The Darcy Connection (17 page)

“Do not look so alarmed. I had it from Mostyn himself. He finds it a good joke that the witty pieces which are amusing London so much at present were written by a dowdy young woman. I assure you that he does not know who you are, he knows you only as Mrs. Palmer, and he believes you to be a governess in a great household.”

“Because I told him so,” confessed Eliza. “I lied. When I discovered that the editor in Leeds, without a word to me, and without asking my permission, had passed my pieces on to the editor of the
London Magazine,
I was horrified.”

“Flattered, too,” said Portal.

“What?” said Henrietta. “Do you tell me you are the author of the sketches of fashionable London life? My dear, I congratulate you, they make me laugh out loud.”

“Do not be dismayed, Miss Eliza, your anonymity is preserved. It was by the merest chance that I saw you leave the offices of the periodical. I had business there myself, and Mr. Mostyn mentioned to me what you had been there about. I understand you want him to cease publication, and he considers it all a matter of money, nothing that a few guineas can't settle.”

“Of course, I shall do no more of them,” said Eliza, aware that there were still several pieces that had appeared in the northern publication and which would doubtless find their way into the
London Magazine.
“It seems to me quite wrong that a writer has no control, no say in these matters.”

“No, he, or in this case she, does not. You earn your half-guinea or guinea, and then your words belong to the press and not to you. Never fear, we shall keep your secret, but I must congratulate you on your skill with a pen. It is cleverly done, for you portray types, not individuals, one cannot say, oh, that is Lady X or Mr. Y, we have instead the perfect portrait of the London dowager, the blushing debutante, the bored father, the eager politician, the besotted lover, and so forth. Have you never considered turning your hand to a longer work?”

“I have not,” cried Eliza. “And I never shall!”

How difficult life was, one thing after another. But the immediate alarm she had felt at the discovery that Mr. Portal and now Mrs. Rowan knew about her writing faded into the background. She could trust them, if Camilla did. And, being of a practical disposition, she knew there was no point in fretting over what was done and could not be changed. Should the truth come to her father's attention, she would be in deep trouble, but that was a future worry, what mattered now was the much more important question of Charlotte.

“I think you will find, when you return to Aubrey Square, that Lady Grandpoint and Charlotte will have received an invitation from Lord Montblaine,” said Camilla.

“We are to be there also,” said Mr. Portal, drawing his brows together. “It is his custom to invite me at least once a year, we are distantly related, you know. And he invited Mrs. Rowan, for he knows I accept few invitations which do not include her.”

“I like to think he invites me on my own account,” said Mrs. Rowan with spirit. “I am one of the few women who find the Marble Marquis agreeable. He unbends with me, for he has spent time in Turkey, as I did when my late husband was alive, and we talk about the cities and customs and history of that interesting country.”

“I am not going to think about it, or discuss what it might mean, until I find out if Charlotte has been invited,” said Eliza. And then: “I know nothing about Lord Montblaine's house, is it a fine one?”

“Oh, good gracious,” said Pagoda, “as to that, I would sooner call it a monstrosity! The late marquis was afflicted with a passion for the Gothic, and having an immense fortune to squander, set about turning a perfectly good house of the last century into a virtual mediaeval cathedral of a place. You never saw such towers and turrets and crenulations and pointed doors and windows in your life.”

“Now, be fair,” said Henrietta soothingly. “The house was originally an abbey. It came into his family at the Reformation,” she said to Eliza, “as so many abbeys did.”

“As Mr. Wytton's did,” put in Camilla. “Only Sillingford Abbey has remained as it has been these last hundred years or so, it has not been turned into such a Gothic nightmare as Montblaine now is.”

“I cannot see Charlotte in such a place,” said Eliza. “It does not sound as though she would like it at all.”

Eliza peered out of the window as the carriage turned in through the enormous gates, supported on either side by tall pillars, on each of which perched a ferocious stone hawk, the symbol of the Montblaines.

