The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (41 page)

 

Alethea gave him her hand, but instead of shaking it, he took it between both of his, holding it, and looking full into her eyes for a brief, intense moment that seemed to last an eternity.

Cheeks aflame, she tried to force polite words of welcome to her lips; they would not come.

It was the physical presence of him that had thrown her off balance. He had been in her mind these many weeks, for as she recovered from the bruising experience of the previous months, the memory of him, of his concern, his kindness, and, yes, his high-handedness, came to her again and again.

His was a friendship she must always value, she told Lady Hermione, who gave one of her wicked, knowing laughs. Friendship between the sexes, her ladyship said with some astringency, was for children, fools, and those of advanced years whom life had drained of feeling.

Surely it weren't so, Alethea protested. She had met men in London who wore breeches and carried themselves as men, but whom one knew instinctively had no interest in women; nothing personal, it was a universal nullity towards the female half of creation. One could be friends with such men, could one not?

Lady Hermione had been ruthless in her dismissal of such an idea. “Men like Lord Lucius, I suppose. They have nothing to do with the case. Besides, Titus Manningtree is none such.”

No, indeed he was not. Mr. Manningtree was entirely masculine, there was nothing effete or pederastical about him. Yet he had a warmth and a quickness of understanding that was far removed from the make-up of such a man as Norris Napier.

Alethea had given a good deal of thought to her husband also, over these weeks. Her initial relief at his death had been tempered with an awareness that she didn't care to rejoice at the death of any man, even one who had wronged her so greatly. Yet perhaps it was better that he had died, for he would in the end have beaten some woman out of this world.

After the first excitement and scandal of the murder had died away, rumours had come creeping out about her late husband that appalled her. While he was alive, his fellow men had taken him at face value, rating him a well-bred, likeable man, a favourite with the ladies, and a pleasant companion at the club. Once he was dead, his victims found their voices: a servant here, a younger boy from his schooldays there. Even the liberal society of London, indulgent to male excesses, frowned at these revelations.

Napier still haunted her dreams, although less so as the days went past. She taught herself to wake when the dark shadows of those dreadful nights rose to torment her. She diminished him in her mind's eye, making him dwindle into a mere ineffectual puppet. Most of all, she strove to forgive him. The fault in his nature was inborn, and undeniable. But there had been faults on her side as well. Had she not been on the rebound from Penrose, would she ever have considered marrying him?

She would not.

Penrose was different. Penrose she didn't forgive, because there was nothing to forgive. Their passions, both their passions, had been stronger than their morals or their duty, hers every bit as much as his. He might be blamed for coming to her as one with a free heart, when he had known all along that his family intended quite a different bride for him, but she did believe that he had genuinely fallen in love with her; it was not all pretence.

Penrose did not haunt her dreams, waking or sleeping. When she thought of him it was with indifference, not anguish. He belonged to a different life, when she had been a different person.

And she had come to believe, during her time in Italy, that she was heart whole again, and would remain so. Her love affair and her marriage had innoculated her against love, and life would go on a great deal more easily because it was so.

Now, with Titus standing so close to her, disturbing her more than she would admit to herself, all her confidence and ease were blown to the wind. Titus, standing there, his hand now on the bridle as his horse sidled and tossed its head. It was a magnificent animal, sleek and powerful, with nostrils flared and ears pricked forward, dark, intelligent eyes roaming over its surroundings.

“From Harry's stable,” he said, looking down at her as though aware that some conversation was needed to smooth the awkwardness of the moment.

“I shall summon a man to take your horse,” she said, wanting suddenly to escape from him.

“If you mean Lady Hermione's groom, you will be unlucky,” he said, pointing down the hill to the meadow that lay spread beneath them. There was Antonio, walking beside his sweetheart, a pretty village girl. Arms round each other's waist, they were entirely absorbed in one another.

She averted her eyes, finding the couple's closeness unsettling. Titus was watching the pair with some amusement.

“Lady Hermione is away, and the mice are playing,” he observed.

“She is away for the day, but how do you know that?”

“I met her on my way. She told me that you would be here. And that you would be happy to see me,” he added with another direct look.

It occurred to her that she had never had any closer contact with Titus than a handshake. They had never gone down the dance together, nor waltzed, nor sat together on sofas in polite drawing rooms. Their time together had been in very different circumstances, she thought, remembering Lisbon and the happy hours she had spent in his company.

“Alethea,” he said, and there was that in his voice that made her heart thud, a seriousness and warmth that sent a glow into her cheeks. “I have come expressly to see you. I have stayed away as long as I could, for only a coxcomb would force his attentions on you while—” He hesitated, as though uncertain of his words.

