The Darcy Connection (12 page)

Charlotte was in her best looks, but it was Eliza who caused her host and hostess to raise their eyebrows when she made her appearance downstairs. “Upon my word,” said her great-aunt. “I never thought you could look so well. Where had you that gown, pray? Did Annie make it? I had no idea she had such skill, I am astonished with what she has achieved.”

The dress was white, with a net overskirt adorned with tiny red leaves, and Eliza had herself been amazed to see how fine she looked in it.

“And your hair, properly dressed like that, is a great improvement,” went on Lady Grandpoint. “Unruly hair can never be acceptable in polite circles, it gives a very off appearance. Pringle has an excellent sense of style,” she added with satisfaction.

The guests began to arrive, and despite her best efforts to avoid Mr. Pyke, Eliza was no match for the forceful tactics of her great-aunt, who cut across a conversation she was having with Miss Chetwynd—not an interesting conversation, she had to admit, but anything was better than Mr. Pyke—to say with a sharp smile that the young ladies must not be talking among themselves, and here was Mr. Pyke, whom she knew Eliza had met in Yorkshire, who wished to have the honour of renewing the acquaintance.

Eliza's eyes glazed over as Mr. Pyke, after saying that he had ascertained from Miss Collins that her estimable parents, Bishop and Mrs. Collins, were in good health, decided to recall, in painful detail, his impressions of his visit to the Palace in Ripon. He seemed to have the history of the building at his fingertips, an inexhaustible stream of dates and builders and bishops poured from him in an uninteresting monotone, until, when he said that he would venture to say that she would find the incumbency of an Anglo-Saxon bishop, one Adlebert, of exceptional interest, she almost had the inclination to go into a swoon, anything to stop the flow of words and the devouring look in his eyes.

She must contrive not to be seated next to him at dinner. Judging by the approving looks Lady Grandpoint was casting in their direction, Mr. Pyke was in her eye a suitable prospect for Eliza; well, if her great-aunt thought this bore with his lascivious eyes would make the slightest dent on her heart, or cause her to forget Anthony, then she was quite mistaken.

The hour when they would go down to the dining room was drawing near, the wretched man was still at her elbow, a faint smile on his rather full mouth. He was fit for nothing but the Church, Eliza could not imagine him for a moment upon a battlefield or on the hustings or galloping after a fox, or indeed engaged in any kind of manly pursuit. He was suited for nothing but a pulpit, addressing a congregation of doubtless adoring women, which was how, after their previous meeting, she had described him with her sharp pen.

Rather to her surprise, Mr. Portal was among those present, and she found he was making his way towards her. “My dear Miss Eliza,” he said, imposing his bulky form between her and Mr. Pyke; it was done with such adroitness, such a courteous bow, that Eliza suspected Mr. Pyke would not be aware of how ruthlessly he had been thrust aside. Miss Chetwynd caught Mr. Pyke's eye and smiled at him, his attention was distracted, and with relief, Eliza found herself being guided away by Mr. Portal.

“You have saved my life,” she declared.

“Prosy fellow, isn't he? How could I not respond to such a cry for help?”

“Cry for help?”

“Words are not necessary in such a case, you were looking around with such an air of desperation that my heart was quite wrung. Now, there is Lady Grandpoint trying to catch my eye, she wishes me to take that dowager in a turban into dinner, however, I am not on for that, that is Lady Gregory, whom I can't abide. We were in India together, and she will bore me with reminiscences about a very dull set of persons whom neither of us has seen for many years.”

“And I am destined to endure more of Mr. Pyke's history lessons,” said Eliza.

“Not at all,” he said, hooking his arm for her to lay her hand on. “I shall take you in to dinner. I am so rich, you see, that even Lady Grandpoint, who is no respecter of persons, will not dare to gainsay me. How beautiful your sister looks tonight.”

Mr. Portal's urbane assurance carried the day. Mr. Pyke escorted Miss Chetwynd into the dining room, and Eliza was thankful to find that on her other side was Mr. Philpott, a middle-aged MP, who was interested only in his dinner.

