The Darcy Connection (15 page)

For the first time, as she slowly turned and came back inside, she considered the contrasting worlds. She had never given it a thought. London was alien, another world. A world in which she didn't belong, never could belong, and didn't want to belong. The air she breathed was the air of Yorkshire, the grey northern stones, not the red brick and railings of London.

And yet. She looked up at the portrait that hung above the fireplace. Unlike most of the family portraits in the house, this one belonged to her great-aunt. It was her great-great-grandfather, one Tobias Lucas, who had come to London to make a fortune, which he then gave away in philanthropic and scientific causes. “A merchant,” Lady Grandpoint had said, the stain of trade quite removed by the generations that came between. “An admirable man in many ways.”

Eliza could see nothing of herself in his heavily jowled face, the full-bottomed wig, the pose of stout prosperity. Even so, he was a Londoner, born and bred, had risen in this metropolitan world. She didn't want to admit that London was beginning to fascinate her, that the noise and bustle, the crowds, the smoke, the grime, the pace of life, which had at first repelled her, had some appeal.

Would she come to London with Anthony? The squire and his wife coming to town, a joke among fashionable circles. Bumpkins, slow and inclined to stand and gaze. Lacking the urbanity to form any part of London society, although the wealth and solid acres of a Yorkshire squire could mean an income equal to many of those darting from one fashionable drawing room to another.

There's always something going on in London, she said to herself. Never an idle or a dull moment. Even for a provincial, such as herself.

A servant came in to draw the curtains and light the candles. Her reflective mood was broken, and she didn't feel inclined, after all, to answer Maria's letter. She wasn't in the mood to write to Anthony. What was there to say? She had written a little of what she had seen and done in London, and in his last letter—or had she imagined it?—there was a slight note of rebuke, as if he did not expect Eliza to be happy in London, so far from him and the country and her familiar surroundings.

He was content with his dogs and horses and his daily country pursuits. London, of course, was frivolous; he had said jokingly she had supposed,
I hope you are not grown smart, or above yourself, for I love you just as you are.

Later, sitting in the carriage with Camilla, the warm darkness making it easy to ask a question she might not have ventured in the full light of day, she said, “Camilla, tell me honestly, do you find me changed since I came to London?”

A moment's hesitation, and then her cousin replied, “London changes everyone. It is your first venture out into the wider world. We women change in any case, it is not simply a matter of being out, but we become a little wiser and more experienced, and gain a better sense of proportion, more understanding as to who we are, and where our place in the world is to be. Or rather, I should say, where we would like it to be, for unless a woman is remarkably lucky, so much of what determines her fate lies under the control of others, or happens at the whim of destiny.”

Eliza had never been to the opera before, although she had attended a theatrical performance some nights previously. She loved the colour, the lights, the glitters and glint of jewels at the throats and necks and wrists of the women in the moving throng of the pit below them, and in the layers of boxes all around them. Even more magnificent were the jewels adorning the dazzlers who strolled along the gallery above.

Camilla herself was wearing a fine diamond necklace with a small diamond ornament in her hair. Eliza had borrowed her sister's single string of pearls, which Charlotte had inherited from her grandmother, for she had little jewellery of her own. Lady Grandpoint lent Charlotte such of her own jewels as were suitable for a young unmarried woman; she had no need of her pearls.

They were in a box by themselves. “Alexander said he might join us later, for he is fond of Mozart,” Camilla said. “However, he is at the Royal Society yet again, some lecture on an obscure subject close to his heart, and he was keenly looking forward to it, since the member giving the lecture has, in Alexander's opinion, an entirely untenable theory as to the dating of some tombs in Egypt, and Alexander is longing to tell him so. I expect they will be discussing mummies and hieroglyphs late into the night. I fear long-dead Egyptian kings are a stronger attraction even than Mozart, strange as that seems to ordinary mortals such as you and me.”

Eliza had read an account of the plot, and had indeed played and sung some of the music. It was sung in Italian, a language with which she had only a slight knowledge, but she found that even though she understood few of the words, it didn't matter a jot. The singers were expressive, Camilla whispered helpful details into her ear, and the music was so ravishing, she wouldn't have cared if they'd been singing in some unknown, outlandish tongue.

The curtain came sweeping down, for there was an interval, and Eliza let out a long exhalation, she felt as though she had been holding her breath during the entire first part.

