The Darcy Connection (13 page)

It was a dark claret coat, for in the summer Bartholomew didn't care to follow the inexorable rules laid down by Brummell as to the desirability of wearing nothing but black for evening dress. His man brushed away imaginary dust and creases from the perfectly fitting coat, and handed his master his hat and the silver-headed ebony sword-stick which he always carried in London at night.

No, he was out, Freddie was determined to make a fool of himself, for the first sight that met Bartholemew's eyes when he sauntered upstairs to the Wyttons' handsome drawing room was Freddie in close attention upon Miss Collins. There was an ardency in his friend's eyes that he didn't like at all. It wasn't only that any attachment between him and Miss Collins was impossible in a worldly sense, it was also that he didn't want his friend to suffer as he would if he truly fell in love with that woman, who seemed not to have an ounce of heart to her.

Mrs. Wytton greeted him with a smile, and he raised her hand to his lips with singular grace. He liked Mrs. Wytton, but had the uneasy notion that she could read his thoughts. “You are admiring my cousin, she casts all the season's beauties into the shade, do not you think? No, you do not agree. But you must agree you have rarely seen such perfection of feature, such an excellent complexion. Her bearing, and manners, too, must please everyone.”

“She appears cold to me.”

“Oh, Charlotte is reserved, she has always been so. Do not assume, however, that she has no feelings, that would be an irrational judgement, and I am sure you pride yourself on your rationality.”

He smiled at that. “What makes you think so?”

“All men do these days. Unless they are of a highly romantic disposition, in which case they are just as proud of their corsair looks and determination to live at the extremes of love's shore.”

Bartholomew, looking around the room, found his gaze arrested by a girl standing beside Pagoda Portal, talking with great vivacity to him and Henrietta Rowan. Charmingly dressed. Surely it wasn't—? No, it couldn't be!

The husky voice exclaimed in mock outrage, and there was the laugh, bubbling with amusement. Mrs. Wytton was watching him. “Are you acquainted with my younger cousin, Eliza? Shall I introduce you?”

“We've met,” said Bartholomew abruptly, and then he pulled himself together as Wytton joined them, clapping him on the shoulder, and waving to a servant to bring a glass of champagne.

Bartholomew tried to concentrate on what Wytton was saying, and moved round so that his back was turned to Miss Eliza Collins. What had happened to effect such a transformation? He felt almost indignant about it, since his hostility towards Miss Collins was bolstered by his swiftly expressed dismissal of her sister as provincial. Freddie had cried out at that, yet it had been a fair comment, if not a kind or courteous one.

The elegant cream-panelled drawing room led into another large room, added by the previous owner of the house to make a small ballroom. Tonight it was decorated with flowers that filled the room with their fragrance and blended entrancingly with the painted panels and ceiling, which depicted various classical deities disporting themselves in a pastoral landscape.

Bartholomew could hear musicians tuning, and Mrs. Wytton said that the dancing would soon begin, might she find him a partner?

“No, no, I do not intend to dance,” he said hastily.

“Why not? Have you injured yourself, have you fallen from your horse, or tripped going up those handsome steps into the bank?” said Camilla archly. “Otherwise I will accept no excuse, you are not to be numbered among those who are too middle-aged or learned to venture a waltz or a country dance. Let me see, yes, I know the very partner for you.” Before he could protest further, she had swept him across the room to where Miss Eliza Collins, with an impish look on her face, was listening to a droll anecdote from Henrietta Rowan.

“Eliza,” cried Mrs. Wytton. “Allow me to present Mr. Bruton to you as a very desirable partner.”

Bartholomew, startled, held out his hand; the devil take Mrs. Wytton, forcing him into this, it would be shocking bad manners to draw back—but what was this? Miss Eliza Collins was stepping back, smiling and shaking her head. “No, Camilla, I shall dance later perhaps, but for the moment I am hearing all about Turkish customs from Mrs. Rowan, and you would not take me away from such a fascinating account of life there.”

With which she bestowed a glittering smile on Bartholomew and turned back to Henrietta Rowan. “You were just about to tell me about the harem you visited in Istanbul.”

Portal gave Bartholomew a knowing look, which made him even more annoyed. “Rolled up, my boy,” Portal said genially. “I like a young lady to know her own mind.”

