin’s small house in Soho Square.

“Camilla,” he exclaimed, as she marched up to the front door. “What the devil do you think you’re doing? I suppose you want your
old governess to convince me that my attitude to Cassandra’s laxity is too harsh; well, she may save her breath.”

Camilla ignored him, which annoyed him still further, and she proceeded to set about a brisk rapping with the knocker. It opened after only a short wait, and a maidservant, with what he considered a shrewish expression, stared out at them. Camilla greeted her with a friendly “Good evening, Petifer. I am glad to see you here. Are the ladies at home?”

“Miss Griffin is not yet back, she went out to the play, but if you care to go upstairs, you will find—”

“Thank you,” Camilla said, cutting Petifer’s words short, and swept towards the narrow staircase without a backward look at Mr. Wytton.

What was she up to? he wondered, as he followed her up the stairs, past the first landing and on up to the top floor. There she paused before a green-painted door, listening for a moment, before giving it a couple of light taps and turning the handle.

Wytton could see a young woman, who bore a striking resemblance to his wife, seated at a table, her head bent over some work she was doing, a sheet of paper lit by a many-branched candle. She looked up, and smiled as she saw Camilla.

“Camilla, whatever are you doing here?” she said, rising, and coming over.

“Mr. Wytton,” said Camilla, not looking at him; she was clearly still in a state of considerable dudgeon. “Allow me to present my cousin, Cassandra, I know how desirous you are of meeting her.”

Cassandra dropped a slight curtsy and held out her hand. He found himself being appraised by a pair of beautiful grey eyes, eyes that a man might drown in, he thought irrelevantly. Camilla was talking.

“Now, Cassandra, I think Mr. Wytton would like to be assured that you have not got Lord Usborne tucked away behind that easel of yours, or perhaps stowed in the cupboard, while you paint.”

Cassandra gave Mr. Wytton a startled glance. “I beg your pardon?” she said. “Lord Usborne? Why should he be here? I only
hope to God that he has no idea of my whereabouts, what are you saying?”

“It seems,” Camilla began, “no, there is no seems about it, Mr. Wytton was convinced that you had fallen into the hands of Lord Usborne, that he was your protector, and that you were living with him as his mistress.”

“Camilla!” Mr. Wytton exclaimed. “It is really too bad of you!”