Mr. Darcy's Daughters (9 page)

Mr. Wytton, bored, bowed his head and said nothing, although he briefly wondered why Sophie, who must be a cousin of Mrs. Pollexfen, had never mentioned her name. Sophie loved to talk about her grander relations, even though he was not at all interested, having plenty of dull, grand connections of his own and preferring the company of men that Sophie stigmatised as prosy nonentities: poets, scribblers and the like. She was happy enough for him to know Lord Byron, so wicked and so fashionable, but all these learned fellows he went about with were, in her opinion, the most tedious kind of people.

What a frivolous creature she was, just what a girl of seventeen ought to be. For himself, he hated any affectation of learning in a woman. Miss Camilla Darcy, for instance, there was a young lady who was full of opinions, and not afraid to express them. Sophie would stigmatise her cousin’s conversation as a great bore, and he was glad of it.

Mrs. Rowan was bidding good-bye to a whimsical-looking man in a grubby coat.

“That was Mr. Algernon Watson, the historian,” she said, coming back to join Camilla. “He is very shy, but once you have met him some half dozen times, he may speak a few words to you. After that, you will wish you never were introduced, for he talks more than any man I have ever met, and although wonderfully clever, he has no sense of humour, none at all. He is engaged upon writing a history of the Ottoman Turks, and he comes to argue with me about Turkish ways and customs.”

“He must be glad of your knowledge on the subject,” said Camilla.

“Oh, no, none of it is the least use to Mr. Watson, for he believes that no woman can ever be right. All that I experienced and observed during my years in that country count for nothing; he, who has never been there at all, must have a better idea of it than I do.”

“How prejudiced! His history will hardly be worth the reading.”

“It will be a great success, and admired by any number of learned men. Only I will laugh at it, and perhaps your mother when she returns, for I am sure she will have her eyes and wits about her, and learn a good deal about the Turks while she is in Constantinople.”

“Indeed, I hope she does, and my father, too.”

“No, no, he will spend his time talking to other Europeans and attending only formal gatherings. It is left for us women to get under the skin of a foreign land, you know, for we have less dignity and more curiosity and so, despite the many restrictions placed upon our freedom, see far more than the men.”

Wytton raised a quizzical eyebrow at her. “You are hard upon my sex, Mrs. Rowan, and claim much for your own.”

“And with good reason.”

“You look thoughtful, Miss Camilla,” said Mr. Portal. “Do not tell me that you disagree with Mrs. Rowan.”

“I am not in a position to do so, for I know no country except England, and little enough of that. Oh, how I long to travel, to see all these places that others talk of.”

“I advise you to put aside such revolutionary thoughts,” said Mrs. Rowan. “A young lady in your situation is destined to marry a respectable man and settle down in the country to have children. You may be allowed, if you are lucky in your choice of husband, to spend a few weeks in London for the season.”

“Destined! Indeed, I hope not. Your fate was different, after all.”

“I was widowed young, which many would consider a misfortune. However, it is only as a widow that a woman may lead an independent life, you know, and it suits me very well. I have not the joy some women find in their children, but I have other compensations.”

Camilla caught the swift, intimate smile that Mrs. Rowan gave Pagoda Portal as she spoke and wondered if the gossip about her new friend might not be true.

“I would not be a married woman again for anything,” Mrs. Rowan went on. “It is amazing how pleasant it is to have control of one’s own fortune!”

While her sister had been visiting in Bruton Street, Letitia had been out riding with Captain Allington. On the back of a horse, she became a different woman; her fears vanished, her oppressed spirits lifted, her pale cheeks filled with colour. She was an excellent horse-woman, and had had a rare disagreement with Mr. Fitzwilliam over her choice of a horse; when he saw the big, rawboned bay she had brought with her from the country, he expressed his disapproval in no uncertain words.

“You cannot ride that great brute of a horse; he is far too strong for you. I never saw a more unsuitable horse for a lady. What can your father be thinking of? Let me mount you from my stables. Fanny’s mare is just the ride for you, a lovely creature, the safest ride imaginable, she will carry you quite safely.”

Amused, Camilla noticed the tightening of Letty’s jaw and the effort it took her sister to reply with the necessary politeness.

“You are too kind, sir, but believe me, I am accustomed to Sir Lancelot here; we have been companions these three years and go on very well together. He is big, to be sure, but that makes for a comfortable ride, you know, and he is very well schooled; he has never bolted nor thrown me.”