“Alethea sang Cherubino once,” Camilla said.

“In a private performance?”

“No, and this is to go no further, Eliza; no, she sang it in a public performance, in Venice. It is an amazing story, it was when she ran away from her husband, the one who was murdered, you remember that. She was stranded in Italy, and being possessed of such a fine voice, and trained, of course, she took on the role of Cherubino and sang for money. Is it not shocking?”

“Is her present husband aware of this?”

“My dear, he was there, at the opera.”

“Was there not a great scandal?”

“No, for Titus hustled her away, and no one ever knew that the soloist had been Miss Alethea Darcy. My father never heard of it, or at least we believe he didn't, for he hasn't ever mentioned it; however, you can't be sure with him, he has a way of knowing what you think is perfectly private. He would have hated it, of course, if it had been all over town that Miss Alethea Darcy had appeared upon the public stage, and for money, but it was never generally known.”

“What an adventure,” said Eliza, a note of regret in her voice. “I should love to go to Italy.”

“It was a difficult time for Alethea, and she got herself into quite a few scrapes, and was on more than one occasion in real danger. However, it was on her journey to Italy that she met Titus. So it all ended happy. You could ask your Anthony to take you to Italy for your honeymoon.”

Eliza thought for a moment before saying, “I do not think he cares much to go abroad. He is very much an Englishman who likes to stay close to his roots. He would not understand Mr. Wytton, with his fine house and estate in the country, choosing to live most of the year in London, and to so often be off abroad. You have travelled a good deal with him, I envy you that.”

Camilla had seen various acquaintances, and she was nodding to them while Eliza let her eyes wander over the glittering crowd, talking and laughing, and, in the galleries above, strolling.

“Those are the impures,” said Camilla, following Eliza's gaze as it rested on a trio of extraordinarily pretty women, dressed all in white, with fine jewels. “The demi-mondaines,” she added, seeing Eliza look puzzled. “Courtesans, my dear. Ladies of uncertain virtue, who put themselves under the protection of one gentleman or another. They all know one another, and sometimes group themselves together, they know what a striking picture they present. That one there is famous, that is Harriette Wilson, who has been mistress to half the gentlemen in London, from Lord Craven to the Duke of Wellington.”

“Good heavens,” said Eliza, eyeing this young woman with awe. “Yet she is not really so very lovely.”

“She is fascinating, which, let me tell you, is a great deal more use to her in her profession than mere physical attributes. For such women have also to be entertaining companions, you know, there is more to their profession than what goes on on the couch or behind the bedroom door.” Recollecting herself, Camilla laid a finger on her lips. “I should not be talking of this to you!”

Eliza laughed. “I am not so rustic and ignorant as that, and what, after all, is Mr. Mozart's opera about, if not very much this subject?”

“Ah, Mozart tells us about the human heart, about love, and the price it exacts. That is a different price from that paid to and by these ladies in white.”

“Do they wear white to indicate purity, a false symbol?”

“They wear white because it is so expensive. White gowns have to be cleaned frequently, and wearing them shows they can afford the expense. It indicates that they charge a high price for their company.”

Eliza laughed, as a thought struck her. “They do not look at all miserable.”

“No, why should they?”

“They are fallen women, they are sinful, they should be creeping in corners in shame, not looking as if they enjoy life.”

“That's your father speaking, and indeed most of England. The truth is that compared to the lives many of them would otherwise lead, it is not such a bad deal. Some of them, of course, succumb to drink or laudanum or disease, and there is the problem of child bearing; however, others, if they have been prudent—for they can amass great wealth, you know—can, as their attractions fade, set themselves up in business, or even set up their carriage and live in a good part of town. Some marry, and marry well; why, the wife of the late Mr. Fox was one of them. Although I think there is a recklessness about many of them that precludes any degree of prudence; I think the jewels, the carriages, the presents, that are showered upon them by their admirers too often end up pawned or sold, and they have little to show for their years of glory. Now, who have you seen that has arrested your attention?”

Camilla looked over the edge of the box. In a lower box, slightly to their right, a party was just taking their seats. A tall man with an austere face, a woman in a turban with a jewelled clip at the front; Eliza had seen her at Lady Grandpoint's party. With them was a younger woman, with brown hair, elegantly dressed. The fourth member of the party was Bartholomew Bruton.

