The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (31 page)

“She married Napier to silence the gossip, the backbiting of her enemies and the pity of her friends; she can't be doing with pity. It's the Darcy pride got the better of her; she wouldn't let the world see how much she cared, and marrying a man of fashion and fortune silenced the sour talk. It's best to be off with the old love before you are on with the new, is what they say, and it's true enough; if she'd given herself time to get over Mr. Youdall, she'd have taken a different view of Napier. As it was, I think she thought that if she couldn't marry Penrose, it didn't matter much who she did marry.”

Figgins became confused for a moment, as though she had said too much. “You'll forgive me speaking so freely, sir, but it's hard to bottle it all up, and I'm that worried about what's to become of her. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get back to her.”

Alone at the rail, Titus reflected on Alethea's future. He deliberately refused to dwell on his own feelings for her—he hadn't needed that reaction to Penrose Youdall's name to be made aware of how strongly he was attracted to Alethea, an attraction that had grown into an attachment that alarmed him by its intensity—and how greatly concerned he was for her future happiness.

He knew, better than Figgins, what awaited her. The condemnation of society for rustling the curtains pulled around the marriage beds of the upper classes. Napier was rich and well-connected, and Alethea, some people would say, had behaved badly in exposing him for what he was.

Separation was the likely outcome, an agreed living apart, followed by the tortuous unravelling of all the legal and financial ties that were bound into a marriage between rich families, Napier no doubt fighting every inch of the way the efforts of Alethea's family lawyers to wrest some part of what had been a considerable fortune back for her support. A Bill of Divorce in parliament, the sordid details of a failed marriage printed up into broadsheets and hawked about in the streets for any Tom, Dick, or Harry to read and salivate over.

For Alethea, withdrawal from all the pleasures of London life. She could, if a different kind of person, attempt to brazen it out. Titus thought she would want none of it; it was a world that had served her ill and not one into which she could ever easily have fitted. Knowing her as he did now, he couldn't imagine her as a dutiful debutante, and yet that was what she had been so short a time before. She had experienced more in the few months since her come-out than most women of her position and background did in a lifetime.

After a period of discretion and withdrawal, she might be able to marry again. Divorced women, the few of them that there were, divorce being so exceedingly difficult and degrading, often did remarry, with great happiness in some cases. If your husband had deserted you, committed adultery openly and spitefully, had foisted illegitimate children on you, then you might well, after a decent interval, hope to find a man of better character and make a success of a second marriage. If you had suffered at the hands of a husband in the way that Alethea had, what chance was there that you would allow yourself to feel for any man again?

How much courage and heart and optimism for the future would Alethea have left to her when she had endured what undoubtedly still lay in store for her, in addition to all she had been through?

 

The sickness and dizziness subsided, and Alethea, weak as a kitten, felt her head clear for the first time since she came on board. She insisted on getting dressed and making her way on deck, this time gratefully taking great gulps of the fresh, salty air, and rejoicing in the sparkle of sun on the water, and the surge of speed as the boat sang through the waves. Figgins brought her broth, which she wolfed down, and there was even a touch of colour in her cheeks when Titus joined her, expressing his pleasure at her recovery in careful, formal tones.

She smiled past him, her eyes on the narrowing landmasses on either side.

“The Straits,” he said. “Over there is Spain, and closer at hand is Gibraltar.”

“The scene of some very stirring actions during the last war,” Coletree said from behind them. “Take my glass, sir, and you may see the Barbary apes on the peak there.”

“Were you involved in any of the actions?” Titus asked.

“As a young mid, I was present at a lively action, here in the Straits, with the Spaniards and Frenchies lined up against us,” Coletree said, his face brightening at the recollection.

“A crucial engagement, as I remember it. You naval men had it all your own way in those days.”

“Ah, but then it was up to you in the army, sir; how we cheered when we heard of Wellington's victories in Spain; we drank to our colleagues on land in three times three, I can tell you.”

The words washed over Alethea. Men were odd, so keen to attack and fight and kill one another, often, it seemed, with no personal animosity at all. She had been taught how terrible it would have been if Bonaparte had been allowed to hold sway over Europe, but it was all long ago and far away to her. She could not conceive of these fascinating waters being filled with the sound and fury of battle, not now with fishing boats and ferries and pleasure vessels moving to and fro in the cross breezes, and people waving from the shore.