“In the country, it is different. He will be alarmed by the traffic in town, he will shy, you will be unable to hold him.”

Camilla thought it time to come to her sister’s aid. “Indeed, sir, he was given to Letty for her own use by my father, and he is of my father’s breeding. He is a lively ride, but there is no vice in him at all, and he never misbehaves when my sister is in the saddle.”

Fitzwilliam had to give way; there was nothing else for him to do, although he rounded on the Darcy groom, abusing him for allowing his mistress to bring such a horse to London.

“Begging pardon, your honour, but it ain’t nothing to do with me. Mr. Darcy tells me to bring this here horse up to London for Miss Darcy to ride, and so I did. Mrs. Darcy bid me look after the horse myself; she don’t ride no more than Miss Camilla does, but she’s fond of Sir Lancelot and says she never worries when Miss Darcy is out with the hounds on his back, for she knows he is a clever horse which will carry her over anything.”

So Letitia had taken Sir Lancelot out, accompanied by her groom. Captain Allington had met them in the park and lost no time in inviting her to join him in further rides; they had now ridden out three times together.

Camilla couldn’t decide whether Fitzwilliam’s continuing disapproval of Letty’s rides was only on account of the size and appearance of her horse, or because of the transformation her sister underwent once on Sir Lancelot’s back. Today, Letty’s return, complexion glowing from the vigorous exercise, was greeted with pleasure by Fanny, glad to see her cousin in better spirits even if only for a while, and with chilly reserve by her husband.

Captain Allington had no doubts. “My word, she is a capital horsewoman indeed,” he cried. “Lord, we had a splendid ride.” And, turning to Letitia, “I hope you will come one day to Richmond or Bushey, where we may stretch the horses’ legs in a proper gallop.”

Fanny, distracted by her small daughter, merely smiled and said she was sure Letty would like to ride out again. Fitzwilliam frowned, and seemed about to speak, but fortunately Captain Allington was already bowing himself out of the room.

Fanny was made to feel less sanguine about such an outing later that evening, when her husband came to her room as she was changing for dinner. He liked to see her in her undergarments and with her hair down; it aroused the strongest feelings in him, and he watched with amorous eyes as she sat at her dressing table in a silk wrap while her maid brushed and put up her hair. She dismissed her maid and turned round to him with a smile, putting out a hand to hold him away. “No, no, sir, my hair is done, you will have to wait until later.”

He took it in good part, used to her particularity with regards to her clothes and hair when she was dressing for a formal occasion. On her side, there was cunning in her tactics; her mother, a worldly woman, had given her several excellent tips on ensuring that a man was with his wife at those hours of the day when temptation was greatest. “Even the most affectionate of husbands will be ready to find their way to the various bagnios frequented by men of our sort,” she had told Fanny. “Make him want to spend that time with you. It is not a matter of morals; all men shed their morals with their breeches. It is a matter of accustoming him to other ways. A little flirting with other men does no harm, either; it will increase his ardour for you.”

Her husband, who would have been incapable of imagining that such a conversation could ever take place between mother and daughter, put aside his present ardour to bring up the matter of Letitia and her horse.

“I was not at all pleased to see her when she returned from her ride today. I do not care to see her dashing about on such an animal, nor is it a welcome sign that she finds the exercise so exhilarating. I own, I am disappointed in her, and surprised, for in all other ways she is a good, obliging girl.”

Fanny fiddled with the lid of a jar of cream. “Why, as to that, you must remember that she has been raised in the country. You know how it is with country people; they are restless and must be active. Only think how Camilla likes to take some exercise on foot every day. Letty needs to shake off her fidgets, for she is still low in her spirits and worries constantly about her sisters and her parents.”

She put down the jar and, taking up several bracelets, began to thread them on to her slim arm.

“Why, only yesterday Belle and Georgina went to Bond Street and were a little late returning. They had met some acquaintance and lost track of the time, you know, and Letty was in such a fret, imagining every conceivable disaster: They had been run down by a carriage, or been abducted, or had fallen from the kerb and broken a limb!”

Fitzwilliam could appreciate this kind of feminine weakness, although perhaps Letty took it to extremes—and, he demanded, if she were so worried about accidents, why did she choose to ride such a horse?

“Oh, it is only what may happen to others that worries her; she has no fears for her own safety or well-being,” said Fanny.

