The Darcy Connection (21 page)

“If she is in love with Warren, she will hear nothing against him, that is the way we women are.”

“Lay it out for her, how her family will be affected, her own and your chances of a good marriage ruined if she takes this false step. If there is a genuine attachment between her and Warren, then let them become engaged, let them marry.”

“She would be wretchedly unhappy with such a husband.”

“Why has Warren not approached Lady Grandpoint, or written to her father, if his intentions are honourable? Ask her that.”

“I will try,” said Eliza with a sigh. “One never knows with Charlotte. There are aspects of her character I cannot fathom, even though I probably know her better than anyone else. Her reserve is strong and deep. Or I would have said it was, but then, seeing her with Warren…”

“There is a difference,” Bartholomew said gently, “between an individual who has no strong feelings, and one who has a sensual nature kept under strict control.”

“All the more reason for her to choose a man like Lord Rosely, who would allow her nature to become warmer.”

“Rosely is not the man for her. I know him well, and it would be almost as unhappy a match as if she were to marry Warren.”

In the distance a bell began to ring; it was time for the guests to go to their rooms and begin to dress for dinner. “Go to your sister,” he said. “Reason with her, if you can.”

How easy it had been to speak to Bartholomew Bruton. How suddenly the barriers between them had broken down. Yet there was a greater barrier between them than the one of their previous misunderstanding and incivility: his extraordinary proposal, his declaration of love, and—she cursed herself for it—her wholly inadequate response.

However, that was of no consequence just now. Of overwhelming importance at this moment was Charlotte and the fix she was in.

Did Charlotte regard herself as being in a fix? She must do; surely she would be in inner turmoil from the after-effects of that passionate encounter with Warren, and the discovery of them by Eliza and Bruton.

It seemed not. As Eliza entered Charlotte's chamber, her sister rose from the chair where she was sitting at a satinwood desk and said, in a perfectly calm voice, “Well, are you come to preach morality at me?”

Charlotte's bedchamber was an attractive room, with cherry-patterned curtains, a modern bed with curved walnut panels at head and foot, covered in a quilt of the same cherry pattern, and, dotted around the spacious chamber, soft chairs, tasselled cushions on a small sofa, and several pieces of light, modern furniture. The room and its furnishings seemed out of keeping with the rest of the abbey, and Eliza wondered who had been responsible for it. Perhaps the late marchioness had had different taste to her austere husband, or Lady Warren, who was so much at home here, had done the room over to please herself.

“You are very out of the way here,” she said to Charlotte. “This is a secluded room.”

Too private, to her way of thinking. Why had her sister been given this room? By whose orders? The housekeeper, working from a list of guests? Lady Warren? The marquis—no, surely he would not attend to the arrangements for his guests in that much detail. Were Charlotte to plan a meeting with her lover, were she so blind to all sense of restraint or indeed morality, then she would have every opportunity to entertain Warren here. Eliza blinked. What was she thinking?

“Charlotte,” she said, her voice even huskier than usual, a sure sign of emotion with her, which Charlotte would recognise. “Charlotte, you have surely taken leave of your senses, you have forgotten what is due to yourself, to your family.”

“Have I?” said Charlotte perfectly calmly. “That is for me to decide.”

Eliza knew Charlotte in this mood, knew that there was no way to break through that wall of impassivity. How could this be the same person as the one who had embraced Warren with such voluptuous abandon? It was scarcely believable.

“Then I shall have to inform Lady Grandpoint of what happened in the Fountain Court just now.”

“You are become a talebearer, is that it? Do so, and when you have finished, I shall go to her, and show her these.”

Charlotte whisked some papers from her desk and flourished them under Eliza's nose.

Good God, what was this? Charlotte held each page out, not the slightest tremor in her steady hand. There was the last letter Eliza had had from Maria, with the page of Anthony's ill-formed writing, assuring her of the continuing warmth of his affection, reminding her of the last time he had held her in his arms, calling her his sweetheart.

That was bad enough, but the other paper was almost worse, for there, in her own hand, was the draft for one of her sketches of clerical life. On the other side of the sheet were scribbled notes for some of her observations on London society.

“You will go to my godmother with a story of my misconduct which I shall simply deny. Then I will produce this, no mere baseless accusation about this, here is evidence in writing for all to see. Whom will she believe, who will be packed off to Pemberley as soon as may be? Not I, Eliza, but you.”

Eliza's mouth was dry, and for a moment she couldn't speak. Then her temper, which she rarely lost with Charlotte, burst out.

“Give those back to me, this instant! Those are my private papers.”

“Did you think I didn't know that you were writing those pieces? I have held my tongue on that, although I disapproved, and had to wrestle with my conscience as to whether I should inform Mama and Papa.”

“You knew! How did you know?”

“You neglected to hide what you were writing on one occasion when you were called away from our sitting room.”

“And you read it. You are despicable, how can you stand there, looking so toplofty, and calmly admit to snooping among my papers?”

“A sheet of writing left lying around, why should I not read it? You should have nothing to hide from your sister, or from your mama if it comes to that. I doubt if I would read your journal if you kept one, although I would point out that any girl should expect to have no secrets from her parents; if you did keep a journal, they would be only doing their duty to read it. As to your correspondence with Anthony, you realise how shocking that is? For an unmarried girl to write to a single man is to act outside all the bounds of propriety. Without an engagement, it is a scandalous way to carry on, and if there is a secret engagement—well, that would be shocking beyond anything.”

