Darcy's Journey (2 page)

2

December 1814

At dawn the canal was already a hubbub of
shouting and banging as bargees competed for space on the
Rio di San Luca
,
which joined the Grand Canal directly under Elizabeth’s bedroom window. They
carried all manner of goods, from apples and potatoes stacked in boxes, to coal
and wood, to piles of discarded furniture and other junk. Still in her
nightdress, Elizabeth eased the window open a fraction and unfastened the
shutters, steeling herself for the rank smell from the canal: the custom was to
dump all sewage into the water, and let the tides carry it into the sea. She
leaned far enough out to see the Rialto Bridge, a hundred yards away, already
coming to life as moneylenders and jewellers opened their stalls.

It was beautiful, romantic—and her
prison.

In the other bed
Céline rubbed her
eyes, and sat up.

‘Is it morning?’

Elizabeth crossed the room and sat
beside the child, resting a hand on her shoulder.
Céline was Sir
Ambrose’s daughter from his first marriage, a rosy-cheeked girl with pale fair hair
which she wore in braids. Now approaching her 12
^th
birthday, she was
practical and mature for her years, but with her father remarried, and the
family whisked off to a foreign city, it was hardly surprising that she had become
anxious—a plight recently aggravated by her father’s illness.

‘Sleep a little,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Sofia has not
yet come with water for our pitcher. Shall I reclose the shutters?’

‘No.’ Céline withdrew under the blanket. ‘Will
it be sunny?’

‘When the haze lifts.’

The girl fell silent, and Elizabeth returned
to her own bed, hoping to doze a little longer. But sleep would not come, and
she found herself reliving the twists and turns of the last months.

How could a venture that started so
promisingly have led her into this predicament?

The trip out had been arduous, but also inspiriting. They crossed the
channel to Calais, where Sir Ambrose bought a coach. As well as Elizabeth and Céline,
the party included Regina, in mourning after her father’s death, a maid to be
shared by the ladies, two manservants, and a retired schoolmaster named Mr Theodore
Avery who was earning his passage to Italy by serving as their ‘bear-leader’,
or cultural guide. A French driver helped plan their route, and interceded with
innkeepers along the way.

Paris was their first call, now returning to
normal after a peace treaty signed in the spring. To Elizabeth’s delight they
had stayed a full week, before embarking on the long leg through Dijon to
Geneva, in the south-west corner of Switzerland. From there it was a short trip
to the Alps, where the coach was taken to pieces and they proceeded in a mule
train, helped by hired guides, and carriers who lifted the ladies over rough spots
in sedans. The scenery was astonishing, and more than once Elizabeth smiled at
her disappointment, earlier in the year, at missing a trip to the Lakes.

In the reassembled carriage they turned south
to Turin before crossing the northern plain of Italy to Milan, Verona, Padua,
and the port of Mestre, where Sir Ambrose sold his carriage to a returning
traveller. Over the lagoon, Elizabeth espied for the first time the spires and
pink roofs of the city her father had called the most beautiful in the world,
now just an hour away on the ferry.

Nothing had prepared Elizabeth for the thrill
of the final gondola ride from the opening of the Grand Canal to the Carandini
residence. They first said farewell to Mr Avery; she then joined Regina, Sir
Ambrose, and Céline, in a curved boat made luxurious by flowers and cushions,
and gazed in amazement as they passed palaces that had been restored to
grandeur on the interior while their ancient facades crumbled. Regina pointed
out one landmark after another—a gallery here, a fish market
there—but Elizabeth was too spellbound to pay attention.

If only Jane were here to see this …

By habit, the household split in
two at the breakfast table. At one end, Regina’s brother Gabriele sat close to their
mother Claudia; they spoke in Italian in hushed voices. At the other sat
Elizabeth and
Céline, eating mostly in silence. Regina often took a tray to her
husband, now bedridden, leaving her younger sister Maddalena in between the two
groups, next to Céline.

