The Darcy Connection (14 page)

“Bishop's daughter. Bah,” he said to himself, as he found his latchkey and let himself into the silent mansion where he had his own apartments. She had nothing to recommend her, she was pert and ill-mannered and wanted her sister to catch an earl's heir. It would not do. Even if she had not shown so clearly what her opinion was of him, there could be no future there for the son of an eminent banker.

In the carriage, Charlotte gave a hearty yawn, then lay back on the squabs, her eyes shut.

“You flirted shamelessly,” she said to Eliza. “I cannot believe it of you, I thought you had more sense of propriety. This is not like being at home, among people who have known you for ever and therefore make allowances for your frivolous ways.”

“I thought I was rather dull,” said Eliza. “I didn't have Lord Rosely eating me up with his eyes, after all.”

“I cannot help a gentleman's behaving improperly,” said Charlotte primly. “And it is just a pose. He will grow tired of it, and find another creature to catch his fancy.”

“Nonsense, he is in love with you.”

Another yawn, barely smothered. “Lord, how tired I am. And what have you done to incur the enmity of Rosely's friend Mr. Bruton? He was looking daggers at you.”

“At us both. I do not think he approves of Freddie's obvious admiration of you.”

“It is none of his business. And if he had any sense, he would take no notice of what Lord Rosely does.”

“Can you dismiss a man's affection so easily?”

“I do not care to see any man wearing his heart on his sleeve. He said how well you looked this evening, and that dress is becoming.”

“Who said that?”

“Lord Rosely said it. He thinks you have bewitched Mr. Bruton, by the by. I told him it was all nonsense.”

Bewitched? Eliza was startled out of her sleepiness. What an ass Freddie Rosely was!

George Warren arrived back in London as dusk fell, out of humour after a difficult journey from Paris. Rain in France had made the roads bad, and then he'd endured a blowy crossing with the wind coming from such a quarter as to make the journey drag out over all too many hours. The last part of the journey, by chaise from Dover to London, was accomplished without any problems, but by then the tedium of his mad dash from the Continent had put Warren into a state of considerable irritation. What the devil was Lady Warren about, why was his stepmother summoning him with such a peremptory message?

She had sent one of her own servants no less, insisting that he return to England immediately, there was a matter of the gravest concern that needed his instant attention. It was no good interrogating the man. No, his lordship enjoyed his customary good health—a faint hope that had risen in Warren's unfilial breast subsided—and her ladyship, too, was perfectly well. No, neither war nor revolution had taken hold in England, nor had the banks failed, or any heavenly bodies landed on the ancestral home.

As he replied to this last, sardonic enquiry, the manservant had cast an uneasy glance at Warren. He didn't like the sound of celestial bodies tumbling from the sky.

“You're a fool,” said Warren. “I spoke figuratively. Oh, to hell with it, I suppose I shall have to go back to London.” He knew his stepmother well enough to be sure that if none of the aforesaid possibilities were at the root of her summons, then it was something to do with money and his own interest, for Caroline Warren held nothing more important than the interests and advancement of her stepson.

Now here he was, at his lodgings, his landlord, a disagreeable fellow at the best of times, grumbling that he had no warning of Mr. Warren's return. And since Bootle, his valet, was always prostrated with seasickness if he ventured aboard any vessel, he had not taken him to France, and the man would have to be sent for. He had gone home to Warwickshire, the landlord thought, so some clumsy fellow would have to be found to wait upon Mr. Warren. No easy task, for Warren was something of a dandy, a fastidious dresser.

“Here is a note brought round from her ladyship,” said the landlord. “Came not an hour ago. I was going to send it back, knowing you was abroad.”

Warren tore it open. It contained the imperious demand that he wait upon her the moment he returned.

“I'll be damned if I do.” He demanded paper and pen from the landlord, and cursing the man for having a pen with such a vile nib, he scrawled a note to his stepmother. If she wished to see him tonight, she must visit him, not another step would he take until he had sat down to a late supper. “And make it substantial,” he instructed.

The note was despatched, and not an hour later, when Warren was just finishing the last remnants of a neat supper of beefsteak, sweetbreads, and asparagus, he heard the sound of a carriage drawing up outside the house. Minutes later, and the door opened to admit Lady Warren, full of her news.

George Warren listened with increasing incredulity. “Wants to marry again? To marry a bishop's daughter? You're losing your wits, Caroline, the Marble Marquis is far too high in the instep to contemplate any such marriage. Have you brought me over from France to fill me with this moonshine?”

“I don't deal in moonshine. Have you been to your club?”