“Ah, there is our friend Mr. Bruton,” said Camilla. “With his parents, Mr. Bruton the banker, a fine-looking man, I think, although
un peu sévère.
The very model of probity and propriety, so Alexander tells me, he banks with Bruton's, you know. That is his wife, Lady Sarah, and the woman is Miss Grainger, Jane Grainger. She is related to the Duke of Ilminster on her father's side, and they say she and young Mr. Bruton are to marry.”

“She does not look entirely amiable,” said Eliza.

“She's wearing a vastly smart gown. She had that from Paris, all her clothes come from Paris. She is half French, although you would never know it. Her mother is the heiress of one of the big French banking houses, do not ask me the name of it. I thought she had been in Paris, I thought that was why Bartholomew Bruton spent so long in Paris.”

“Perhaps he went to Paris to get away from her,” said Eliza. “She looks very cross. Yes, I'm sure she will suit him. Although he dare not be rude to her, I suppose.”

“He is not generally rude. I know you found him so, but any man may have a sour mood, may make remarks which later he wishes unsaid.”

“I have no notion of his wishing his remark unsaid. He and I do not get on, that is all.”

“
Not get on
is one of those phrases that can mean almost anything, from polite indifference to contempt to dislike, and even worse.”

Eliza shrugged, and looked elsewhere. “It means nothing, I do not care for his company, but since we hardly move in the same circles, it is of no consequence.”

I wonder, said Camilla to herself, with a quick, sly glance at her cousin. “He is a handsome man, however. A vigorous man, with a good air and a fine figure, and an expressive face, full of intelligence.”

“Let us hope, then, that he makes Miss Grainger a good husband. Here come the musicians, the performance is about to recommence.”

Lord Rosely ran up the imposing marble steps of Bruton's bank, nodded carelessly at the porter who stepped forward to enquire his business, and with a wave of his hand said that he was there to see Mr. Bartholomew Bruton. No, he knew quite well where he would be hiding out, and would make his own way there.

Bartholomew was in the inner sanctum of the bank, which was a lofty, panelled room, overlooked by a huge portrait of Mr. Augustine Bruton, goldsmith and founder of the bank, dressed in the coat and wig of the late seventeenth century. This was the room where the partners, directors, and most senior officials of the bank kept the private ledgers. Bartholomew was standing at a desk, frowning as he read a letter, and then, consulting a sheaf of figures, jotted down some calculations.

He missed Freddie's entrance, only looking up when he heard Mr. Hetherington give a little tut of surprise; visitors to the bank were never shown in here. “My Lord,” he began.

“Never look at me with that fidgety face, Mr. Hetherington. I'm not here to beg, borrow, or steal so much as a groat, so you can be at ease. And I've no interest in the arcane workings of the bank, no need to hide anything away because I am here, eh, Bartholomew?”

Mr. Hetherington attempted a smile, but he was clearly distressed by Freddie's levity; banking and money were not subjects for jesting. Bartholomew took his friend by the arm and led him out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“What brings you to this unfashionable part of London, Freddie? And at this hour, why it is barely past eleven, you are usually still lolling in your dressing gown long after we toilers are at our desks.”

“That's because you are a clever, brisk fellow, and I am an idle good-for-nothing,” responded Freddie. “Or so my mama would say. I have been up this age, I couldn't sleep, things are very bad, and I want to talk to a friend who has a clear head, who can talk sense about my situation, can advise me what to do.”

“Freddie, if it is a matter of investments or mortgages, I'm your man. If you want advice for the lovesick, then go elsewhere, it is not my strong suit.”

“No, you have a flinty heart, that is obvious. Not a stirring of the blood when you look at the most lovely woman in London, you are barely human.”

Bartholomew guided Freddie through the great hall and to the entrance, saying to the porter that he would be back shortly, that Mr. Leverson would be coming at noon and to show him upstairs.

“I can give you half an hour, Freddie, and that's only because I'm in need of refreshment myself. We shall adjourn to a coffee-house, and then you can talk and I will listen, but not if you're going to spout bad poetry at me.”

“Bad poetry? I am three lines into my sonnet, it goes on wonderfully well.”

“I don't care if it's the finest verse since Ovid, I have no desire to hear it.”

They walked a little way along the Strand, then turned into Joseph's coffee-house. It was quiet, this being a busy time of day for those who lived and worked in this part of London, and Joseph himself came out from the rear room to serve them with coffee.