Lady Grandpoint imparted this information, as she had kept them informed of every other item she considered of interest once they had reached the vast Montblaine estates. Whole villages, elegant houses, tidy thatched cottages, rolling acres of farmland and timber; all these, she said in tones of high satisfaction, belonged to the marquis's family.

At least the tenants' cottages seemed to be kept in good order, although Eliza knew that there might, off the highway, be villages where squalor prevailed. She could not say whether Montblaine was a man of appearance rather than of substance. Lady Grandpoint insisted that he was an excellent landlord. “And the churches, all these parishes, are livings within his gift,” she said, nodding at Charlotte. “He is a man with strong influence in the Church, I assure you.”

Charlotte looked back at her great-aunt with her usual clear, unreadable expression, as she murmured, “I am sure he is good to his tenants and to the deserving poor, as he ought to be,” before lapsing back into silence.

Sometimes Eliza longed to shake her sister, to shake her until her teeth rattled, to demand to know what was going on in her mind. Charlotte was not just a pretty ninny-head, she had intelligence, she couldn't switch off her mind, how could any human being do that? No, thoughts, emotions, passions, must swirl inside that exquisite head, as with every other human being, but their nature remained known only to Charlotte.

The carriage came round a bend and turned into the main sweep to the house, which lay before them in all its glory. The immense outline of turrets, spires, towers, and crenellations was etched against the shadowy light of early evening, and the sight caused Eliza to let out a gasp of astonishment.

Nothing that Camilla or Mrs. Rowan or Pagoda Portal had said had prepared her for this. The building was dominated by a central spire, soaring high above the rest of the house. From this approach, Eliza could see a long wing, with a square tower and a small turreted place at the end. The carriage drew up before an immense portal, with great oak doors set in an ornate, high-pointed arch, and liveried servants came hurrying forward. As she stepped down from the carriage, Eliza caught a glimpse of still more turrets.

An imposing butler ushered them up the wide flight of stone steps and into a lofty panelled hall, festooned with coats of arms and set with banners. Beams were visible in the smoky heights above their heads, and two vast stone fireplaces were set opposite each other. Their footsteps echoed on great flagstones, which sent up a chill even on this warm evening.

Their footsteps echoed as they followed the butler on his stately way, through another set of doors, along an arched passage, and into a huge, octagonal saloon. Stone escutcheons hung above the panelled sections of the walls, lugubrious heraldic beasts which looked to Eliza like a series of figures from a nightmare.

There they were greeted by Lord Montblaine, who welcomed them with grave courtesy, and by Lady Warren, who greeted them with glacial smiles. Eliza recalled Camilla's words of warning: Be wary of Lady Warren, she is a veritable weasel in character, if not in appearance.

The company was assembling in the Grand Drawing Room, Lady Warren informed them. They would be shown to their rooms by the housekeeper or the groom of the chambers, and should then join the rest of the company.

“I am already lost,” Eliza exclaimed to Lady Grandpoint, when they had climbed up several more staircases, walked along endless passages, and turned numerous corners. Charlotte's room was a large apartment in a solitary turret, Lady Grandpoint was in one of the state bedrooms in the north wing, while Eliza, now on her own, found herself shown into a smaller chamber, which overlooked a dark courtyard.

To her relief, Annie awaited her there, keen to help her out of her travelling clothes, on her mettle to turn out her mistress in what she called prime style. “Although I don't know why they've put you in here, Miss, it used to be the governess's room,” she sniffed.

“As long as the bed is comfortable, and no ghosts come gliding through the wainscotting in the dark of the night, they can house me in the boot-boy's room,” said Eliza.

“Ghosts! I don't hold with ghosts,” said Annie. “One of the footmen here was trying to frighten me with tales of headless monks and wailing spirits. Sauce! Now, Miss, you'd best hurry, for apparently his lordship is a stickler for punctuality.”

