Mr. Darcy's Daughters (10 page)

“There are two sons, rather younger than the girls,” Lady Jarvie said. “Five sisters, and then two boys, I am told.”

“Unless their brothers are sickly children, the girls had best marry as well as they can, then,” said Mrs. Naburn, pursing her lips. “The Miss Darcys would be advised not to be hanging out after the likes of Lord Rampton, however much they may fancy a title.”

“Sir Sidney is a man of wealth.”

“If he is serious about Miss Camilla Darcy, it is to be hoped he will get her to the altar; he has not had much luck with his previous attachments. Twice jilted, is that not so?” Lady Warren remembered every piece of gossip that redounded ill on anyone in society. “Maria Harper ran away from home the very day before the wedding in order not to be married to him. She had a hard time of it afterwards with her father, and in the end did no better for herself than some clergyman in the Midlands.”

Lady Jarvie shook her head, making the feathers in her headdress tremble. “While we are talking of jilting, is not Miss Darcy the girl who was to have married Tom Busby, the one who has appeared with a foreign wife? They say she is wearing her heart on her sleeve for her lost love—for all to see.”

“After more than three years? I never heard of such a thing,” cried Mrs. Naburn. “There is not a man in the world who cannot be forgot in three months; nay, three weeks or three days, let alone three years.”

This was a subject Lady Warren was happy to talk about. “She has done herself no good to become the talk of the town so soon after arriving for her first season. And I hear that the next sister, that one smiling up at Sir Sidney there, has been keeping strange company for a young female; she will turn out to be a bluestocking, and then no one will want to marry her.”

“The two younger sisters are twins and extravagantly beautiful. I saw them in Bond Street,” said Lady Jarvie. “One fair, one dark, thus pleasing all tastes.”

“I know who their mother is!” exclaimed Mrs. Naburn suddenly. “It has just come to me. She is Lydia Pollexfen’s sister.”

Lady Jarvie’s eyebrows rose. “Is she indeed? I never heard Lydia speak of any nieces.”

“There was some estrangement there. The family did not approve of Lydia Pollexfen’s first marriage; there was some scandal connected with the man. He died, however, so it is all forgotten.” Lady Warren spoke with finality; why could they not drop the subject of the Darcys?

“The Darcy girls will be moving in a fast set if they take up with Mrs. Pollexfen,” said Mrs. Naburn. “They will find themselves in company with Prinny, and I can’t think that Mr. Darcy would approve of that.”

“Oh, Lady Fanny is no friend of those people; she will keep her charges away from such pollution.” With relief, Lady Warren sighted a distraction. “Gracious heavens, do but look, there is Emily Cantor with her hair dressed in the most extraordinary mode; what a fright she does look, to be sure. Emily, my dearest”—kissing her friend’s cheeks—“how well you look, how elegantly your hair is done tonight!”

Camilla was in high spirits, delighted to be dancing, especially with Sir Sidney, whom she had to admit she was finding more and more attractive. He was an excellent and witty partner, who knew everyone and kept her much amused by his revelations and anecdotes concerning those around them. And her happiness was increased by seeing that Letty had succumbed to enjoyment of the dance, and had lost, at least for the moment, her look of introspection.

The dance came to an end. Sir Sidney led her from the floor and went away to fetch her a glass of lemonade. She stood by a pillar, her colour high from the exercise, her eyes sparkling, and several men walking by looked at her with admiration. Two young ladies went past, spangled scarves draped nonchalantly over their arms; they gave her a backward glance which carried more of spite and disapproval than of admiration, and she heard their laughter as they passed some comment to each other.

She did not mind; she was in buoyant mood, and it would take more than the unpleasantness of strangers to cast her down. Then Sir Sidney was back at her side, and she took the offered lemonade gratefully.

“I hope you will favour me with another dance later,” said Sir Sidney. “I should like to ask you again now, but you know it is not at all the thing and people would look oddly at us.”

She knew perfectly well that to stand up with the same man for more than two dances in an evening would be considered quite improper, but, for herself, she would have been happy to dance every dance with Sir Sidney. It was not to be thought of, however; to do any such thing would distress Fanny and excite comment among those present, many of them eagle-eyed mothers, jealous enough for their own daughters to be keen to find fault with the new heiresses.