“And how much time is she spending with the captain? I know you wish to take her mind off that wretched Busby fellow—I am heartily sick of hearing his name all over town, I may tell you—but Captain Allington can never be considered a suitable connection for her. He is a younger son and has no income apart from his army pay, and no prospects; he may look very fine and all the young ladies may dote on his whiskers, but it will not do, Fanny.”

“Letty has no romantic interest in Captain Allington, nor he in her.”

Fitzwilliam had to accept this. He had rarely known his Fanny to be wrong in affairs of the heart.

“And he will not be at Almacks this evening, few soldiers are, and so she will have to talk and dance with other men.”

“Two young women, worth a hundred thousand pounds between them; you shall have to take care of them, Fanny, very good care.”

“Although why it is called full dress, when one’s bosom and shoulders are quite bare, while undress means being ruffed up to the chin, I shall never understand,” said Camilla, twisting and turning to get a better look at herself in the glass.

Fanny had obtained the precious vouchers for Almacks, had resisted the wails and entreaties of Belle and Georgina to be included in the party—“You cannot, for there are no vouchers for you”—and had personally inspected every item of the evening dress laid out for Camilla and Letty to wear for the first subscription ball of the season.

Their ball gowns were the very crack of fashion, with satin slips beneath gauze overdresses. The hem of each dress was deep, set with flounces, and showed their ankles, encased for the evening in silk stockings. Camilla loved the feel of the silk, and the rustle and movement of her dress, although she had been startled at first to see how very low it was cut across the bosom, and how very much the tight, high waist and small, puffed, off-the-shoulder sleeves emphasised her and Letty’s breasts.

Letty, meanwhile, was engaged in a tugging match with Sackree, as she tried to cover up more of her bosom, and talked of quickly adding some lace. Fanny, coming in to see how they were doing, would have none of it.

“Nothing more deplorable than a prude; indeed, you will see many women this evening in far more revealing gowns, take my word for it. These are modest enough. Letty, you may hang that pearl and ruby ornament in the centre there, just so. Camilla, here is a corsage sent by Sir Sidney, and you should attach it like this.”

“From Sir Sidney?” Camilla tried not to show how pleased she was. “Is there a card?”

“Compliments and so forth. He has sent a posy for Letty also; it is downstairs, as she will want to carry hers. Necklaces, now, and bracelets; Letty, the merest touch of rouge—no, do not draw away, you look too pale, it is of the first importance that you have a bloom on you tonight.”

Sackree and Fanny pinned and fastened and twitched and pulled at Camilla’s hair and face and gown. Camilla felt like a horse being groomed for some important occasion. Or even a heifer in classical times, about to be led, beribboned and adorned, to the sacrificial altar. She was going to say this to Fanny, but thought better of it; perhaps the heifer image was a touch too close to reality to be shared as the joke she saw in it.

Letty looked superb, but decidedly stormy. Which, in Camilla’s opinion, only increased her sister’s looks, for she could sometimes lack animation, and a still beauty was never so fetching as a lively one. Letty would have to smile, though, if she wasn’t to lack for partners, for as she was just now, she would terrify any young man and probably most older ones as well. Camilla hoped that the delights of a ballroom would work their familiar magic, and that her sister would forget her sense of affront and allow herself some enjoyment.

They went downstairs, where Mr. Fitzwilliam was waiting in the most correct evening dress of breeches, silk stockings and black coat with brass buttons. His eyes lingered on the girls’ exposed bosoms, until Fanny, resplendent in blue satin and the fine diamonds she had inherited from her mother, tapped him on the shoulder with her fan and said that they were ready to leave.

The carriage was announced and Fanny was handed in, followed by Camilla and Letty. Fitzwilliam gave his orders to the coachman, and they drew away from the house at a spanking pace. It was not a speed that could be kept up, however, as the approach to King Street, where Almacks was situated, was thronged with carriages depositing their fashionable burdens at the torchlit steps to the club.

Camilla, not wishing to look or feel gauche, like a country girl, couldn’t help but marvel at the number of people and conveyances. The carriage lanterns gleamed and glimmered in the dimly lit street, and there was a buzz of conversation as new arrivals greeted those ahead of them and turned to salute others as they drew up.

“We shall know no one,” exclaimed Letitia. “Oh, I wish we had not come.”

“Nonsense,” said Fanny. “A ballroom is the very place to meet people; that is the whole purpose of Almacks. I know everyone, I assure you, or their parents. Every young lady of rank who is out will be here, and all the eligible men, too.”