Annie had a good sense of direction and had taken the trouble to acquaint herself with the way to and from Eliza's room. “It's part of my duties,” she said, when Eliza said how thankful she was not to spend the rest of the evening wandering around gloomy passages and ill-lit towers. So she was delivered safely to the entrance of the Grand Drawing Room, a room which, as she entered it, took her breath away. What an abundance of monumental statuary, heavy curtains, Siena tables, sofas which could accommodate an entire family! There were no fewer than three fireplaces, the largest of which could provide a lodging for the same family. The ceiling was covered in Gothic tracery, and any opening that could be crowned with a pointed arch was adorned in this fashion. The windows were tall and wide, and afforded a magnificent view across parkland, with a castle set on a hill in the distance looking as though it had been created to be observed from this window.

“That is Rosely Castle,” said a voice in her ear, and she turned round to find Mr. Wytton standing there.

“What a relief to see a friendly face,” she whispered.

“Do you like the house?”

Eliza looked around to see if they might be overheard, then said in a voice hardly above a whisper, “It is overwhelming, and in my opinion, quite hideous. I would not live here for anything.” Which thought cheered her up, for surely Charlotte, were any notions of trying to foster an attachment between herself and Lord Montblaine really under serious consideration, must be repelled by this house.

Camilla joined them, and Eliza, feeling more at her ease, looked about to see the rest of the company. Pagoda Portal had not yet arrived, he was driving down with Mrs. Rowan, Camilla told her. Otherwise, she must know most of those present, if only by sight. “That is George Warren, is it not?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“The dark-visaged man over there, in conversation with Miss Grainger, do you know her?”

“The one who is affianced to Mr. Bartholomew Bruton?”

“They are not formally engaged, although, as I told you, it is only a matter of time before it is announced. I am not sure why she is here, the Warrens do not get on with the Brutons.”

“She is not yet engaged nor married, and she is a considerable heiress, perhaps Caroline Warren has hopes in that direction for her stepson,” put in Mr. Wytton. “Let us see whether she has a neat and pretty foot, that will be the deciding factor.”

Camilla tapped his arm with her fan, her eyes full of laughter. “For shame, Mr. Wytton.”

Eliza looked enquiringly from one to the other of them. Camilla, she noticed, had a slight blush on her cheeks.

“I apologise for my husband. He is jesting, and perhaps you might not understand the point of the jest,” she said. “It is just that Mr. Warren has a reputation for liking a pretty foot.”

“It is so with some men,” said Eliza matter-of-factly; she knew what Camilla meant. “There is a friend of my father's, a clergyman—well, I won't go into that.”

She wasn't altogether happy with this information as to Warren's inclinations, for Charlotte had dainty feet, of which she was justly proud. Since coming to London, she had taken particular care over her footwear, indulging herself with pretty sandals and slippers and, for more grand occasions, had even bought a pair of shoes in the French style, ornamented with a pair of paste diamond buckles that twinkled in the light as she moved. Eliza thought them vulgar, but Lady Grandpoint had pronounced them perfectly acceptable, saying that they were all the crack, and Charlotte was lucky that her lovely face was set off by a slim, well-shaped ankle and an elegant foot.

The last of the party were coming into the drawing room now: Pagoda Portal and Mrs. Rowan, the latter strikingly dressed in a purple robe and a turban with a feather set in a dazzling jewel. On their heels came the Brutons, Mr. Bruton, handsome, dignified; Lady Sarah, full of smiles as she greeted friends; and Bartholomew Bruton, looking moody.

The group of people shifted, and to Eliza's dismay, she saw coming toward her the objectionable figure of the Reverend Mr. Pyke. “Oh, no, what is that man doing here?”

“He is Montblaine's cousin,” Mr. Wytton reminded her.

And Camilla, with a suppressed laugh, said, “Ah, I think he has been invited here on your behalf. I fear there is a plot afoot, coz. Indeed, the more I think about it, the more obvious it becomes that more than one scheme is being hatched this weekend. What joy!”