“I should not have thought this was your kind of company,” she ventured to say to Mr. Portal as the soup was handing round.

“You are quite right. However, I had some business with Lord Grandpoint, and it would have been churlish to refuse his invitation to dine.”

Eliza sighed. “Even you are constrained by good manners, I see.”

“They are the oil of life, Miss Eliza, and not to be despised. What I am able to do, and what you may learn to do as you grow older, is to avoid what does not give one pleasure without giving any offence. And I am rewarded this evening by your company, and indeed, I think I shall see more of you later on. Do you not go to the Wyttons?”

“Shall you be there?”

“Indeed I shall. And in addition, as a further blessing, I shall enjoy a good dinner beforehand, for Grandpoint has an excellent chef.” He nodded down the table to where Mr. Pyke was talking at length upon some subject or other; Eliza could not catch the words, and had no interest in doing so. “Is that unappealing young man supposed by Lady Grandpoint to be suitable husband fodder?”

Eliza laughed. “You are very blunt, sir. I believe he is. He is a clergyman, you see, and I am a clergyman's daughter. And he is well connected, a relation of Lord Montblaine's, no less. No doubt he is supposed to be on the lookout for a wife who will be suitable for running the feminine side of whatever parish is unfortunate enough to have him as incumbent.”

“I hate to cast a damper on your raptures, but I have to inform you, Miss Eliza, that you would not make him a suitable wife.”

“Do you think not? Let me tell you that he would not make me a suitable husband. It is of no consequence, however, as to whether we are well suited or not, for I am not on the lookout for a husband of a clerical or any other kind.”

“Ah, then your affections are already engaged, and you have left behind a bereft swain in Yorkshire. I am right, you see how you colour up. Do you care to tell me about him? He is not a clergyman, I suppose.”

“No. That is—”

“That is, you don't wish to say any more to a man with whom you are barely acquainted. Quite right, quite right. The first rule of London life is to reveal nothing, to be exceptionally cautious in what you say, in whatever company you may find yourself. If you wish to be rude about a person, you may be sure his sister will be standing behind you. If you have a secret, you have only to whisper it to your dearest friend with the strictest injunction that it will go no further, and within half a day the story is all over town, and when you do make what would seem to be a perfectly sensible remark or observation, you will find it reported in the most grotesque form, thus incurring no end of criticism to rebound upon you.”

“You are very cynical.”

“I am simply wise.”

The dinner wound its way through the courses, until, finally, it was over, and Lady Grandpoint graciously accepted Mr. Portal's offer to take Eliza and Charlotte in his carriage to Harte Street.

Bartholomew Bruton had no intention of attending the Wyttons' party, although he had received a card. He was a good friend of Alexander Wytton's, and liked his wife; however, he was not in the mood for being sociable. “People saying what they said to one another last night and will repeat again when they meet tomorrow at some other rout or ball or card party,” he said in response to Freddie's question as to whether he would be among those present.

They had met in the park, Freddie astride a rangy chestnut and Bartholomew mounted on the big black horse he had brought back with him from France. Freddie, after casting a knowledgeable eye over his friend's mount—“I like the way he carries his head”—turned his own horse round to ride alongside Bartholomew. “Although he is a trifle long in the back.”

“He is not,” said Bartholomew.

“Oh, you are in one of your blue moods, you have a melancholy fit. That's what happens when you have your head buried in money all day long, all this finance is damned dangerous for a man's intellects, if you ask me.”

“In which case, you should take up banking at once, Freddie, secure in the knowledge that you are unlikely to be harmed by it.”

“Meaning I have no intellects, I suppose,” said Rosely with a grin. “You can't get that past me, I'm not such a fool as you think. Come on, Moneybags,” he urged. “The Wyttons are not your ordinary hosts, it will be a lively gathering, there are bound to be several people there whom even you will want to talk to. You never know, you might venture on a dance, I know you can dance perfectly well when you want to. You may dance with Mrs. Wytton or one of her sisters if any chance to be there, and then you are in no danger of inspiring unseemly ambitions in any scheming mama's breast. Although I doubt if there will be so very many debutantes there, it will not be that sort of party.”