“I must always be glad to see you,” she began with dreadful primness; what was she saying?

He looped the rein over his arm, as his horse shifted and stamped impatiently. He ran a soothing hand down the animal's nose, and blew at it, turning his head away so that he addressed the landscape rather than Alethea.

“If you are still—I know what you have suffered, and I dare say you have forsworn all men. Only I find I can wait no longer.”

He swung round to face her again. “Indeed, Alethea, I am deep in love with you. I won't say I can't live without you, for those would be mere words, but—”

Alethea was overwhelmed by a surge of delight, mixed with fear and panic.

“No,” she said, her voice sounding husky and strange. “Please do not say it. You are very kind—I am most sensible of the honour you do me—I cannot marry again.”

Silence between them. Then, at last, he spoke again. “I was afraid it might be so, and truly, I can enter into your sentiments on this. Pray, listen, though. If the idea of matrimony is too distressing, if you feel reluctant to submit to the authority and control that the law gives a husband, then I will most happily share your life with you on any terms. Only tell me that you have some love for me, that you feel in time you may learn to—”

She put up a hand to stop him. She finally had to acknowledge the truth to herself, and therefore, in fairness, to him: that she had fallen in love with him, unawares, almost from the moment she had met him.

His soul was in his eyes as he smiled down at her; it wasn't a triumphant nor a knowing smile, but a smile that sprang to his lips as he read what was in her heart.

“You mean you would live with me?”

“Yes. In every way as man and wife, and for me the ties between us would be as binding as any vows. But I would not have you fettered and dependent, against your inclination and at the cost of your contentment.”

She was amazed. What he was proposing meant his exile from his native land, the extinction of political ambitions, estrangement from his family and from many of his friends, exclusion from the world he had been born into. Was he really willing to make so great a sacrifice?

She was beyond words. Silently, she held out both her hands; he took them, pressing them close to him, then she was in his arms, her senses lost in a voluptuous darkness as he kissed her with a rising passion.

In the end, Alethea reflected, from within the rapturous comfort of his arms, there had been no awkwardness, no further words exchanged other than words of love. Her defences had tumbled down at the offer, at the look of glowing regard and love in his eyes.

 

Lady Hermione, on her return some hours later, looked at the couple with a knowing, satirical eye, and announced her intention of removing to Venice for a while; she had some matters to attend to there, she said mendaciously.

Which left them alone for days of perfect happiness, loving, talking, laughing together as they climbed the slopes around the villa, cantered side by side across the meadows, and spent enchanted hours sailing on the lake.

They arrived home hot and contented one afternoon, Alethea flushed and laughing from an argument they had had on their way back, to find that there was at least one visitor at the villa.

“The devil,” exclaimed Titus, “it's that brother-in-law of yours, the clergyman.”

It was. Barleigh Barcombe was leaning on the stone balustrade at the edge of the terrace, watching them as they approached.

Alethea felt cold. Where Barleigh was, there surely was Letty, the most censorious of her sisters, the person she least wanted to see in all the world.

Barleigh greeted them with friendliness, underlain by a certain stiffness. Where, he enquired, was Lady Hermione?

“In Venice,” said Titus with perfect sangfroid.

“Letty?” Alethea managed to ask. “Is she with you?”

Barleigh looked from one to the other of them with a widening smile.

“No, Alethea, she remains in England with the children.”

“Then are you permitted to come abroad alone?”

His smile was more rueful now. “More instructed than permitted, Alethea. I am sent to bring you home.”

Titus gave a snort of derision. “Sent by whom?”

“Letty and Lady Mordaunt, and also Lady Fanny, are greatly disturbed by rumours that have reached their ears that you, Alethea, were not under the protection of Lady Hermione and that you were in the company of a man.”

“So she is,” said Titus, his humour restored. “With me.”

“And Lady Hermione isn't here at all?”

“As I said, she is presently in Venice.”

“Ah.”

“Let me show you to your chamber,” said Alethea. “Have you a man with you? If not, I am sure Bootle will attend to you.”

“Before you overwhelm me with hospitality,” said Barcombe, sounding rather weary, “may I ask whether you will return to England with me?”

“No,” said Alethea. “Come this way.”

Over dinner he came back to the subject: how bad it looked, her so recently widowed, her youth, the age difference between her and Titus, it would seem that he was taking advantage of her, the impropriety of her not wearing mourning—

Alethea and Titus listened, and held hands under the table, and waited for him to run out of steam.