“We leave the Mediterranean here and cross into the Atlantic,” Titus told her.

“Yes, and I think we may run into a spot of nasty weather, judging by the way the mercury has been falling these last two watches,” said Coletree, coming back to the present.

Alethea turned appalled eyes on him. “Worse than we have already suffered?”

He stared at her, amazed. “We have had perfect weather since we left Livorno, sir, I never saw better.”

“But the motion of the waves was so extreme.”

He laughed. “Oh, that is what those who are martyrs to seasickness always say. You are in good company, you know; Nelson himself was always prostrate for his first few days at sea. Those who are prone to it feel that a mill-pond is a maelstrom, but don't be too alarmed. You are over your bout, you will find that if it comes on to blow, you will be quite unaffected. Only take care how you go, for it's easy enough to tumble down a companionway or be knocked out of your bunk, and a broken leg is far worse than the seasickness, let me tell you!”

Blow it did, short, sharp, and violent, and although the
Ariadne
was a most weatherly ship, by the time she reached Lisbon and limped up the Tagus, threading her way through the throng of pilots and fishing barks, she looked a sorry sight.

“Nothing that we can't repair pretty smartly,” Coletree said to Titus as the men looped the last coil of rope after dropping anchor in the great harbour. “Not like in the navy, when you had to go on your knees for a spar or a replacement for a ripped sail. I'm sorry for the delay, for we were making excellent time.”

Titus had asked the captain whether the repairs might not wait until they reached England, but Coletree had been unwilling to risk the vessel or the safety of the crew and passengers. “Like as not it'll be smooth as glass all the way back, but then it might not, and we've some tricky waters to get through. If you don't mind, sir, I'd just as soon make all right before going any further.”

Alethea stood behind the men, not listening to their conversation, all her attention focused on the dazzling whiteness of the buildings, curve upon curve of them on the hills which rose so abruptly from the main quarter. The balconies, roofs, and terraces were ablaze with flowers and shrubs in brilliant colours; it was so colourful, and the sun was so bright, and the scenes on shore looked so lively and picturesque that Alethea felt a wave of happiness; the first for many days.

Figgins's eyes were out on stalks as she stared out at the people coming and going in the squares and open places on the northern side of the river. “Those men aren't decent,” she said. “Short trousers and bare arms and legs!”

“Never mind the bare flesh, look how dashing their red sashes are.”

“And those men walking up and down there, those swarthy fellows with teapots upon their heads, who are they?”

“They are Moorish porters,” said Titus, breaking away from his captain, amused by Figgins's artless remarks.

“And monks, look,” said Figgins, “in dirty brown robes; we saw enough of those papists in Venice, and here they are again.”

“Worse,” said Titus gravely. “For they have the Inquisition here in Portugal, you know, which keeps a close eye to make sure people's religious principles are sound.”

“I know about the Inquisition,” said Alethea. “I read the most exciting book, set in Spain, about a noblewoman who barely escapes the most awful tortures at the hands of the Inquisitors.”

“I gather you are a reader of Minerva novels,” said Titus.

“I am, and freely confess it, and you may look as disapproving as you choose; men always are so high-minded about novels, and despise them all, especially if they come in three volumes and have marbled covers.”

“You wrong me. I take great pleasure in a good three-volume novel, and I would sooner read even the worst of them than a collection of sermons or essays by some dull scholar at the university.”

“I am glad to hear it; you cannot be altogether at fault, then.”

He gave her a swift, intent look. “Am I generally at fault?”

“Oh, only as men are, you know. In wanting to have your own way, and sulking when your will is crossed, and thinking you may interrupt anything that a woman is saying. Men are all alike in that way.”

“Sulking! I never sulk.”

“You must examine your conscience and see who is the better judge of that, you or those who have to endure your dark moods.” Her attention was caught again by activity on shore. “Only look at that string of mules, I swear the front one knows the way all by himself. And a cart, pulled by bullocks. When can we go ashore? I long to explore. What are those dense groves of trees there, sir? And more of them, up there.” She pointed.