Mrs. Wytton seemed vastly amused by her cousin's refusal to dance. “Have you offended her in some way?” she enquired, as she drew Mr. Bruton aside. “I think there is more to her disinclination to dance than an interest in Turkish customs. She had a dangerous look in her eye.”

“Offended her! I barely know her.” His eyes faltered under Mrs. Wytton's knowing gaze. Clearly Miss Eliza Collins had heard his description of her as “provincial” and had not forgotten nor forgiven. It had been a careless remark, and certainly not intended to reach the ears of the lady in question. Curse it. He couldn't apologise…and, no, why should he? She looked a great deal more the thing this evening, but she and her sister were provincials, and on the make, if he were any judge of women. Why else come to London? Well, if she thought her rejection of his invitation to dance had piqued him, she could think again. He was not the man to be impressed by such tactics. He drank the rest of his champagne rather more quickly than he had intended, and had to restrain a fit of coughing as a consequence.

“Come and meet Professor Savrier,” Mr. Wytton was saying. “Were you able to see the new display of Egyptian antiquities while you were in Paris? That is his field, you know.”

And with considerable relief, Bartholomew gathered his wits, addressing the professor in fluent French, and forcing himself not to listen to that wretched girl's distinctive voice.

Mrs. Rowan finished her anecdote about her visit to the harem in Istanbul with the ringing words that to be an odalisque in the court of the Ottomans must be the most tedious fate imaginable. Even were you to like the sultan in whose establishment you found yourself, you would be obliged to share his favours with perhaps as many as a dozen other females. One couldn't imagine any woman setting up such a system, no woman could be bothered to have a dozen men languishing around her house, waiting for night-time when…

“My dear,” Mr. Portal interjected. “Perhaps this is neither the time nor the place. You will shock Miss Eliza with your outspoken comments.”

“Which, judging by the look on her face, she well understands. I am sorry, Miss Eliza, I did indeed forget myself. And you a bishop's daughter, brought up to be prim and proper, I am sure. And therefore not to be offended, because you will have no idea of what I speak.”

“Ignorance is not necessarily a consequence of a clerical upbringing,” said Eliza. “My father's predecessor at the Palace was a notable scholar, who accumulated a remarkable library. He died while still in office, and it was part of a handsome bequest to the Church that his library should remain in Ripon, for the benefit of future bishops, and I made good use of it.”

Her father rarely set foot in the library, and he would be scandalised if he knew just how many hours his younger daughter passed in there. Curled up in front of a meagre fire, lit at her mother's orders, she would become absorbed in a novel, stories of travel, histories of strange and fascinating countries.

“No good will come of it,” Charlotte warned Eliza more than once. “Learning is not good for the female brain, you will overtax it, or, worse, you will end up a blue-stocking, and that will make it hard for you to find a husband.”

“I shall find myself a husband who does not want an ignorant wife, that is all” had been Eliza's rejoinder. “And besides, a clever woman is well able to hide how much she knows.”

In such company as Eliza now found herself, it was much harder for her to hide the results of her wide reading than it was in Yorkshire, when the conversation never strayed into topics such as the customs of exotic cultures.

“Then I shall change the subject,” said Mrs. Rowan, “and ask an impertinent question. What has Mr. Bruton done for you to turn him down in such a very abrupt way, just now?”

“Was I abrupt? I did not mean to be. I spoke the truth, I would rather hear what you have to say about your travels and adventures than to dance with a man I barely know and who seems to have nothing to recommend him.”

Pagoda Portal regarded her with raised brows. “He is very rich, do you not know this, perhaps? Young ladies, single young ladies, are not usually so indifferent to making the acquaintance of rich and eligible young men.”

“Never mind his wealth,” said Henrietta. “He is also handsome, which a man should be if he can manage it. He is clever, and conversable, a witty man.”

“And one who is making great strides in his profession; he will overtake his father one of these days, and he is a man who towers above his generation. I am sure, were you to get to know Bartholomew Bruton, you would find him a very interesting man.”

Eliza smiled. “It will not be put to the test, for I am very sure I never shall get to know him.”

“So do you mean to turn down all requests for a dance?” said Henrietta Rowan, exchanging a swift smile with Mr. Portal. “Dear me, a young lady who does not care to dance…”

“Indeed, I do enjoy dancing. Only not with Mr. Bruton.”

