The Darcy Connection (11 page)

Wytton pulled a face. “Into that den of Whigs! Sooner you than me, the talk will all be of politics and the treaties and the financial crisis.”

“Is there a financial crisis? What has brought that about?”

“I guess, merely; there is always a financial crisis of one kind or another.”

Alexander was not a political man. He had no hankering for a seat in Parliament, although he could have sat in the House had he wished to. He was more interested in history and exploration and the world of the mind, and found the new knowledge coming from all parts of Europe and further afield infinitely more rewarding than anything that went on in Parliament or in the houses of the great in London.

“You will give my regards to Sholto, of course, and my love to Octavia, if you manage to get a word with her. I dare say it will be a dreadful crush. And then once you have met all your friends again, the knocker will never be still, I shall have to flee the house.”

“Which you do in any case. I had a caller today, my cousin Eliza. She is come to town with Charlotte.”

“Now, that is not news to me.”

“What, that Eliza visited me?”

“No, that they are come to town. They stay with Lady Grandpoint, who of course is related to Mrs. Collins, is that not so? Yes, and the club was abuzz with talk of Charlotte. Can it be true, that she is grown very beautiful? How came I not to notice that when we stayed at the Palace?”

“You would not have noticed if Venus herself had been in the next room, since all you did was complain mightily about the draughts and rage against the folly and pomposity of my cousin the bishop.”

Wytton shuddered at the memory. “I expect the girls are very happy to be away from home. Nothing was said at the club about Eliza, so I assume she is not become a beauty. I remember her as hardly out of the schoolroom, all eyes and wild hair.”

“She is not a beauty, no, but she has intelligence and wit and charm, which I don't think Charlotte ever had. What exactly are they saying at the club?”

“They are laying bets on whom Charlotte will marry. Rosely is crazy for her, and quite a few others are paying court to her. There are rumours that Montblaine is more than a little taken with her.”

“Montblaine! You cannot be serious. The Marble Marquis! Why, he is old enough to be her father, and besides, he hates women, everyone knows that.”

“He was married for many years, so that can't be altogether true.”

“And his wife was the strangest woman, completely silent and never came to town. All she cared about was her gardens, and wasn't that what killed her? A scratch from a rose that festered. But he has been a widower for many years, I do not think he would marry again.”

“I would, if I were in his shoes, if only to cut George Warren out.”

“Warren?”

“George's father is the heir presumptive and so he will inherit the title, if Montblaine has no legitimate son. Thus, in due course, the marquisate would come to Warren.”

“Well, I do not think Montblaine would do for Charlotte, and I cannot believe she is high bred enough for him, he is a tremendous stickler, is he not?”

Wytton finished his slice of pineapple, sent up from his own succession house in the country, and wiped his mouth. Camilla had ordered a meal of all his favourite food; while he had cosmopolitan tastes, and when on an expedition or travelling to outlandish places, he ate whatever the locals did, he had a weakness for traditional English meats and game and pies.

“And no one in the club mentioned Eliza?”

“Not a word.”

“I think Lady Grandpoint is keeping her in the background,” said Camilla thoughtfully. “She has formed an attachment, you know, and has come to London to keep her away from the young man in question.”

“Who is he? I should think she'd never meet anyone in that dismal Palace except some clergyman creeping along those endless stone passages, looking for a way out.”

“Son of the local squire. We dined with him and his wife, Sir Roger Diggory.”

“Sounds a suitable enough match, what's the problem? And how come London, I thought everyone in your family who was in disgrace got sent to Pemberley.”

Camilla pursed her lips. “I imagine that if Eliza found herself at Pemberley, with no company, she would go mad with boredom, and would very likely run away.”

“How old is she? Twenty? Then, if the young Diggory is truly fond of her, he has only to wait a few months, and she will be of age.”

“I am not sure that Eliza is cut out to be a squire's wife.”

“I'm very sure she won't make a good clergyman's wife, which is no doubt the alternative. She has no fortune, she is not blessed with exceptional looks, well, Lady G is probably wise to keep her hidden. Nothing more likely to spoil Charlotte's chances than a tribe of relatives hanging on her arm.”

Camilla protested at that. “Eliza is hardly a tribe.”

“You know very well what I mean. Indigent relatives are the devil. Pity the girl hasn't a talent. I suppose she can't paint, otherwise she could set herself up as Cassandra did.”

“My dear man, can you imagine what her father would have to say about that?”

“I'd rather not.” He stood up. “You take the carriage and you need not drop me off, I prefer to walk, after such an excellent dinner.”

Camilla caught him just as he was leaving the house. “Alexander, just one thing.”

“Yes?”

“What odds are they offering on Charlotte?”

“Don't ask me. Pretty long ones, I should say, on a match with the marquis. I can't see it, myself. Invite her soon, I want to see if she really is such a beauty.”

Which left Camilla to reflect on how horrid men were, betting on a girl's matrimonial chances, just as though she had been a horse.