He sat back and laid his napkin on the table with a sigh. “Well, those are all the arguments I can muster. I have done my duty, now I can be comfortable.”

Alethea stared at him. “Are you saying—do you not mean all that you have preached to us?”

“Not a bit of it. As a clergyman, I have to tell you I find your morals shocking and depraved. As a human being, and at the risk of driving my dear wife into a frenzy, should she ever get to hear of it, I can only say that I wish you joy.”

“What a good fellow you are,” said Titus, leaping up and going round to grasp Barcombe's hand. “And, with Alethea's permission, there is something you can do for us that will not perhaps assuage Letty's wrath, but that will strike a blow for your morality.”

 

“Married!” cried Lady Fanny as she opened her letters at the breakfast table. “My love, they are married.”

“Who is married?” asked Mr. Fitzwilliam, buttering his third slice of toast.

“Why, Alethea and Titus Manningtree.” She scanned the rest of the letter. “How generous he is; the control of her fortune is to remain with her, except for the Darcy money that is to be secured on their children.”

“Leave her in control of her fortune?” said Mr. Fitzwilliam, choking on the mouthful of coffee he had just taken. “I never heard of such a monstrous thing; the man's a radical, that's what he is, a Whig, a Jacobin, a veritable free thinker!”

“And therefore just the man for Alethea,” said Fanny with the utmost satisfaction.

Discussion Points

1. Alethea makes a hasty marriage to Mr. Napier to stop wagging tongues. Why doesn't she flee to Pemberley, her family's estate, when her marriage takes a frightening turn? Why doesn't she confide in Fanny, with whom she has a good relationship? Why does she choose to travel all the way to Italy, masquerading as a man instead? How much of a role does her desire to travel and be free play in her dangerous decision?
   
2. Both before and after leaving her husband, Alethea seeks the support of her sisters. Yet both Letty and Georgina refuse to believe Alethea's stories of her husband's cruelty. Why are they so adamant that Alethea must be lying or otherwise blowing things out of proportion? How does insisting Alethea return to Mr. Napier benefit the two sisters?
   
3. Alethea's journey to Italy forces her to become tougher and more intrepid, but she also finds the trip to be an opportunity to blossom and grow into womanhood while seeing sights that many of her generation could only read about. How does the journey affect her coming-of-age?
   
4. If you've read Jane Austen's novels—
   Pride and Prejudice
   in particular—do you think Elizabeth Aston has captured Austen's style and spirit?
   
5. Alethea and Titus seem to be well matched in many ways. Early on, we learn that they have similarly unconventional experiences with and thoughts on marriage. Titus slept with and supposedly loved a married woman for years. Alethea had premarital sex with her first love, then married Mr. Napier, whom she later ran away from. How much of a role do these atypical experiences have in Titus's decision to keep Alethea's secret when he first discovers her masquerading as Mr. Hawkins?
   
6. The author chooses many names with significance in this novel. For example, Titus's yacht is named the
   Ariadne,
   after the mythical daughter of King Minos, who was wronged by her lover and then rescued and married by the god Dionysus. There is also Titus (like Titan)
   Man
   ningtree and Diana
   Gray.
   What other names in the novel have meaning to you?
   
7. Both art and music play a large role in this novel. Alethea's obsession is music—and it leads to her downfall as an abused wife. Titus becomes obsessed with a painting, which leads him into a duel and almost to his death. In fact, it isn't until Titus nearly kills a man that he finally comes to his senses about the direction his life has taken. Alethea notes, at one point, that music is not an accomplishment but an art in and of itself. How do the two disciplines relate to each other? How do they relate to these two characters?
   
8. There are many instances of first impressions leading characters astray in the novel. Alethea was so blinded by Penrose's charm that she mistook him for an honorable man. She similarly allowed herself to be charmed by Mr. Napier, who seemed sensitive and thoughtful before marrying her, and proving himself a brute. Titus instantly assumed that Alethea was cavorting as a man for fun, while she mistakes his later concern for nosiness and conventionalism. Can you think of other instances where characters turned out to be not what they seemed? Have you ever been misled by your first impression of someone? How did you resolve your mistake?
   
9. Why does Alethea agree to marry Titus in the end, when he's made it clear that he'll live with her, forever loyal, regardless? Why do you think the convention of marriage has persisted? How have the reasons to marry changed over the years?
   
10. In the first of Elizabeth Aston's novels,
    Mr. Darcy's Daughters,
    we were introduced to the five Darcy girls. Does
    The Exploits &
    Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy
    fulfill your expectations of the kind of adult (and wife) each girl might turn out to be? What would you like to see happen in a third novel?