“Orange groves,” said Titus after a moment's hesitation as to where her finger was directed.

“You're never going ashore,” cried Figgins.

“I most certainly am going ashore. Who knows when I may ever come to Lisbon again? I want to see as much as I possibly can while I am here.”

“Allow me to escort you,” said Titus. “I intend to go ashore to stretch my legs, and I believe I remember enough of my time in Lisbon to be able to show you some of the sights.”

“Were you here before? How I envy you, owning this yacht and able to sail away and visit Lisbon or anywhere you want, whenever you feel like it.”

“Last time I was in Lisbon was some years ago, when I was serving in Wellington's army. Then, the town was full of soldiers, Redcoats at every corner, and the harbour jammed with ships of the Royal Navy. There was no question of a yacht in those days.”

“How do we get ashore?” asked Alethea.

“We ask one of the men to summon a boat; the purpose of all these small boats with awnings is to ferry people to and fro, across the harbour or to the suburbs of the town.”

“It is odd,” said Alethea when they had duly been rowed ashore, “not to understand one word of the language that is being spoken all around one. The Venetian dialect was very different from the Italian I had learned, but we could understand one another. There is a lemonade seller, I'm thirsty and would love some lemonade. What do those curious-looking men have in those little barrels, do you know?”

“They are selling water. They are Spaniards, from Galicia. All the water sellers in Lisbon come from Galicia, I don't know why. Are you up to climbing these extremely steep streets after your ordeal at sea? There are always cooling breezes further up and one may have a splendid view of the city below and the river and harbour, if you feel you can manage the ascent.”

Nothing would have stopped Alethea. She was getting her land legs back, and was eager to see everything she could.

“You speak the Portuguese,” she said, almost accusingly, as they walked up towards the church of San Roque, and Titus exchanged a few good-humoured words with one of the beggars stretched round the gateway to a palace.

“I learned it when I was here before. Most of us acquired some knowledge of Portuguese, and Spanish, too. To a military man, some acquaintance with the language of the country in which he is fighting is almost indispensable.” He stooped to drop a coin in the man's outstretched hand.

“Are they ill?” said Alethea.

“No, why should they be?”

“The way they just lie there; only think how beggars in London accost one.”

“They would not put themselves to so much trouble, and they don't need to importune us: giving alms is a way of life here. Besides, it is hot and easier just to stretch out in a patch of shade, and perhaps they have better manners than our London beggars.”

A service had just finished as they reached the church of San Roque, and the congregation was streaming out into the sunlight. Alethea was sorry not to have got there a few minutes earlier, so that she might have heard the music, but she was enchanted by the plump women with their regular, very white teeth who came chattering and laughing out of the church. No Sunday faces here, she thought, and she noticed, with a kind of sudden detachment, that many of the expressive eyes were turned in Titus's direction.

In the turmoil of her escape and the no-man's-land she felt herself to be in when she was travelling as Mr. Aloysius Hawkins, she had never considered Titus primarily as a man seen through a woman's eyes, not as these women were looking at him.

He wasn't handsome in the way that Napier was, with regular features and chiselled mouth, nor of the Corsair type like that unpleasant Mr. Warren, but he had the advantage of a tall figure, and he certainly had an air about him. It was that masterful nose, no doubt. There was nothing of the rake about him, yet there was a touch of danger in his expression and the promise of a more sensual nature in his well-formed mouth. It wasn't an ill-tempered face, for all the brusqueness and anger he had displayed in Switzerland and Italy, and she had to grant him a sense of humour, which could also be read in his face. She wondered who the woman was whom he had gone to Venice to see. Had he found her? Another Emily Lessini, or perhaps a more dazzling Italian beauty.

“What are you thinking of?” he asked after a while. “You look to be in another world.”

“Oh, nothing of consequence,” she said, colour rising to her cheeks. “How sorry I shall be to return to our grey skies in England.”

“It is summer now, you may hope for as much sunshine as there is here.”

She leant against a low wall and looked out over the wide expanse of sea. “No matter how much the sun shines, or how hot it is, it can never be the same as it is here. The air has a brightness to it that is quite different.”