Had Camilla seen Charlotte that evening, as she came downstairs dressed for the Foleys' ball, she would have guessed that the odds might be going to shorten on a brilliant match, for Charlotte, dressed in a gown of silvery satin, with puffed sleeves and a plaited flounce round the deep hem of her dress, was a picture to take any man's breath away. She moved with grace, and her eyes, Eliza said to herself, had never looked more glowing and beautiful.

Lord Grandpoint, waiting for his wife, himself soberly attired in a black coat and satin breeches, ran his eye over Charlotte, before giving her an approving smile.

Eliza would have leapt forward to give her sister a hug, but Charlotte put out a restraining hand. “Do not come too near, Eliza, or you will crush my dress.”

“You are in great beauty tonight,” pronounced Lady Grandpoint. “Eliza, my dear, I hope you will not feel too lonely tonight. Do not wait up for your sister, we shall be back very late.”

“I have some letters to write,” Eliza said. Untruthfully, for as soon as the door closed behind the three of them, she turned and ran lightly up the stairs to fetch pen and paper. She would have the drawing room with its comfortable desk all to herself, and what she planned to write was not a letter, but a short piece on London life, as requested by the editor of the Leeds
Gazette.

Eliza's writing was a secret known only to three other people: her friend in Leeds, who was sister to the editor of the
Gazette;
her onetime nurse; and Camilla, who had discovered her authorial activities when Eliza was spending some weeks at Pemberley. The publication of her satirical sketches had happened by chance, when she was staying in Leeds and had written some pieces to amuse her friend, who was recovering from an illness. The friend's brother had read them, and at once wanted to print them. His sister would not reveal Eliza's name, and since the question of payment had been solved by the guineas being remitted to Eliza's nurse, who was now Mrs. Palmer, that was the name the editor knew her by. The articles were, of course, printed anonymously.

“Any impressions of fashionable life would be more than acceptable,” the editor now wrote, via her nurse, “with details of clothes and so on. Such articles are always eagerly read by the ladies, while your character sketches, even if not about the clergy, will, I am sure, be well received by the readers who so much enjoy your portraits of clerical life.”

Eliza set to with a will, the words flowing easily as she penned concise and witty vignettes of those who had attended her aunt's party the night before. None of them would be recognisable, she had too much sense to risk that. She chose the subjects for her pen from appearances and scraps of overheard conversation and gossip, which she could portray as types, a pair of dowagers here, a statesman there, and circling around them, young misses on the hunt for husbands and mothers with watchful eyes and wagging tongues.

She had barely finished when Annie appeared, a gown draped over her arm and a determined look on her face.

“You need to try this on, for the fit, Miss. And I was wondering about your hair.”

Eliza put a hand up to her head. Her hair had an uncontrollable tendency to fly about in all directions, however firmly she tried to anchor it, and it was cut in no particular style. Charlotte's shining locks had been given a smart cut, but Charlotte's hair was not at all wild; sleek and easy to dress, it hardly need the attentions of the fashionable coiffeur who had been called in to wield his scissors.

“I am afraid there is little that can be done with my hair,” she said gaily. “It is a great nuisance, I know.”

“Her ladyship's maid, Miss Pringle, is very deft with the scissors, Miss, and she has offered to give your hair something more of a fashionable style, if you are willing for her to do so.”

Eliza had no wish to have her hair cut or shaped, by Miss Pringle or anyone else. He hair was a lost cause, and she told Annie so. To her surprise, Annie took this refusal in good part. “As you say, Miss. Can I ask you to slip the pattern gown on for a moment?”

So Eliza went up to her room, her head still full of the piece that she had been writing. She wondered if Anthony would care to hear about London if she wrote to him in the same vein; she rather thought not. Maria would, but then of course there was the danger that Maria, an avid reader of all the newspapers and magazines she could lay her hands on, might recognise the literary style and put two and two together. It was better not to risk it. She would write instead of how much she was missing him, and remind him of the happy hours they had spent together, before the interference of their elders had torn them apart.

“Stand up straight, Miss,” said Annie through a mouthful of pins. Glancing in the cheval mirror, Eliza was startled to see herself. “Good heavens, I look quite different. How have you achieved such an effect?”

“I would swear your pattern dress was made up for quite another person, had you not told me it was yours,” said Annie. “If it fitted you anywhere, then it must have been by chance.”

Eliza was full of admiration for Annie's clever fingers. “You are wasted, waiting upon me,” she said with a sigh.

“They would not let me near Miss Collins,” Annie said bluntly. “Besides, you pay for dressing.”

Meaning, Eliza supposed, that Charlotte set off whatever she wore, whereas her own, not very distinctive looks could only be enhanced by good dressing. Eliza's mind flitted to her sister; she hoped Charlotte was having a wonderful time at the ball, and making a great hit. Charlotte danced with lightness and elegance, and that was one thing which Eliza did envy her sister: the opportunity to dance, for she herself loved the activity.