She was annoyed with herself, feeling that she appeared gauche. Since no one here knew the reason for her disinclination to dance with Mr. Bruton, her behaviour would seem odd, and even ill-mannered. Still, other potential partners were in the room, including an agreeable-looking man in a green coat who solicited an introduction and promptly asked her for the next dance. It was a country dance, and it was with a smile and a light step that she joined the set as it lined up.

As always, Eliza found not only pleasure but a kind of release in the movement and music of the dance. Her slight irritation fell away, her partner was droll, with a flirtatious eye, and Eliza settled down to enjoy herself. He was a relation of Mr. Wytton's and a good friend of Mr. and Mrs. Wytton's, and he knew everyone in the room. “Except I have not had the honour of making the acquaintance of the new beauty, there is no getting near her, I find.”

“I am sure you know that she is my sister. I expect you hope I shall put in a good word for you.”

“My dear Miss Eliza, how can you think so little of me? I could not be more delighted than I am with my present company.”

Eliza laughed at him, not in the least bothered by his tactics. For a moment she wished she were again dancing with Anthony, then she told herself that in fact it was very agreeable to love and know oneself loved and therefore to be able to meet and dance with other men in a spirit of complete indifference.

“There is one thing about those who are invited to the Wyttons', they are none of them here merely because they are rich or important. We must all sing for our supper, this is quite unlike most parties in fashionable London, you will agree.”

“I might, if I knew much about fashionable London. I have only attended one dinner party and one soirée, given by my great-aunt, and this evening I dined in company at her house. That is the extent of my mingling in society, so you see, I rely on you to tell me that this is an unusual gathering.”

“Well, the agreeable-looking man over there, with the round face and the pretty wife, that is. He is an essayist, John Hopkirk, who is making quite a name for himself, and his wife is Mrs. Hopkirk, the flower-painter. Have you met Mrs. Horatio Darcy, who is another celebrated painter? Of course, I was forgetting, you are a Darcy yourself, are you not a cousin of Mrs. Wytton's?”

“I am, but on her mother's side. Mrs. Darcy is a painter? How extraordinary. In what sense is she a painter? Surely she cannot be a professional artist? It is impossible.”

“She made her living by her portraits before she married. Now she works privately, and chooses her subjects. Her paintings are much admired.”

“And Mrs. Hopkirk?”

“She is a professional; indeed, without what she earns from selling her paintings, they would be hard put to live any kind of a comfortable life.”

“You astonish me, I had not thought it possible. Women writers, of course, I know of several of those, but a painter!”

They were separated by the dance, and when they came together again, Eliza asked him how he sang for his supper, as he put it.

“I am a poet,” he replied. “Not of the fame nor standing of Lord Byron, who is, of course, the favourite of most young ladies, but still, a poet.”

“A published poet?”

“A published poet,” he said, with a shout of laughter. “How very suspicious you are, Miss Eliza.”

“And now I shall discover that you are famous and I am the fool for not knowing your name. You will have to put it down to my Yorkshire life, it takes time for new writers to reach us in those northern parts.”

The dance moved into another sequence, and Eliza found that her next steps brought her face-to-face with Mr. Bruton.

“I see that you do dance, after all,” he said, twirling her round with some energy.

“Oh, yes, even we provincials do learn to dance,” she said, and observed with some satisfaction that he was completely taken aback by this sally.

Before he could say any more, she was back with her partner, going down the line with an extra spring in her step.

The dance finished, and while the poet went to fetch Eliza a lemonade, she walked over to the window, fanning herself, for the evening was sultry. She was aware that Mr. Bruton was watching her. Surely he wasn't going to approach her after the snub she had delivered?

“Step out on to the balcony for a moment and refresh yourself,” said Camilla. “People would tell you that is a mistake, that you will take cold, but that is all nonsense. I cannot abide a stuffy ballroom. You were enjoying Mr. Ketteridge's company, he is a lively, amusing man.”

“I was ashamed that I did not recognise his name. Is he a noted poet?”

“He has had some success, and when his new work, an epic on King Arthur, is published later in the year, his friends and well-wishers feel it will establish him among the first rank of living poets. Now, as soon as you are recovered from your exertions, I shall take you around to meet some other of our friends.”