Besides, Fanny had no intention of allowing her to spend the evening in one man’s company. She came up to them and bore Camilla away. “You will not mind it, my love, but I wish you to meet other people; you cannot know too many people in society, I assure you.”

Camilla was feeling too elated to mind anything. She smiled, and dutifully said the right things, danced with a young man with dashing looks and no conversation, stood up for the country dances with a supercilious, slightly older man who eyed himself in the long glasses with great complaisancy, and then had all the felicity of a waltz with Sir Sidney.

She had danced often enough at country parties and balls, and had attended various assemblies, but she had not before danced in the arms of a man for whom she had any particular warmth of feeling. At first she was slightly confused by the heightened enjoyment she felt in being encircled by Sir Sidney’s strong arm, and at the closeness of their bodies and faces as they twirled around the room. Then she grew used to the sensation, and found herself revelling in it and giving herself up to the sense of pleasure. It was heady business, more than sufficient to bring radiant colour to her cheeks and a glow to her eyes as she smiled at him.

“How I love to dance,” she cried, as the end of the dance brought her up beside Fanny once more. “It is intoxicating!”

Mr. Fitzwilliam frowned. “Where is Letty?” was all he said. “It is time for us to leave, the carriage will be waiting.”

Letty was talking animatedly to a man of twenty-six or -seven, of medium height, who had a distinguished air and a humorous eye. Camilla liked the look of him, and as they waited at the foot of the stairs for their carriage to be announced, she asked her sister about him.

“Lord Rampton introduced him; they are old friends, they come from the same county. He is Mr. Barcombe, a Mr. Barleigh Barcombe.”

“Do you like him?”

Letty shrugged, earning herself a cluck of disapproval from Fanny. She apologised, and added that he seemed civil enough. “Lord Rampton says he is droll, that he makes everybody laugh.”

“But not you,” she said.

“I am not in the mood for laughter,” said Letitia, drawing her cloak around her. “How cold it is. I hope you may not catch a chill after dancing with such liveliness, Camilla. You should have taken care not to get hot.”

“Catch a cold from dancing? Never in the world. See, I am as snug as anything in my cloak, and here is the carriage.”

Fell had tea for them in the drawing room when they got back. Fanny was yawning and protesting that she was exhausted, while Fitzwilliam eyed her approvingly and restored his strength with a glass of brandy.

Letty was looking cross. “Well, Camilla, you were attracting a good deal of attention, dancing in that way with Sir Sidney.”

Fanny stifled another yawn. “What nonsense you do speak. I remarked to Fitzwilliam—did I not, my dear?—how happy I was to see you dancing, and in particular to see you, Letty, looking cheerful and in great beauty with some colour in your cheeks. I need not be ashamed for your dancing, I find. You both dance so easily and well, with no cause to mind your steps or falter in conversation; it was all natural and graceful, just as it ought to be.”

“Sir Sidney is a notable dancer, and any girl would be glad to be partnered by him,” Camilla said, nettled by her sister’s words.

“I think Mama would have been shocked by your waltzing in such a way. I never saw anything so abandoned.”

“To bed with you,” Fanny interposed. “Or you will be fit for nothing in the morning.”

Camilla was glad to find a fire in her room when she went upstairs. It had been carefully tended by the waiting Sackree, who had her nightdress airing beside it.

“And I shan’t wake you in the morning,” Sackree said, as she unhooked Camilla’s dress, “for you will need your sleep.”

“Do you think me such a poor creature as to be tired out by a single ball? Shame on you. And besides, I cannot sleep late, for I have promised to take Alethea to her singing lesson tomorrow morning. Griffy has caught one of her head colds and should not go out.”

“Head cold, indeed.” Sackree sniffed as she swept up the discarded ball gown. “She’ll be up there in the schoolroom, scribbling, while Miss Alethea is off in your charge, see if she isn’t.”

“She is writing a novel, Sackree, as you very well know, and must snatch every moment she can to work on it.”

“As if there weren’t enough novels filling all your heads full of nonsense without her adding to them. I heard her reading some of that stuff of hers to Miss Alethea; fair made my hair stand on end. Such goings-on, I don’t know what your mother would say.”

“She would laugh,” Camilla said, subduing a great yawn.

“Into bed with you now, and I’ll blow out your candle directly.”