She paused, and breathed in the air, fragrant with the scent of nearby almond flowers. “I am not accustomed to notice my surroundings particularly. I believe some people experience the world through their eyes and others through what they hear; I am one of the latter sort. Here, however, I feel compelled to gaze and gaze at what is around me. I must store up every image that I can, to tell to Miss Griffin when I see her again.”

“A friend of yours?” he enquired.

“She was my governess. She is now quite a famous authoress; she has written several of those marble-covered novels, which have enjoyed considerable success.”

“And brought her an independence. I have frequently felt that the lot of any governess is a hard one, and I confess that the mere thought of being in that position in the Darcy household, obliged to instruct and guide you and your sisters, makes me tremble. Or perhaps your four sisters—it is four, is it not?—were all meek and good. Although Mrs. Wytton has never struck me as being ideal governess fodder.”

“Meek and good, no, indeed!” Alethea thought of her older sisters—priggish Letitia, strong-minded Camilla, wild Georgina, and wilful Belle—and laughed. “My eldest sister was considered to be excessively good, but in reality she was as obstinate as that mule down there which is refusing to turn the corner. She is pious, too, which is insufferable, or at least she pretends to be.”

Titus blinked. “So much for sisterly affection!”

“I think we are as much attached to one another as most brothers and sisters are, but it is a mistake to imagine that one must always like one's siblings. And Letty would not listen to me when I—” She stopped abruptly, not willing to talk about Letty, nor about Georgina. “Letty and Georgina are more concerned with the conventions than I am. Or than Camilla is.” She fell silent, and then, feeling she must make an effort, asked, “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“I have a sister and a brother.”

“Do you like them?”

“I like my sister—that is, I like her when she is not trying to interfere in my life and arrange my affairs for me.”

“Oh, that is a family characteristic, is it?”

The moments of easy camaraderie were at an end. He frowned, she retreated into her own thoughts, and they didn't speak again until they had descended the hill and were seated outside a café in a little square. Alethea suspected that Titus had said he wished to stop there merely to allow her to rest, but in truth she was glad to sit down and there was so much to look at as they sat and drank coffee. Gulls wheeled in the azure sky, startlingly pink flowers glowed in the window boxes attached to every window, water trickled pleasingly from the open mouth of a sporting dolphin in the fountain.

Alethea gave a sigh of pure pleasure. “I wish this moment could last for ever.”

 

One day, Titus hired horses and they rode to Alhandra, a small, pretty town on the banks of the Tagus.

Titus had been pleasant, courteous, and withdrawn ever since the day they had ascended to San Roque. He had accompanied her on one or two other expeditions, and although perfectly amiable, had stuck firmly to neutral topics of conversation. She had felt the veil of reserve, and regretted it, but could not but respect it. Even so, what he had to say was worth hearing, and she became aware of how long it was since she had spent time in the company of a clever man, and how much she appreciated it.

On other days, he had arranged for her and Figgins to be escorted wherever they wished by one or two of Coletree's men. She had gone to Cintra with Figgins in this way, a beautiful town, he had told her, but she had not enjoyed the day, returning fagged and complaining to Figgins of the headache.

He seemed anxious not to trespass on Alethea's sensibilities and to her surprise made no more remarks about her folly or what troubles might lie ahead of her, and for this she was grateful. He remained calm and contained, with no display of temper; she was not in the mood for any kind of heightened emotion, and it was as though he sensed this.

Unless it was simply that the clear, bright light, the warmth of the sun, and the friendliness of the people brought on a feeling of relaxation to him, as it did to her. She had an idea that this was a place where he had once been happy, and as they sat beside the horses in the shade of a spreading cork tree, eating a picnic lunch of bread and cheese and the local wine, which was light and pétillant and refreshing, she taxed him with it.

He lay back against the trunk of the tree, a kind of half-smile about his lips. “I was happy, it is true. I had not at that time grown to hate the army. I found the life interesting and the companionship of my fellow officers agreeable. And I struck up a friendship with a charming Portuguese woman; I never knew anyone to laugh so much. What merry times we had together!”