The meal, called
prima colazione
,
consisted mostly of pastries brought fresh each day from the market. They
reminded Elizabeth of delicacies she had enjoyed in Paris, but took a variety
of forms including the
cornetto
, a cream-filled cone, and
brioches
shaped like croissants, but speckled with coarse sugar and sometimes filled
with almond or chocolate paste. They were washed down with coffee, which could
be diluted with hot milk, although Regina’s mother and brother preferred a
syrup of black coffee and sugar which they drank from small cups. Fruit was
also provided: pineapple rings and baked apples and pears—sprinkled again
with sugar, from which there was no escape.

Maddalena was a year younger than Céline, and
made Elizabeth think of a pixie with her thin face, dark hair, and faraway
eyes. The girls shared lessons and played together, learning each other’s
languages. Since Regina tended her husband, Elizabeth was often left alone
during meals. She did not mind: it was interesting to listen to the others and
try to work out what they were saying—and a relief to escape the
attentions of Gabriele.

Regina’s older brother was a very
serious young man of 25, and the impression he first gave was
non-descript
.
He was Bingley’s height—not especially tall—and had the thin
features of Maddalena, but without her charm. His reddish hair, sparse compared
with Regina’s, was worn short with sideburns. His voice was thin, and he compensated
by forcing the tone so that he seemed perpetually anxious. Elizabeth, wary of
first impressions, had tried not to judge him harshly. She smiled, listened
attentively, tried to draw him out. But by doing so, she unwittingly became a
focus of his attention, a
project
to which he now dedicated himself.

There was nothing that she could rebuke
him for. He never teased, flirted, or took liberties. What rankled was his view
of her as the clay from which he would sculpt a masterpiece. In every gesture,
every utterance, he defined himself as a paragon of refinement, as if placed on
earth to judge others and find them wanting. Practical life meant nothing to
him. He revered painting, literature, but above all music, especially the
Germanic tradition: Mozart, Haydn, and now Beethoven, whose violin sonatas he
saw as the pinnacle of culture.

Gabriele approached her, as usual,
while the maid cleared up after breakfast.

‘
Cominciamo
?’ Shall we begin?

‘
Subito
?’
Right now?
Elizabeth could maintain a simple conversation in Italian, or at least the Tuscan
variety favoured by the Venice elite; confusingly, the language of the market
place was the local Veneto dialect. But for the most part they talked in
English, which Gabriele, like Regina, had learned from an early age.

‘We will go through the first movement
again, and this time play it rhythmically, as Beethoven intended.’

‘If you wish.’

Thrown on the defensive, Elizabeth
wondered why she accepted her role so meekly. Gabriele’s subtext was plain: the
unsatisfactory rhythm was not
his
fault, but entirely hers. Why did she
not puncture his arrogance with a rebuttal? She had managed with Darcy, even
Lady Catherine, so why not this far less eminent Italian?

The trouble with Gabriele, and also his
mother, was that they showed no sign of
understanding
humour—or at
least, not Elizabeth’s brand of it. She might have asked how he was so
well-informed of Beethoven’s intentions: had he perhaps consulted the composer
himself? It would not have worked. He would stare back at her as if she were
deranged. It would be like asserting that two plus two equalled five, or the
moon was made of gorgonzola. He was right, everyone who disagreed with him was
wrong, so what was there to laugh at?

She followed him to the music room and
seated herself at the pianoforte, where the score of Beethoven’s most recent violin
sonata awaited her.

3

With Bingley at his side, Darcy
rode along a bridle path to Longbourn. It was another cold day, turning the
puddles to ice, and he took care to restrain his horse even though the turmoil
of his feelings demanded haste.

They had left Netherfield immediately
after breakfast, after a gruelling journey completed in a single day, the last
part by moonlight. Such a disruption of their plans upset Georgiana and
perplexed Caroline and Louisa, who wondered why their brother should come up to
Pemberley one day only to return the next. The reason could not be explained
without revealing Darcy’s special concern for Elizabeth, and this was of course
out of the question. Bingley had insisted on coming too, and after brief resistance
Darcy had been grateful for his support; at least his friend would be rewarded
by the prospect of further time with Jane.