The bed was warm from the pan of hot coals that had been lying in it, and with a sigh, Camilla sank back against the pillows, drifting into sleep almost at once, her last conscious thought being of how very agreeable a man Sir Sidney was.

Camilla came downstairs in her new walking dress. It was a round dress of jaconet muslin with a tightly fitting saffron-coloured spencer top, and she was delighted with it. Her pleasant recollections of the ball and this new costume put her in a happy mood, and she swung her French bonnet by its ribbons as she went into the drawing room to find Alethea, whom she could hear at the pianoforte.

She was surprised to find Mr. Fitzwilliam standing in the centre of the room, with a face like a thundercloud. He was holding up a small, leather-bound book—a book that she recognised at once.

Fanny was protesting vehemently that there must be some mistake, or that, even if it was as he said, there could be no harm in it.

“No harm, ma’am?” said her husband in icy tones. “No harm in a young lady, living under our roof, in your care, having in her possession a book such as this? No more unsuitable book can possibly be imagined. No woman should be reading this, and for an unmarried girl—it is not to be thought of.”

Letty entered the room, agog with curiosity as to what the raised voices might signify. Her eyes flickered over the book in Fitzwilliam’s hand and took in his enraged countenance. “What volume is that, sir?” she asked.

“I hardly dare mention its name, Letitia. If it is yours, you have done very wrong, let me tell you, very wrong indeed, Miss, both to have such a book in your possession and to bring it into Fanny’s sitting room.”

Oh, Lord, now Letitia was bound to start her moralising. What a pity that she and Alethea had not already left for the singing lesson—although that would merely have postponed the storm that was clearly about to break about her head. It was with relief that she heard Fell’s steady tread, and his announcement of visitors below.

“It is Mrs. Gardiner and Sophie,” Fanny said thankfully. “They have come for Belle and Georgina, to go shopping. Call your sisters, Alethea, they must not keep Mrs. Gardiner waiting.”

When Mrs. Gardiner and Sophie came into the room, they were accompanied by Mr. Wytton and Mr. Layard.

“They have offered to go with us this morning,” said Mrs. Gardiner, as she kissed Fanny. “Is it not noble of them? For in general, you know, men dislike shopping. Mr. Layard assures us that he has a fine eye for rosettes and ribbons, having often advised his sisters. He has four sisters, you know.” Her voice tailed away as she sensed the tension in the room, and she looked from one to the other of them as though for enlightenment.

Fitzwilliam hesitated, unwilling to continue with a diatribe in front of visitors.

Camilla felt it was worth risking a sortie. “You have my book, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she said, and held out her hand for it. “I wondered where I had left it.”

This was too much for Fitzwilliam. “Yours! Yours, forsooth! And may I know where you acquired such a book?”

“I borrowed it from Mrs. Rowan.”

“Shame on her for having such a book. Shame on her for lending it to you.”

“But what is it?” cried Letitia.

“It is the
Decameron
, by Boccaccio,” Camilla said, her colour rising. She saw a look of surprise come over Wytton’s face, and Mr. Layard’s mouth dropped open in a round O of astonishment.

“In the Italian,” she went on. “I have not read it in Italian before.”

Fanny gave a squeak of horror, but it was too late.

“Do you mean to stand before me and tell me that you have read it in English? Are you not aware of how very improper a work this is? It is indeed a highly immoral work; to call it warm would not describe it adequately. How came you to read such stuff, or to admit it without a blush?”

“Why, how can you say such things about Boccaccio?”

“Indeed, sir, Miss Camilla has the right of it. The
Decameron
is one of the glories of European literature.”

It was Mr. Wytton who had spoken. She wished he had held his tongue, as Fitzwilliam turned on him.

“That is entirely beside the point, sir. The point is that young ladies should have nothing to do with European anything, let alone immoral tales.”

“Camilla, how could you?” said Letitia in a low, shocked voice. She turned to Fitzwilliam, shaking her head. “I am ashamed to say, cousin, that it is all too true. My sister has had the run of the library at home and access to all kinds of books which she should never even have opened.”

“Oh, what nonsense.” Camilla could feel her temper rising, but at all costs she must control her irritation and anger, she must stay calm. “There can be no harm in books.”