“Dash it, I've barely been back an hour. I might look in later this evening.”

“If you do so, ask what the odds are on Montblaine marrying Charlotte Collins. You will be surprised by what you hear.”

“What, they're laying bets on it at the clubs?” said Warren, startled despite himself.

“Yes, and the odds are shortening daily.”

“He ain't a churchy fellow, what's this with the clergyman's daughter? Is he one of your noble bishops? Younger son of a duke or an earl? The girl must have some connections.”

“Oh, she has, but not the kind that would impress the marquis. She is a cousin of dear Elizabeth Darcy, if you please. Her mother, whom I had the misfortune to know during that awful few months we spent in Hertfordshire, at a dreary place called Meryton, is a nobody. She was, before her marriage, a Miss Lucas. Her father was a plebeian merchant who somehow achieved a knighthood, and ever after talked about the Court as though he belonged there. Miss Lucas, a plain woman with a small fortune who had no prospects of catching herself a decent husband, threw herself in the way of a pompous cleric, the same man who has now risen to fill a bishopric. One of the poor bishoprics, I hasten to add, I have it on good authority that his see is worth scarce twelve hundred a year, very likely less. It is he who is related to Elizabeth, they are cousins, you know what a horde of vulgar relations she has.”

“All of which convinces me that it's nothing but a rumour, London is full of gossip and rumours at this time of year.”

“At every time of year, but I would scarcely have sent for you as I did on account of a rumour. I believe Montblaine to be serious.”

“What has she to recommend her? No family, or only a vulgar one, no wealth, what are you thinking of?”

“She is extraordinarily beautiful.”

Warren whistled. His stepmother now had his full attention. “You don't mean blood runs in Montblaine's veins after all? I suppose he's come to that age when men run wild for a pretty face.”

“She is not a pretty face. I have rarely seen such a beauty. No character, little charm, but so lovely that people stop in the street to stare at her. She has a horde of devoted admirers, and she cold-shoulders them all. That may be another reason for her attraction for Montblaine, she is as icy as he is.”

“Who are the other suitors? Can't we encourage them?”

“Oh, I could name you a dozen. The keenest is probably young Rosely, who is making an exhibition of himself, mooning about town, proclaiming his love to anyone who will listen.”

“Can we encourage his suit?”

“His mother certainly doesn't do so. She would be more than happy to see Miss Collins marry Montblaine, she does all she can to encourage his suit, inviting them both to dine and so on.”

“These damn Darcys, how they thwart me at every possible opportunity.”

“Thwart! To deprive you of a marquisate is rather more than thwarting.”

“Well, she won't do it. Not if I have to hire a set of ruffians to attend to her beauty with a cudgel or two, or a knife; a sharp blade does wonders to the features.”

“Take care,” warned Lady Warren, seemingly not distressed by this vicious suggestion. “Your reputation is none too good, and the authorities are altogether too eager to uncover the instigator of such attacks where there is not an obvious motive, such as rape or robbery. It is a pity, now I come to think of it, that there is no likelihood of the young woman's being ravished, since one thing that would repel the marquis would be damaged goods.”

“How old is she?” Warren demanded.

Lady Warren shrugged. “Twenty-one, twenty-two, I neither know nor care. Young enough to be his daughter. And of just the age for producing an heir. She isn't one of your frail women who'll not make it through a pregnancy, I regret to say that she appears depressingly healthy.”

Warren filled her glass with more wine. He stood by the fireplace, tapping the fender with his foot and simultaneously drumming his fingers along the polished wooden shelf. “Well, I confess I was angry to be called back from Paris, where I was having a good time, let me tell you, but if what you say is right—”

“When have you ever known me wrong about such matters?”

That was true enough. Whatever Lady Warren's faults, she had the sharpest eye and nose in London for an affair, a tendresse, an amour, whether illicit or not.

“God, if Montblaine's in London, I'll have to call on him, can't be seen to fail in my duty. It will be an effort to do the civil, I have to say. What a bore! Forty-eight hours ago, I was attending the most delightful party in Paris, and here I am back in London, where nothing is as it should be.”

“You've been casting yourself at the feet of Madame de Genlis, by what I hear,” said Lady Warren.

“You hear a good deal too much. Very elegant feet she has, too. She wore the most elegant shoes, pink satin with a diamond buckle.” His voice grew warm; George Warren loved a well-turned foot.

“This Charlotte creature has quite a pretty foot,” said his stepmother thoughtfully. “I wonder—”

“Oh, no. Don't, please, suggest that I add my name to the list of her admirers.”