Camilla looked across to the ballroom and exclaimed, “There is Charlotte dancing with Freddie Rosely, how well she moves, and how even more lovely she looks with the extra colour in her cheeks. What a handsome couple they make, to be sure.”

Eliza craned her neck to see them. “I am so glad, for I am sure he is in love with her, and I do think he would suit her. I shall do everything in my power to encourage his suit, for I hate the thought of Charlotte being married off to a man she does not care for.”

“In this day and age, any woman may choose not to marry a man she dislikes,” said Camilla. “Your parents could not be so Gothic as to stand in the way of Charlotte's happiness, and Freddie, although not rich, comes of excellent family, and of course there is the title.”

“Perhaps his family would not care for Charlotte, not for any faults in herself, but on account of our family not being of any great distinction or wealth.”

“Freddie is of age, and while he should not marry to disoblige his family, he is surely man enough to decide for himself what kind of a woman will suit him.”

“And that woman is Charlotte, I am certain of it,” said Eliza, with fervour.

She did not notice Mr. Bruton, standing close to the other window, hearing every word she and Camilla said, nor did she see the tightening of his lips or hear his muttered words, “Freddie marry that icy piece of nature? Not if I can do anything to prevent it.”

As they came back into the room, Mr. Bruton had moved away, was walking over to the other side of the room, looking so thunderous that Portal called out to him, “Someone trodden on your toes, Bruton? That's a very grim face, for such a cheerful party.”

Bartholomew, his eyes on Charlotte and Freddie, forced his countenance into a more agreeable expression, cursing himself for displaying his fury so obviously, cursing Freddie for being such an idiot, cursing that damned Collins girl for presuming to imagine that a match between Rosely and her sister was not only possible but desirable. She was not only a provincial, but a scheming provincial.

He was still fuming as he walked back to Falconer Street, accompanied by Freddie, who was drunk on champagne and Charlotte, and inclined to burst into sentimental song. Bartholomew hauled him to his feet when he tripped on a paving stone, and dragged him out of the path of a wagon, lumbering its way to market with a top-heavy load of vegetables.

His anger wasn't directed at Freddie for his folly, nor against Charlotte for ensnaring him. How could any girl on the hunt for a husband do otherwise than smile and dance with a viscount who would one day be an earl, if a rather impoverished one?

No, his anger was directed at Eliza Collins. It was unreasonable, his rational mind told him. What was her fault, but to have put him in the wrong and make him seem guilty of ill breeding, and to foster hopes for a good match for her sister? He was too experienced not to know the cause of his anger, too disturbed to admit it to himself.

“Saw you looking at Miss Eliza,” said Freddie, suddenly and irritatingly lucid. “Taking girl, now she's rigged herself out in a better style. Dare say if she weren't a clergyman's daughter, you'd be taking her home—well, not home, can't do that when you live with your parents, your father wouldn't like it, he frowns on anything in the petticoat line, so my mother says. Offer her a carte blanche, only she wouldn't accept it, too respectable. Needs a husband, not an establishment. Bewitching eyes, but not a goddess like her sister.”

And he was off, weaving his way across the pavement and carolling in a loud and surprisingly tuneful tenor.

“The devil take you, Freddie,” said Bartholomew, grasping him rather roughly by the arm.

“Hey, who are you tugging at? Mind what you're doing, or I'll call you out. You insulted Charlotte, you said she didn't have radiant orbs, damn me if I ever saw such—”

“Shut up, Freddie. Here, this is your front door, as I see you don't recognise it.”

Freddie stood swaying on the steps to the house where he lodged, and turned a suspicious eye on Bartholomew.

“No, I don't recognise it. Sure you haven't brought me to old Mother Harley's place? Bring out the girls,” he shouted.

The door opened, and there was Freddie's landlord, with Freddie's man standing beside him. They moved forward with practised ease and led Freddie inside.

“Thank you, Mr. Bruton,” said Freddie's man.

“Put his head in a bucket of cold water,” Bartholomew advised.

He walked on alone.

All right, he was attracted by her, he had to be honest about it. He thought of the way she looked when she went with such spirit and grace down the dance, her eyes glowing with the pleasure of it, and that slanting smile on her lips…And her laugh, her husky voice, that husky voice!