Eliza couldn't agree. Charlotte's well-being was too important to be treated in this light-hearted way, and Camilla's words did little to soothe her concerns.

“If the marquis means to have Charlotte, and I do think the signs are pointing that way, and if, which is a bigger if, your sister is happy to have him, then there is nothing that you or I or anyone can do to prevent the match,” said Camilla.

“Montblaine is testing her,” said Wytton with certainty. “His mind is not made up, he is not ready to make a proposal, he wishes to see whether she would be capable of becoming mistress of this house, of all his houses, of taking on the degree of responsibility that being his marchioness would entail.”

“I should run a mile from it,” said Camilla frankly. “Even if I fell in love with the Marble Marquis, I could not endure such a life.”

“Then it is as well that you fell in love with me,” said Mr. Wytton, quizzing her. “With my much humbler abbey, and no great title.”

“It all smacks too much of King Cophetua,” said Eliza. “She would never have the advantage, it would be an unequal match in every way and would remain so, she would be miserable, indeed.”

Camilla held out her hand to Mr. Pyke, who had made his way over to them and was smiling winningly at Eliza. “I believe you are acquainted with my cousin Miss Eliza Collins?”

Eliza touched the fingertips of the moist hand held out to her, and dropped a light curtsy. Could she get away from him, or would her efforts be to no purpose? She had an idea that in a place like this, where everything was done with such state and formality, it would not be left to guests to decide who was to go into dinner with whom.

She was right in her surmise. Dinner was announced, and she found herself obliged to lay her hand on the arm hooked for her by the suave, smiling Mr. Pyke, as the company trooped out of the Grand Drawing Room, through the Crimson Drawing Room, which was only slightly smaller, and into the Great Dining Room. To complete her discontent, she found that she had Mr. Bartholomew Bruton on her other side. She was doomed to an entire dinner having to converse with two men to whom she had nothing to say, and she was hard put to know which of them she more disliked. For at a meal as formal as this, conversation was restricted to one's immediate neighbours; had one wanted to break the rules and speak across the table, it would have been impossible, given the regiments of silver and gold epergnes, candelabra, and flowers that were ranged along the centre of the long mahogany table, thus obscuring those sitting opposite from view.

Eliza was startled by the number of footmen, one to each guest, and others moving around the table to deliver the numerous dishes that made up each course. She was hungry after the journey, it was true, but there was far more spread out before them than she could possibly sample.

To her right, Mr. Pyke was urging her to try this and that delicacy, and judging by the eagerness in his voice and his knowledge of what was in the dishes and how each one was prepared, Eliza decided he was a greedy man, a glutton. The glint in his eye as the cover was lifted on a dish of quails in a cream sauce made her want to laugh out loud. He had figured in her sketches of clerical life, but not as a gourmand; this would add an extra facet to his fictional counterpart when she wrote another piece. Which she had promised herself she would not do, she reminded herself. If only money did not slip through one's fingers so fast in London!

Mr. Pyke would no doubt call himself an epicure; well, even that was hardly suitable for a man of the cloth. He was lean now, how would he look in twenty years' time? He would spread as Squire Diggory had done, although she couldn't imagine he had ever been thin. Anthony, she thought with some complacency, carried not an ounce of superfluous flesh, he had an excellent figure.

Mercifully, Mr. Pyke's attention was claimed by the woman on his other side. On her left, Bartholomew Bruton was eating duck; on his other side sat Miss Chetwynd, and they did not appear to have much to say to each other. Good manners impelled Eliza to enter into conversation with him, therefore, and she made a trivial remark about the extraordinary ornamentation of the ceiling above them.

“I cannot conceive how anyone can live in such a house,” he said in a low, angry voice. Then, more loudly: “It is considered very fine, I believe, a unique specimen of the work of the late Mr. Wyatt.”