“I see it isn’t called the marriage mart for nothing,” said Camilla.

This earned her a disapproving look from Fitzwilliam and a quick gesture of denial from Fanny. “You must not say that, it would be very vulgar to appear to be on the lookout for a husband.”

“Well, we aren’t,” said Letitia, “so there’s no danger of that. That is why we should not have come, for when we are seen here, the whole world will think we are husband hunting.”

“And if you do not come, at your age, and known to be spending the season in London, it will be considered very odd, and give rise to even more talk—the last thing you or any of us would wish.”

Letitia sank back into the squabs and her sulks. Camilla leaned forward to see where they had got to in the line just as the carriage stopped, and the footman was at the door to let down the steps and hand the ladies out.

They went up the wide stone staircase that led to the ballroom, their tickets of entry were scrutinised, an eye cast over Mr. Fitzwilliam’s attire, lest a forbidden pair of pantaloons be admitted to the holy of holies—knee breeches were still de rigueur within these portals—and they were in.

Her first impression was of a sea of glittering glass. The huge mirrors along the walls multiplied the throng into an army of fashionables, and the ornate crystal lustres twinkled and sparkled, illuminated by flickering gas lights. The gilded classical columns supported a gallery where the musicians played; the air was hot, the atmosphere stuffy, and apart from the mirrors and gilding, the rooms were actually quite bare of decoration.

Mrs. Rowan had warned her what she might expect: tedious company, only ratafia and lemonade to drink, bread and butter to eat, commonplace conversation, no politics or serious subjects to be spoken of. “You will find it very dull.”

And Camilla might have done, had she not so loved to dance. She wished she were on the floor, waltzing—it was exhilarating even just to watch the dancers.

Someone was attempting to hand her a card showing the patterns of the quadrille; she refused it with a smile. All her family could dance the quadrille, all her sisters adored dancing, and many a rainy afternoon at Pemberley had been saved from tedium by learning their steps under the tutelage of a local dancing master, with Griffy at the pianoforte and her mother, who had never lost her own love of dancing, watching with real pleasure and marking the time with her hand.

It was a crush. Bodies pressed against one another, men and women, with some moving forward into the room, some pausing to greet friends, others simply to look around and watch the dancers.

She caught sight of Sir Sidney, who was standing at the other end of the ballroom, talking to an elegant woman with an extraordinary array of feathers in her hair. How well he looked, so extremely handsome in his beautifully fitting evening coat, his height and figure showing to great advantage in a gathering with so many rather young men—a few golden youths, but most inclined to spots and unformed features.

He had seen her, was bowing himself away from the feathered headdress, was coming towards her.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “That was Mrs. Beecham I was talking to, do you know her?”

Camilla shook her head. “No. She is very lovely.”

“She is a formidable talker, knows everyone’s affairs and has no sense of discretion. She is therefore the most feared and feted woman in London. She was telling me about your sister and Tom Busby, an affair in which I have not the slightest interest. Such childish amours are best forgotten.”

He was rewarded with a glowing smile from Camilla, who was extraordinarily pleased to find herself in the company of someone who felt able to mention Tom’s name outright, without the sidelong glances and knowing looks and sudden hushes that had pursued the Darcy sisters for the last few days. It was as she would have expected; Sir Sidney was not one of your London muckrakers and scandalmongers, eager to destroy a reputation or cause mischief among his friends.

“Do you see that fellow over there?” Sir Sidney said, lifting his quizzing glass and gazing through it. “I never saw such an ill-fitting coat.”

“That is Mr. Valpy. He is a clergyman.”

“A clergyman? Is he indeed? What has he to do with a ball? He had better stay and mind his parishioners and pulpits, and not come amongst us here in that apology for a coat. I hate a dancing clergyman, do not you agree? And he has a very disapproving air to him. I wonder at his being admitted here.”

“He is a fashionable clergyman, the
ton
flock to hear his sermons.”

“The
ton
flock to an execution, or to see a dog with two heads. It hardly implies that murderers or freaks should dance at Almacks.”

“You are very hard on him,” Camilla said, laughing.

“He is a walking offence.”

He claimed her hand for the next dance, and as they made their way on to the floor, Camilla had the satisfaction of seeing Letty being led into a set by Lord Rampton, a notable dancer, even if high on her cousin’s list of ineligible men.

“Who is that dancing with Sir Sidney?” asked Lady Jarvie, a woman in her forties who wore a brilliant purple silk gown topped with a feather-and-pearl headdress.