“You could do worse. Of course, nothing serious, you could not possibly marry her, a penniless nobody. On the other hand, if you played your cards right, you might cause a scandal.”

“Pay my addresses to this icicle you have described? Are you serious?”

“Or, another possibility—she has a sister.”

“What, two beauties?”

“Not at all. Miss Eliza Collins is perfectly undistinguished in every way. It is all round town that Bartholomew Bruton called her a dowdy provincial, that did her credit no good, I can assure you. But plain Janes are more likely to succumb to the charms of a handsome man, a man of experience.”

And she regarded her stepson with great complacency. To her eyes he was the handsomest of men, and indeed, many women found him so. Those whose taste ran to the Byronic found his dark, wavy hair, his haughty, disdainful expression, and good figure attractive. Why should not this sister be among their number?

“I suppose she is called Eliza after Mrs. Darcy, who is her godmother. In fact, she is not unlike what Elizabeth was at the same age, just as pert and forward and lacking in style or any distinction of feature. Yes, she might well have her head turned by such an one as you.”

“I do not see the point of it. The marquis is not enamoured of the dull sister.”

“No, but create a scandal about one sister, and he'll go off the other one quick enough,” said Lady Warren. “Destroy the reputation of one, and you'll drag down the other.”

Warren kicked at a log that had rolled from the grate. “Devilish dull work, seducing the ice block or the ugly sister. On balance, I'll go for the beauty, I believe.”

“As you please, whatever will work best to put a spoke in the wheels of the Collins chit. I don't need to remind you what is at stake: there is a world of difference between a barony and a marquisate.”

Charlotte was invited everywhere, with all the season's most vigorous and successful hostesses adding her name to their lists. Even the patronesses of Almacks hinted to Lady Grandpoint that if she cared to bring the girl to the balls, they would be happy to supply her with vouchers. No one wanted to slight a young woman if there were the slightest possibility of her becoming a marchioness, or even a countess.

“Should the season finish without the girl contracting a brilliant match, then they will be left looking foolish,” said Lady Jarvie to Mrs. Naburn when they stood together at one of the season's most glittering assemblies.

“And, should she marry Montblaine, I dare say he will keep her in the country all year round, as he did poor Gertrude.”

“Gertrude liked the country, you know how bucolic all the Rowlandsons are.”

“Miss Collins will find she has bitten off more than she can chew if she lands Montblaine,” said Mrs. Naburn in spiteful tones. “I dare say she would make an excellent clergyman's wife; however, she would find running a great house and all that entails quite a different matter. She would have no idea how to go on, I don't suppose she ever set foot in a nobleman's house before she came to London, and she will have no idea of what living in a great house in the country is like.”

“Her father, the bishop”—and they both laughed. “Does he not live in a palace?”

“
Palace
is no more than a courtesy title, I believe the one in Ripon is positively mediaeval in every way, and the bishopric is so poor, the stipend the lowest of all the bishops', that there is no money for any of the comforts of life. Were she to set eyes on Montblaine House, she would faint from shock, and as to being its mistress—she will learn her lesson if that should ever come about.”

“Why are not her parents in London?” enquired another ill-wisher. “The House is in session, half the bench of bishops are here, making a nuisance of themselves as usual, prating on upon matters about which they know nothing. Why is Bishop Collins not among the throng?”

“I hear he cannot afford to come to London. He is not rich, he has no private income. Moreover, since he has the reputation of being a far from sensible man, I dare say Mrs. Collins, who is supposedly a woman of more sense than her husband, thinks it wise to keep him in his northern fastness, where he can do nothing to harm his daughter's chances.”

So Charlotte sallied forth each day, her life a round of social activity: in the evenings, routs and drums, visits to Ranelagh, balls, dances. In the daytime, she went for drives to Richmond Park, to Hampton Court, and at the fashionable hour of five o'clock, she would walk or drive in the park. Lady Grandpoint was pleased, but in no way triumphant; she was too shrewd to show anything other than well-bred, indifferent acceptance of the success that came to her goddaughter.

As for Charlotte, well, reflected Eliza, no one could say her head had been turned. She sailed through this exhausting schedule with the same calm aspect as she wore to church, or which, as Eliza knew, but fashionable London didn't, she had shown when her favourite dog was lost, or she had endured a painful session with the Harrogate dentist.