Their arrival occasioned a typical
brouhaha. They were shown to the parlour, to be received by Mary and Kitty,
both obviously surprised by Bingley’s presence and overawed by Darcy. Jane had
been whisked upstairs by Mrs Bennet for alterations to her hair—as if
Bingley’s ardour might be cooled if a curl was discovered out of place. Not for
the first time, Darcy was grateful for Bingley’s poise as he chatted to the
Bennet girls. Finally the squawking
(‘Hill!
’) and clatter of footsteps
died down, and a demur-looking Jane entered, followed by her mother.

‘Mr Bingley!’ Mrs Bennet gushed. Her
voice muted as she turned to Darcy. ‘And Mr Darcy. You are welcome too.’

Bingley bowed. ‘Good morning Mrs
Bennet.’ A smile to Jane. ‘Miss Bennet.’ He extended an arm towards Darcy.
‘Excuse our unexpected visit. A matter has arisen over which we would like to
confer with Mr Bennet.’

A sharp intake of breath by Mrs Bennet
suggested that this utterance had been misconstrued. ‘Of course! You may see
him directly in his study. Kitty, inform your father!’

A bewildered Kitty led the way, and they
heard Mrs Bennet whisper to Jane: ‘See, he is back already, but what has Mr
Darcy to do with it?’

In the sanctuary of Mr Bennet’s study,
coffee was ordered, and at last they could get down to business.

‘Let me get straight to the point,’
Bingley said. ‘I have informed Mr Darcy of the letter recently arrived from
Italy, and he may be able to help.’

Frowning, Mr Bennet turned to Darcy.
‘Any friend of Mr Bingley’s has my full trust. However, I do not wish the
contents of this letter generally known. It would distress my wife and younger
daughters.’

‘You have my word.’ Darcy leaned forward
and spoke more quietly. ‘Has there been further news?’

‘None.’

‘Just this short note, dated four weeks
ago?’

‘Correct.’ Mr Bennet sighed. ‘Probably
nothing is seriously amiss, and we may hope for better tidings before long. But
I
am
concerned. The newspapers confirm that cholera is spreading in
Austria and northern Italy. We had been relying on Sir Ambrose Havers to ensure
my daughter’s safety; he is now gravely ill. What is more, we find no evidence,
in Lizzy’s note, that she has received any of Jane’s letters apart from the
first. I expected at least
some
reaction to our news about my youngest
daughter Lydia, who is now married to Mr Wickham.’ He pressed his lips together.
‘I assume Mr Bingley informed you?’

Darcy nodded, with a slight smile. ‘I
have known Mr Wickham since we were boys, and cannot pretend surprise at what
has occurred. However, I am glad that the problem has been resolved, and wish
your daughter every happiness.’

Mr Bennet snorted. ‘I would rather wish
her some
sense
, but there is little prospect of that.’ He leaned back in
his leather chair, shaking his head. ‘How my brother-in-law achieved this
outcome remains mysterious to me, but we are much relieved. If only we had
equally reassuring tidings of Lizzy …’ He regarded Darcy quizzically before
continuing: ‘I am still unclear, Mr Darcy, of your interest in the matter.’

‘It is twofold.’ Darcy took a deep
breath. ‘First, as you will be aware, I have met Miss Elizabeth on a number of
occasions, and found her a most pleasant and intelligent young woman. I cannot
say we are close friends, but I would hate any harm to come to her. Second, I know
the Havers family, through Sir Ambrose’s younger brother Edward, whom I met
while we were up at Cambridge. It is through this contact that I may be of
assistance. What I suggest is this. I will visit Edward Havers in London, pass
on your news of his brother, and find out whether any communications from
Venice have reached
him
. Perhaps through this channel we can obtain the
reassurance that you seek.’

‘Capital, sir!’ Mr Bennet sipped coffee,
before continuing: ‘I am not, like you, acquainted with Sir Ambrose’s family. I
sent a letter to his London address, but have had no reply, so I assume it was
not opened by his brother.’

‘Probably forwarded to Venice,’ Bingley
mused.

Mr Bennet spread his hands in
frustration. ‘In which case it will have ended up God knows where.’

‘I’m surprised communications have
proved so poor,’ Darcy said. ‘They were reliable before the war; why not now?’
He looked first at Bingley, then at Mr Bennet. ‘Are we agreed? I will go to town
today, consult Edward, then report back, either in person or by express.’