Freddie for a moment forgot his own woes and gave Bartholomew a keen look. “Were you out late last night? Roistering? Were you foxed? That is not like you, you are an odiously sober fellow these days, although I remember—”

“There is nothing wrong with me, and since you ask, I escorted my parents and Miss Grainger to the opera last night.”

“Oh, tol-lol, that's it, is it? When are you going to make the announcement, Bartholomew? Time you took the plunge, it's been understood that you're going to marry Jane these last three years or so. She is a charming girl, I dare say, I don't know her well, but it's all fixed, is it not?”

Fixed. Damn it, it wasn't fixed. His mother spoke of it as all arranged, his father took it for granted that the couple would soon be making their wedding plans.

“You'd think a man of eight-and-twenty could choose his own wife,” he burst out, startling Freddie, who took too large a gulp of hot coffee and was seized with a fit of coughing.

“Bartholomew, dear fellow, you sound fretful, this isn't like you.”

“We are hardly living in the Middle Ages, yet here is your mother determined that you shall marry Miss Chetwynd, and my parents are certain that Miss Grainger will make me a perfect wife—have we no say in the matter?”

“I do,” said Freddie promptly. “Nothing would make me marry Miss Chetwynd. I'll abscond to America before I walk down the aisle with her, and my mama can hint and complain and appeal to my better feelings as much as she likes. I shan't do it. Even if I weren't in love with Miss Collins, even if I'd never met her, had never known the delight of her angelic presence—”

“‘Angelic presence,'” said Bartholomew in tones of repulsion. “Pull yourself together.”

“Even then,” Freddie continued, unabashed, “even then, I would sooner marry the boot-boy's widowed mother than Miss Chetwynd. And I told my mother so. She ain't speaking to me now.”

“Well, I told my parents this morning that I didn't wish to offer for Miss Grainger.”

“Did your mother shriek and your father look grave and disappointed? Or did he stamp and hurl china about while your mama wept and wailed? No, I don't suppose your parents go in for that kind of exhibition.”

They did not, but even without histrionics, breakfast had been a most unpleasant meal. It was Bartholomew's custom to take breakfast with his father. It was usually an amiable session, where they could talk over any banking business and when, as often as not, Mr. Bruton would tell Bartholomew of some interesting astronomical observation or discovery.

For the banker was a keen and distinguished astronomer, a fellow of the Royal Society, and a man with discoveries of his own to his name. He had a friend with an excellent telescope who lived in Hampstead, and he would often ride out there on clear nights to star-gaze.

That morning his mind had not been on the rings of Saturn or the forthcoming eclipse of the moon.

“It's time you settled a date with Jane,” he said bluntly. “You must call upon Lord Walter to make a formal application for her hand. An autumn wedding will be suitable, you can travel to France for your honeymoon, before the weather turns bad. I have been sent details of various houses which might suit you, for you to move into upon your return, when you start your married life together.”

His mother intervened. “I still hold there is no reason why the young couple cannot stay here, there is plenty of room for them both to have a very good set of apartments.”

Mr. Bruton shook his head. “No, my dear. I know we disagree on this, but you will allow me to have my way this once. It is better for a newly married couple to have their own establishment, and I am sure that Jane will prefer it, indeed she said as much to me last night.”

Bartholomew had not said a word, by now he was white with anger. “You have been very busy about my business, the three of you. Not only am I not allowed to choose a wife for myself, but where I am to live has to be decided for me.”

“Don't speak like that to your mother,” said Mr. Bruton, pursing his lips. “You are getting heated about nothing. We are your parents, we know what is best for you, and best for Jane.”

“What is best for me is not to marry, or at least not to marry Jane.”

“Not marry Jane!” cried his mother. “How can you be so absurd, when it is all settled, has been this last twelvemonth. Nay, these last two or three years.”

“I have not asked Miss Grainger to be my wife, nor do I intend to do so.”

“Do not intend to do so?” said his father, displeased. “I cannot believe what you are saying.”

“You are out of sorts,” said his mother in what she meant to be a soothing voice, which only annoyed Bartholomew more. “I dare say it is your liver.”

Liver, indeed. Why would they not listen? He took a deep breath. “I regret it exceedingly, that I should not be prepared to oblige you in this matter.”