Whether because Lady Grandpoint subtly discouraged hostesses from including Eliza in their invitations, or because she chose to keep herself in the background, Eliza was not often included in these festivities. Yet, to her surprise, and almost without Lady Grandpoint noticing, she began to be asked out on her own account. This was largely due to Camilla, who enjoyed Eliza's company, and whose own wide social circle, quite different from the rarefied world in which Charlotte was moving, was much more to Eliza's taste.

Alexander Wytton, rich and well-born, could have moved in the highest circles with his wife, had he chosen to do so. He didn't; as his mother dispassionately said to Camilla, “Alexander is as eccentric as his father ever was, they are all the same, these Wyttons, there is no persuading them to do what they are not inclined to do.”

Lady Hermione Wytton was, like her son, a great traveller and spent a large part of every year in Italy. At present, she was settled in her house in London for a few weeks, and was a welcome guest at Camilla's parties. She met and approved of Eliza, although, as she remarked to Camilla, “The girl has a secret, maybe more than one, and not just of the romantic kind; it's to be hoped she's not going to get herself into a scrape, for I cannot imagine her family would look kindly upon her if she did.”

That evening, however, Eliza was at home. Charlotte was out at yet another ball; Lord Grandpoint was in the House, and would not be back until the early hours. Camilla was coming later for Eliza, to take her to the opera. Meanwhile, she enjoyed the luxury of having the handsome drawing room to herself. She sat at the writing desk, nibbling the end of her pen, then writing quick paragraphs.

Her funds were running low. Annie's clever fingers had done wonders with her wardrobe, but she found she needed more clothes than she had bargained for. It was not that she wasn't earning money. Her sketches of fashionable London life, with a gallery of memorable characters to rank with those she had incorporated into her clerical pieces, were much appreciated by the
Gazette,
and the half guineas or even guineas were mounting up.

No, the problem was laying hands on the money. When she was in Yorkshire, it was not so difficult. Her nurse had left domestic service when she married Mr. Palmer, who was a haberdasher in Harrogate. Mrs. Palmer and her erstwhile charge had come to an agreement that Eliza's money could be paid to the Harrogate address, and on her infrequent trips to Harrogate, it was perfectly in order for Eliza to visit the shop, to buy what she needed, and to enquire after the well-being of Mrs. Palmer, of whom she had always been fond.

If getting to Harrogate from Ripon was not always easy, from London it was, of course, impossible. Camilla came to her rescue. “I will advance you the money,” she said. “Write to Mrs. Palmer, and she will tell you how much she holds for you. Then I can give you that much, and we can settle up in some way later on; Alexander can collect the guineas when he next goes north, he will not mind.”

Eliza was still extremely careful to disguise the models for her characters, and the talk and comments flowed rapidly from her pen. With that task completed, she reached into her reticule and took out the letter that had come from Maria that morning. Charlotte had not been down to breakfast, Lady Grandpoint had been distracted by a maid dropping a plate, and Eliza had whisked the letter away from the pile before anyone noticed.

She looked down at the letter in her hand. Maria's part of the letter was mostly about Sir Roger's testy temper.
Most likely he is going to be afflicted with the gout,
she wrote.
I have observed that he is often in a bad mood before it strikes. Anthony hardly speaks to him, and that also makes him bad-tempered. Your name is never mentioned, although Mama tries slyly to discover if Anthony still thinks of you; he is wise to that, and lets neither of them know that his affections remain unchanged.

Then came the precious words written by Anthony himself. His favourite bitch had finally whelped: five puppies, and a runt that would not survive. Should she like one of the pups for her own? And then he went into a eulogy about a new horse he had bought, sixteen hands, a perfect goer, good strong hocks. The horse had been offered to his father, but was not up to his weight. Eliza knew that the squire rode at eighteen stone and needed the heaviest of hunters to carry him.

It was not yet dark, and stepping out on to the balcony overlooking Aubrey Square, Eliza watched the gentle glow of candles and oil lights spring up behind the windows. The trees and grass in the garden in the centre of the square were at their most lush after some rain. Eliza's mind was far away, seeing a more distant landscape, with hills and forests and moors, and a stone house with huge chimneys from the age of King James. Diggory Hall, set in formal gardens this side of the ha-ha, with a wilder landscape beyond, where woolly-coated sheep grazed.

Eliza had the sensation of being in two worlds, here in London, looking down into the formal square, with its enclosed, ordered greenery and, behind her, the fashionable drawing room with its sofa, tables, mirrors, marble fireplace, fine rugs; and that other place, more than two hundred miles away, remote now, green with the colours of late spring, the mediaeval palace that had been her home for five years, the dirty country lanes, the rustics in their carts and wagons.

Yes, a provincial world.