“You reassure me. However, are not the Miss Collinses related to Mrs. Wytton? I am sure it is so. In which case, no doubt the divinely beautiful Miss Collins will be there.”

Freddie cast his friend a suspicious look and tugged at his neck cloth. “What a fellow you are, Bartholomew. She is divinely beautiful, but I am sure I hear a note of irony in your voice.”

“Come, Freddie, she is as beautiful as a Greek goddess carved in stone and as vacant. You might as well pay your addresses to a portrait. Or take a marble statue to bed.”

“I have written a poem to her,” said Freddie, ignoring his friend's words. “At least, I have the first line of a poem:
Charlotte, from whose radiant orbs…
” he intoned in a theatrical voice.

“Spare me, Freddie. Her eyes are not radiant orbs, they are houri's eyes, if I'm not much mistaken.”

“Houri's eyes, whatever do you mean?”

“Think about it.”

“You mean to be rude about her, and I do not want to hear you, nor think about what you are saying.”

“And I dare say among the other debutantes who are supposedly not the guests whom the Wyttons invite, we may expect to see Miss Collins's shabbily dressed sister.”

Freddie inspected his glossy pumps and flicked a speck of dust off the tip of his shoe with the edge of his handkerchief. “Charming girl,” he said. “Unusual voice, I like listening to her talk and laugh. And she uses no arts to attract, which is refreshing.”

“That is just as well, for I never saw anyone with less power to turn the head of a man.”

Bartholomew was cross, and he was made more so by not being able to put a finger on why he was out of sorts. Certainly he had put in a hard day's work at the bank, but he was accustomed to that, and besides, he found his profession extremely interesting. Perhaps he was spoiled by Paris, had spent too many nights whiling away the hours in the glittering, elegant society of the French capital.

“You are become proud,” Freddie told him. “Above your company. Now, at the Wyttons' you will certainly be taken down a peg or two, for there are bound to be some very learned fellows for you to talk to, there is really no need for you to dance or even speak to a woman once you have paid your compliments to Mrs. Wytton.”

There was too much of a gleam in his friend's eye for Bartholomew's liking. He was used to Freddie's impassioned declarations of abiding devotion to this woman or that, but these so far had all been among that class of woman to whom affection was a currency, not a matter of the heart. It was a shame that the first time Freddie's fickle fancy fell upon a woman of his own world, it was that chilly bishop's daughter who was the recipient of his affections.

It would not do, of course it would not. Bartholomew was well aware of the Desmonds' financial situation. Freddie need not hang out for one of the great heiresses, but he must look for a tidy fortune, and to a wife who brought the right political connections. There was no way Miss Collins could be considered a suitable bride for Freddie, for all kinds of reasons. Very well, he would accompany his friend and keep an eye on him.

Then he was disgusted with himself at the thought. Am I my brother's keeper? Let Freddie make a mess of things, what right have I to interfere?

His mother had no doubts on that score when she had raised the matter that morning over breakfast. “You must tell Freddie it will not do, this dangling after that nobody from Yorkshire. Yes, she is undeniably lovely, but then there are very many pretty girls in London.”

“I am not to be telling Freddie whom and whom not he may admire, Mama.”

“No, for you men are very reticent in such matters, when a hint dropped in his ear—Is that such a lot to ask?”

“No, but I won't do it, Mama, as you know quite well. What, to be telling a friend whom he may or may not admire? I find it hard to praise Miss Collins, who is a lovely face and nothing more, but for me to say anything—why, Freddie would very likely call me out.”

They were all making too much of it, Bartholomew told himself as his valet eased him into his coat that evening. Easy come, easy go, with the Freddies of this world. His fickle fancy would soon alight upon some other desirable creature, and there would be an end of it.