“Oblige! This matter! It is your marriage we are talking of,” said Lady Sarah. “Not some banking deal, some money matter.”

“Ah, but a money matter is exactly what it is, is it not?” said Bartholomew. “Jane will own her grandfather's bank one day, if she marries me, is that not the deal? And this would be greatly to Bruton's advantage, I know how much you want to have a strong French affiliate, Father, and this would be more than an affiliate, would it not?”

“Can you pretend that you do not care for Jane? How can this be? She is a charming girl, a fine young woman. Accomplished, handsome, obliging—”

“And a bore,” finished Bartholomew. “We have nothing to say to one another, that is the problem.”

That caused Mr. Bruton to raise a sceptical eyebrow. “Conversation with one's wife, while desirable, is not essential to a happy marriage. You are a hard-working banker, you travel and will have to travel more. You have your masculine pursuits, while she will have her own feminine occupations and amusements.”

“You paint a bleak picture. It is not true of your and Mama's marriage, you have plenty to say to one another.”

“We are middle-aged; fashionable young couples these days often lead quite separate lives. Jane will make a life for herself, she will be happy to live much of the year in the country, she says, and—”

“Oh, I am to bury myself in the country now, am I? I hate the country.”

“It's time a Bruton had a country seat.”

“Then you buy one. See how much time you would spend outside London, were you to purchase an estate; you would not be there from one year's end to the other. And how do you know that Jane plans a country life? Oh, more talk about her life as Mrs. Bartholomew Bruton, talk that goes on behind my back. It is too bad!”

“You are being petty,” said his father. “Your language is extreme, and you are upsetting your mother, which I will not permit.”

“I beg your pardon, ma'am,” said Bartholomew. And with a flourish of a bow, he escaped from the room, closing his ears to his mother's demands that he stay and listen to sense, and his father's unflattering description of his foolhardiness. The last words he heard were his father saying, “It is all show, he wants to make a stand, to prove his independence. I rely on his good sense, he will come round, you will see that I am right.”

Now, at the coffee-house, Bartholomew looked gloomily into the dregs of his coffee. “Damn it, why are they so eager to have one marry? Do they long for grandchildren so much?”

“Not in my case,” said Freddie. “My mother can't stand children, not her own, nor anyone else's. I think she hardly knew who I was until I was out of petticoats, and I remember her saying to me, before I went off to school, that she was thankful that my childhood was behind me. It's not love of the infantry, I assure you. It's heirs, dear boy, heirs that they want. In my case to the earldom, in your case to the house of Bruton. Your father wants to see a troop of young Brutons being bred up to work in the bank, your mother wants the entrée into society for your nursery brood as they grow up.”

“I dare say, but a man has the right to decide for himself whom he is to marry.”

“No, he don't. Not when there's a pack of females: mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters, even the governess, I wouldn't be surprised, thinking they know better than he does who would suit him. Besides, it's not my mother I'm worried about right now, it's that scoundrel Warren.”

“George Warren? What has he to do with anything?”

“He's back in England, swaggering about town, and paying his addresses to Miss Collins.”

“So are half the single men in London, and probably some of the married ones as well. Although that is odd behaviour, Warren has always seemed anxious to escape the parson's noose.”

“Warren's father is heir presumptive to the title, to Montblaine's title.”

Bartholomew let out a whistle. “So he could be planning to cut his uncle out, could he? Sound move. Miss Collins marries Warren, she will be a marchioness in the end, and a baroness meanwhile—at least she will when that shocking old reprobate of a father hands in his pail and leaves the title to George—with all the advantages of a young and virile husband.”

Freddie banged the table and was rising to his feet. “How dare you suggest that!”

Bartholomew put out a hand and pulled him down. “I'm not saying that's the truth, but it is a scenario, a possibility. Although it is all rather too obvious, and I wouldn't lend Warren money on the expectancy, for if the noble marquis is looking about him for another bride, then should Miss Collins be unavailable, there will be others only too keen to take on the role of Marchioness of Montblaine. There's not a mother in London with a marriageable daughter who wouldn't jump at such a match.”

“George Warren is up to some deep game, I'm sure of it.”

“George Warren is always up to some deep game,” said Bartholomew. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I want your opinion,” said Freddie, scratching at a spot of wax with a long finger. “I value your judgement. You meet more rogues and tricksters in your line of business than I do.”