Her companion, Lady Warren, let her eyes drift across the floor. “Why, that is one of the Miss Darcys. I heard that Sir Sidney was
épris
in that direction; she will do well to land him, for one knows he is not naturally inclined to matrimony.”

The two women laughed heartily. “It is not Miss Darcy he dances with, however, is it?”

“No, that is Miss Camilla Darcy, the second sister.”

“So many sisters,” murmured Lady Jarvie, smoothing her purple skirts. “They go on for ever, one hears.”

“Oh, five or six, or seven,” said Mrs. Naburn, joining them with a flutter of her gaudy fan. “A nurseryful at home, for all I know. Each with their fifty thousand pounds. Mr. Darcy must certainly pay for fathering so many daughters.”

Lady Warren had been infuriated to hear, year by year, of Mr. Darcy’s steadily increasing fortune. “Very pretty fortunes; I am only surprised they are not larger.”

“They are all beauties, besides, so one hears,” Mrs. Naburn went on.

“If you admire those kind of looks,” said Lady Warren, who didn’t.

Lady Naburn’s mind was running on money. “Is the Pemberley estate worth so much?”

“My husband was talking of it only yesterday,” said Lady Jarvie. “There is coal, you know, and some other minerals, I am not sure what kind, but in great demand and fetching a very high price. Then they say that Mr. Darcy invested heavily when the market was so low, sold out high on rumours of peace, bought once more when the news was at its darkest, and sold after Waterloo, having made another fortune.”

“Is he not related to Lady Catherine de Burgh, who is so very rich?” Mrs. Naburn asked. She nodded and smiled at an acquaintance in pink, adding in an aside, “What an unfortunate colour for dear Eliza to be wearing, pink with that flaming hair!”

Lady Jarvie frowned as she thought about family trees. “Lady Catherine must be Darcy’s aunt, his mother’s sister. Her only child, a daughter, died some years ago, I believe.”

“They say she will leave everything to Mr. Fitzwilliam, and I dare say he will be happy with such an inheritance,” said Lady Warren. “A younger son, you know, even if his father is an earl. He has no estate, and a growing family to provide for.”

“That is the price you pay for marrying a young wife, and Lady Fanny is turning out to be a prolific breeder; is she not increasing again?”

They all turned to stare at Fanny, whose slim figure seemed to give the lie to their supposition.

“With these high-waisted fashions, it is hard to tell,” said Mrs. Naburn after a long scrutiny. “She takes great pleasure in her children, I am told, as does her husband. He is an uxorious man, not one of your rakes.”

“I should hate to have such a husband,” cried Lady Jarvie. “For he would be always at home, boring one dreadfully, instead of being off in company.”

“Muslin company?” said Mrs. Naburn archly.

“I don’t enquire.”

Lady Warren was watching the dancers. “That is Miss Darcy, there, the one going down the dance with Lord Rampton. He would do very well for her. I dare say they would consider him a good catch.” Yes, it would gratify her to see Miss Darcy married to a wastrel, although a wastrel without even a title to his name would be better.

“Fifty thousand will not be enough to save him from ruin, from all one hears,” Lady Jarvie said, lowering her voice a fraction.

“Perhaps Miss Darcy’s papa may be persuaded to do more for the young couple,” said Mrs. Naburn. “He has only to ask Mr. Gardiner, who is a relation of his wife’s, you know, and I am sure he can make thousands in a week.”

“These girls are related to the Gardiners?” said Lady Jarvie. “I am surprised they are let in here.”

Lady Warren was swift in her reply; after all, she was known to be a relation of the Darcys. “It is a distant connection, and of course the Darcys are cousins to half the nobility. There can be no question of their being excluded; not even Sally Jersey could do that. Not on grounds of their birth.”

“Who is their mother?”

“A nobody, the daughter of a gentleman of modest estate, one of your two-thousand-a-year country squires. She had no fortune, none at all. She did very well to catch Darcy; there was a great deal of talk at the time.” The minute the words were spoken, Lady Warren regretted them; her companions might at any moment remember that her own brother had married another of the country squire’s daughters. She spread her exquisite fan and fluttered it before her face. “How hot it is, how close. I declare, it is worse every year.”

Mrs. Naburn, the tiresome woman, was not to be deflected from the subject of the Darcys. “And has she produced nothing but daughters? How he must regret the marriage; neither fortune nor sons is a hard lot for any man.”