Fitzwilliam rounded on her. “No harm? I think you must allow others to be the judge of that. There is every harm in books, and books of this kind have no place on a gentleman’s shelves except under lock and key—at least in any household where he is unwise enough to let his womenfolk into his library. I never heard of such a thing; I could not have believed it, even of Darcy.”

Letitia was nodding her head in agreement, the priggish creature! Mrs. Gardiner was looking embarrassed, as well she might, and Sophie was clearly enjoying the sight of her cousin being dressed down in this way. Camilla put up her chin; she would not back down, nor stand by while her father was abused—even if her sister saw nothing wrong in that.

“My father has a great deal too much sense to put books under lock and key. Indeed, he has this very book in his library, in translation, and he himself recommended me to read it not twelve months since.”

This brought a smile to Wytton’s lips, quickly suppressed as Mrs. Gardiner gave him a quelling look.

“Your father?” said Mr. Layard, in a vain attempt to restore a conversational tone to the proceedings. “Did he, by Jove?”

No one paid the least attention to him.

“It is very likely so,” said Letitia, a picture of prim disapproval. “Indeed, she has read
Tom Jones
and Chaucer and the works of all kinds of writers who form no part of the reading suitable for a modest female mind.”

Modest female mind, indeed. Letitia was growing more and more tiresome and prudish. Where did she get her fustian notions from? Certainly not from either of their parents, who considered reading, wide-ranging reading, not only a pleasure but a duty for all their family. True, the twins never opened a book other than the most melodramatic Minerva novel except under protest, but Letty had benefited as much as she had from the freedom of the well-stocked Pemberley library. To listen to her now, you would think she had never read more than the
Elegant Extracts
.

“Even that most dreadful book,
The Monk,
” Letty was saying in sepulchral tones.

“What a hypocrite you are, Letty,” cried Alethea, jumping in to add coal to the fire. “I saw you reading
The Monk
yourself, and I have read it, too. Miss Griffin said it was a most interesting book, and I enjoyed every word of it.”

Sophie rarely read a book, but the mention of Monk Lewis’s Gothic masterpiece rang a bell in her head. “That is a monstrous horrid book. I swear I did not sleep a wink the night I finished it.”

Wytton took himself off to the window to have his laugh out. Camilla glared at his shaking back. He might find this amusing; it was making her, and what was worse, Fanny, acutely uncomfortable.

Fitzwilliam was nonplussed by Sophie’s artless remarks, and Camilla thought it time to soothe his ruffled feelings. “I am truly sorry to have upset you, cousin, and I will make sure that I do not leave my books lying around in future.”

“While you are in my house, you will refrain from having any such books in your possession at all.”

She opened her mouth to make an indignant rejoinder, saw Fanny’s expression, thought better of it and swallowed her words. “I will do as you wish, Mr. Fitzwilliam, while I am your guest.”

“And I suggest that you take time to think about your conduct, examine your conscience in this matter, admit you are at fault and give up any idea of reading such books. It will not do, you must believe me, it will not do. No husband will be as indulgent as your father appears to have been, although I am sure he cannot have been aware of half of what you were reading.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam might have finished, but Letty was by no means satisfied. She went on berating Camilla, despite Fanny’s valiant efforts to deflect her, accusing her sister of indelicacy of mind, of rudeness to her elders, and to her host. She would write to Papa directly, to let him know where his carelessness had led to.

“Do that,” Camilla cried, suddenly furious. “See how he likes being told what he should and should not do by his daughter.
I
should not care to be in your shoes when he replies to your letter.”

“Oh, please,” said Fanny, putting her hand to her brow. “Please do not quarrel. I cannot bear to have people falling out with one another; it makes me feel quite ill.”

“I am very sorry to cause you such distress,” Camilla said with genuine contrition. “Come, Alethea, let us go, or you will be late for your lesson.”

“I still cannot feel easy in my mind about these lessons,” said Letitia, happy to find another opportunity to point out her sisters’ folly and wrongheadedness.

“I must agree with Letty,” said Fanny. “Bloomsbury, you know, is a most ungenteel area, quite beyond the bounds of fashionable London. I do not like to think of you and Alethea venturing there. Why can the singing master not come to Aubrey Square, as other teachers do?”