‘You have my gratitude.’ Mr Bennet
looked away sadly, perhaps upset that he could take no useful role himself. ‘It
is asking a lot that you should continue your travels in such haste. Why not
take a day to recuperate?’

‘I fear we might soon be snowbound.’ Darcy
paused. ‘Before I leave, may I have a private word with Miss Bennet?’

Mr Bennet looked surprised, but raised
no objection. ‘Since you are at your ease, I will ask her to join you. Mr
Bingley, it falls to us to attend the other ladies.’

Jane sat opposite him, hands folded
in lap, her expression as usual unreadable. Despite the anxiety over her
sister, she looked well, buoyed no doubt by the renewal of Bingley’s
attentions. With her blonde curls and angelic countenance she was the equal of
any society beauty: no wonder Bingley was smitten.

‘You wished to ask about Lizzy’s
letters?’ She drew out two sheets, one a scrap, the other a folding letter with
tiny handwriting filling every space.

‘Not only.’ Darcy lowered his voice. ‘I
wondered whether there might be pointers that Miss Elizabeth had told you, ah,
in
confidence
.’

Jane smiled. ‘Matters that could not be
shared with my father?’ Her expression sobered as she sought the right words.
‘Lizzy
did
mention some of what passed between you in Kent.’

‘Yes?’ He tried to hide his alarm,
intrigued to know what Elizabeth had said, but also wondering how this was
relevant to the issue.

‘She said you had quarrelled over Mr
Wickham.’ Jane reddened. ‘I should tell you also, Mr Darcy, that I am aware of
the role you played in helping poor Lydia. It was Lydia herself who let slip
your presence at her wedding, after which I applied to my Aunt Gardiner for the
particulars.’ Tears pricked her eyes. ‘Unfortunately by then Lizzy had already
reached Venice, where she received my first letter, written in August, with the
news that Lydia had eloped—or so we supposed. Nearly two months passed
before I received a reply.’ Jane held up the folded sheet. ‘Most of it is about
her summer in Venice. She describes the beauty of the city, the family’s
hospitality, a visit to their glass factory on the island of Murano. She is glad
to hear that Mr Bingley has returned to Netherfield, but shocked at Lydia’s
folly; she begs me to confirm that a marriage has truly taken place.’

Darcy was silent a moment, digesting
this momentous report. ‘Which you had already done, in your next?’

‘Just so.’ Jane struggled to keep her
composure. ‘But that letter was sent in September, and from then we heard
nothing, until a few days ago, when this arrived.’ She held up the scrap of
paper. ‘In Lizzy’s handwriting. But in an envelope addressed by another hand.’

‘Are the contents private?’

‘No.’

Jane handed the sheet over, and Darcy
saw that it was brief, and written in a hurry.

Dear
Jane, There is cholera in Venice, Sir Ambrose has been taken ill, and I cannot
leave the house. Please please write with news of poor Lydia. I know not when I
will escape from this trap, and feel sick with foreboding. E.

And that was all.

Darcy asked, very gently, ‘Miss Bennet,
you mentioned my, ah, encounter with Miss Elizabeth at Hunsford. Did she give
details on what she accused me of?’

Jane considered. ‘The main item was
mistreatment of Mr Wickham.’ She looked up. ‘I gather from my aunt that she was
in error.’

‘Wickham lied to her.’

‘Apart from that, only general comments
on your, ah, character.’ Jane’s face turned pink. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Darcy. If
Lizzy knew what you had done for us, she would bitterly regret her words.’

So Jane was unaware of his connivance
in separating her from Bingley.
Darcy sighed with relief. ‘I trust we both regret
what passed that day. But thank you for your kindness.’

They parted on this amicable note, and
as Darcy followed Jane out of the study he saw Bingley hovering at the end of
the passage.

‘Miss Bennet!’ Bingley confronted Jane
with mock outrage. ‘You have spent far too much time with my tall friend, and
made me exceedingly jealous! There is a question I have been meaning to ask
you, and your father has kindly loaned us his study for the purpose.’

Darcy left them alone, with a wink at his
friend as they passed.