Charlotte was wont to say that Eliza liked it too much, that there was a thin divide between dancing with zest and turning the dance into a romp. Charlotte would never be guilty of romping. What if she had to dance the quadrille? Would she remember all the intricacies of the steps? Lady Grandpoint had had a dancing master in to make sure Charlotte knew all the movements, and Eliza had played the piano for her and her teacher as they went through the patterns of the dance. No, Charlotte would do herself credit, she would sail through the steps.

Eliza wished that she could expect to hear all about it, that Charlotte would eagerly recount every dance, every introduction, every dish served at supper, the merits and demerits of every partner—only that wasn't Charlotte's way. Eliza would hear more about the ball from her great-aunt than from Charlotte's lips, although surely Charlotte would feel some excitement at attending her first big ball, one of the grandest of the London season, Lady Grandpoint had said with some satisfaction.

Eliza could only imagine it, the light from hundreds of candles, the clothes, the rustle of fans and trains, the glances between men and women, the heightened feelings aroused by a warm evening, by music; couples tenderly flirting in alcoves or together in the garden, jealous glances, hopes raised and dashed, the whole armoury of attraction and rejection.

She came back to her bedroom with a bump, as Annie gave her sleeve a brisk tug before inserting another pin and saying that was it, and now she would set about finishing the rest of the gowns. “For I hear Mrs. Wytton is giving a party, and they always dance there, you will want an evening dress for that. And as for your hair—”

Eliza wasn't sure how it was that she found herself seated at the mirror of her dressing table, with the hatchet-faced Miss Pringle, every inch the great lady's maid, setting about her thick curls with a pair of scissors as sharp as the expression on her face.

Snip, snip, snip, and what seemed to Eliza to be handfuls of hair fell in dark rings to the floor. “I shall be bald, I shall look like a boy,” she cried out, putting her hands up to her hair.

“If you will put your hand down,” said Miss Pringle, beginning another round of her relentless cutting. And, Eliza had to admit, as her face gazed back at her from the mirror, it did look far, far better. There was a lightness to her hair, which matched the upward tilt of her mouth and eyebrows.

Annie was pleased with Miss Pringle's achievement and thanked her warmly. “I hope Lady Grandpoint doesn't disapprove,” she added, as Miss Pringle put away her scissors.

“Her ladyship is not in the habit of disapproving of my actions,” said Miss Pringle with superb hauteur. “And she was saying only this evening as how she wished something could be done about Miss Eliza's hair; she was even thinking of asking Monsieur Gaston to do what he could, and you see I've saved her the trouble and expense.”

“And no Frenchie could have done half so well as you have,” said Annie. “We'll have you looking a picture tomorrow evening, mark my words, Miss.”

Lady Grandpoint noticed Eliza's new style as soon as she saw her the next day. “Much better,” she said. “Pringle told me she'd cut your hair. It was inclined to messiness before, and that will never do, not in London. Now, this evening, my dear, I want you to dine with us, put on the best of your gowns, for I dare say your new ones will not be ready. It is of no consequence, you do not need to look fine.”

“I have been asked to Mr. and Mrs. Wytton's house for later this evening, I mentioned it to you, ma'am. They are giving a party and have invited Charlotte and me.”

“Charlotte! I am not sure. I had planned for her to have a quiet evening, but one must not neglect one's relatives. It will be not quite what Charlotte has grown used to, there is nothing formal or ceremonious about the Wyttons, one might almost call them an eccentric young couple; however, family is family. Nonetheless, you can dine before you go.”

It was Charlotte who enlightened Eliza as to why her presence was required at dinner. Sitting at the dressing table in her bedchamber, attired in a pretty peignoir and looking, Eliza thought, quite ravishing, Charlotte stifled a yawn—for the ball had gone on well into the early hours—and informed Eliza that Mr. Pyke had been among those present. “I am sure you remember him, for he visited us in Yorkshire. He is a cousin of the Marquis of Montblaine, it turns out, and Lady Grandpoint, who is acquainted with his mother, has asked him to dine.”

The name rang a faint bell in Eliza's head, and then a somewhat louder one. How could she not remember Mr. Pyke? “The tall clergyman, with hot eyes, who is the most complete bore?”

“Eliza, you are not to say such things! He is a most estimable man, with a serious turn of mind. You are wrong to value nothing but levity, Mr. Pyke has many interesting things to say, he is widely travelled and has interesting opinions upon a variety of subjects. And as for hot eyes, I do not know what you mean.”

“Then I hope you sit next to him at dinner, for if I am subjected to one of his interminable monologues on some perfectly uninteresting topic, while he looks at me in such a way, I shall disgrace myself. And moreover…”

“Moreover what?” said Charlotte.

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

Eliza bit her tongue and beat a hasty retreat from Charlotte's chamber, aware that she had just been going to say, Moreover, he is one of my best clerical characters. Her portrait of him had drawn especial praise from the editor of the
Gazette.