Ignoring Letty, Camilla set about allaying Fanny’s fears. Signor Silvestrini was not like other teachers. He could pick and choose whom he would teach; very likely he would simply give Alethea some advice and perhaps the name of another teacher. One who would no doubt come to the house.

“Pray think no more about Bloomsbury and Italian singing masters,” she said with determined cheerfulness as she drew on her gloves. “Alethea and I will be safe enough in the carriage, and Figgins is to go with us.”

“Oh, very well, if you take a maid with you,” said Fanny doubtfully.

Mrs. Gardiner, who had been engaged in bright conversation with Sophie and an obliging Mr. Layard, now came forward. “We had best be off, Fanny, I hear the twins outside. Mr. Wytton, are you ready?”

The whole party moved out of the room and down the stairs into the hall. In all the bustle of taking up shawls and drawing on gloves, Camilla found herself beside Wytton.

He pressed a small volume into her hand and spoke in a low voice. “Here you are, Miss Camilla, I think you had better have it back. Do hide it, though, for Lady Fanny’s sake, if not for your own.”

It was the Boccaccio. She stared down at it for a second, before tucking it swiftly out of sight in her reticule. “How came you by it?”

“Mr. Fitzwilliam laid it down, and I took it up.” And, in a louder voice, “Yes, Mrs. Gardiner, here I am, quite at your disposal. Come, Sophie, take my arm.”

Figgins was the new schoolroom maid, her predecessor in that role having been promoted to the position of ladies’ maid to the twins. Miss Griffin, who was not so absorbed in her charge and her novel as not to use her eyes, had noticed the ebullient Figgins with Fanny’s children, and although there was no unkindness in her, it was clear that she far preferred the few chances she had to help with the young ladies’ clothes and toilettes to tending the infants. Miss Griffin, at no time an enthusiast for small children, could share her sentiments.

Figgins was a thin, lively girl, the daughter of the Fitzwilliam coachman. Fanny was happy to give her the position and to be able to please an old and valued servant by her choice. “She will do well,” Fanny had said. “And she is a Londoner, you know, by upbringing; it does no harm for a young lady to have a maid who knows her way about.”

No local knowledge was asked of Figgins today, however, as she climbed into the carriage after Camilla and Alethea. Alethea was in tearing high spirits,
tra-la
-ing as they rattled over the cobbles to warm up her voice, oblivious to the effect the vigorous sounds might have on pedestrians and the occupants of other carriages.

Letitia would have been horrified, would have remonstrated, chided, laid down the law. Camilla, still annoyed with Letty and mortified by Fitzwilliam’s treatment of her, took little notice. Alethea was doing no one any harm, and she had no wish to cross her. Like Fanny, she felt she had had enough of stormy scenes for one day.

The carriage turned into a large, respectable-looking square and stopped outside Number 19. Figgins commented on how clean it was, as to windows, doorstep and brasswork, although she was taken aback to find the door opened by a foreigner. Not that he wasn’t handsome enough, she reported back to her particular friends in Aubrey Square, with his dark hair and black eyes—if that was to your taste. Only he spoke foreign, and even his English—well, you could hardly understand a word of it.

Signor Silvestrini had rooms on the first floor, including a fine front apartment, which was fitted up as a studio. Camilla and Alethea paused at the threshold, their eyes taking in the pianoforte, the harp, the music stand, the neat stacks of music, the metronome, the anatomical drawing of the muscles of the throat, given pride of place on the wall and the surrounding prints of various opera houses from across the Continent.

The maestro himself was a stocky man with thick, wavy black hair tied back in a club and bow. He wore a neat, dark coat and pantaloons, and would have passed without notice anywhere in the street; there was nothing outré about him, nothing of the mounte-bank or the showman.

His manner was brisk and professional. He introduced himself to the sisters, enquired which was the singer, ushered Camilla to a small, hard sofa and took Alethea over to the light.

“Sixteen? It is too young.”

To Camilla’s surprise, Alethea didn’t argue or look cross, but simply stood there, looking back at him in her fearless way.

“Still, since you are here, let us hear what you can do. You have had lessons, from a country master, one Mr. Thompson, who recommended me to you. Which is very kind of this Mr. Thompson, of whom I have never heard; it would be better for him to keep his elegant young pupils to himself, or to pass them on to other Mr. Thompsons in town; we have many, many singing masters in London, that is quite certain.”