“You are threatening me,” Eliza said at last. “It is blackmail.”

“You threatened me first. Now, go away. I know what I am doing, so please do not try to interfere with me.”

“How had you my letters?”

“Hislop found them for me. No, do not hold out your hand, do you think I will give them back? I am not so foolish.”

“Hislop! Why, the traitor.”

“She has my best interests at heart, that is all. Now, take yourself off. Go and splash cold water over your face; you will have to make an effort to compose yourself before we go down for dinner, you look positively demented, let me tell you, with your eyes flashing, and your colour high from indignation. Leave me to manage my own affairs, Eliza, you will find I do it very well. And I will not permit you or anyone else to come between George Warren and myself.”

“High words,” snapped back Eliza. “You are the fool, not I, not to know an insincere, scheming, wicked man when you see him.”

She so far forgot herself as to slam the door behind her as she left, enjoying the sound that resonated all around the tower.

Back in her own room, she sank into a chair, her heart beating furiously. What had she achieved? Nothing. And now there was no one she could turn to for advice. Camilla? She knew about Eliza's writing and about her attachment to Anthony, but would surely disapprove of a secret engagement. She could tell her about Charlotte and Warren, but unless she had seen that passionate embrace for herself, she would merely suppose Charlotte was flirting with Warren. Which wouldn't be surprising, nor really scandalous.

Camilla might drop a hint in Charlotte's ear as to Warren's unsavoury reputation, and Charlotte would then rightly suspect that she, Eliza, had told their cousin—and perhaps, out would come the letters, the writing. Which would be disastrous for her, and do nothing to save Charlotte from a ruinous course.

Most of all, she found she wanted to confide in Bartholomew Bruton. What was it about him that inspired such confidence? Then, suddenly mistrustful of her own judgement, she chided herself. Two days ago, a day ago, she would have stigmatised Mr. Bruton as the most disagreeable man in England, and now she was
bouleversé,
the solid ground under her feet shifted into an unrecognisable landscape, the strength of her attachment to Anthony blown to pieces. It was all too much.

Annie came in, and Eliza spoke quite sharply to her. “It appears that my sister's maid, Hislop, has been into my chamber. Do you know of this?”

“Why, she told me that you had a jar of cream that was rightfully Miss Collins's, and that she would pop in to get it. Why, miss, whatever is the matter? What was the harm in that? Should I have stopped her? Indeed, I don't think I could, for she's a grim party when crossed, that Hislop.”

Eliza smiled at Annie. “I am sorry to speak harshly. Hislop rummaged among my papers, that is all. It is not your fault.”

Annie gave one of her expressive sniffs and, without a further word, set about laying out Eliza's clothes for the evening. Then, darting a quick look at Eliza, she said, “You look like you have the headache, Miss. Let me go down and make you a tisane.”

“Thank you, Annie, but my headache is of the figurative kind.” Seeing the puzzled look on Annie's face, she went on, “It is not a physical pain, it cannot be quelled by a tisane or drops. I have something on my mind, that is all.”

Charlotte was dressed in more than good time for dinner, and, unusually restless for her, she decided to go downstairs, perhaps she would go to the library, where she might lose herself in a book. Charlotte was not a great reader, but she was familiar with the ability of a book to soothe a perplexed mind, for indeed, Charlotte was, beneath her composed exterior, more agitated than she cared for.

Warren had put her into this state, Warren, with his commanding presence, and with his power to make her feel as she had never done before. No, she would not think of Warren now, there was the whole long evening to go through, and then, he had promised in a note slid under her door to come to her room.

She was beyond propriety, beyond anything except the expectation of happiness, of delight in being in George's arms. It was wrong, in the eyes of the world, but she had lost her head and her reason, she was on the other side of the boundary of right and wrong, simply filled with a longing that could only be assuaged by Warren.

She entered the library through the gallery. It was deserted at that time of day, when all the guest and occupants of the house were preparing for dinner, the servants in the kitchens or dining room, the guests and their personal servants in their own chambers upstairs.

A book with plates in it would be agreeable, and less effort than reading words. She strolled along the shelves, looked for a likely volume. Then the sound of voices came up from below. Urgent voices, talking in whispers, who could it be?

With a thrill she recognised Warren's voice, as he exclaimed, in his normal way, “By God, you have a wicked mind.”

Whom was he talking to? She should announce her presence, she was no Maria Diggory, famous for her eavesdropping habits, and yet, she lingered. She tiptoed closer to the edge of the gallery and strained her ears to hear what was being said.

“You will have to cover my back with the old man,” Warren was saying. “I don't want to turn him against me.”

“I will tell him that it was that girl's fault, that she led you on, threw herself into your way and begged you to run off with her. Good heavens, how she has played into your hands, I could never have believed she would turn out to be such a simpleton, nor that she would succumb so completely to your manly charms.”

“Too easy a conquest, no sport in it at all,” agreed Warren. “Such ardour quickly palls, I shall grow tired of her long before she has had enough of me.”

“Where shall you take her?”

“Some inn, I think. Nowhere I'm known, don't want a scandal breaking out all over London, not this time. No, I'll keep her with me long enough to be sure of her ruin, then I'll return her to her godmother, by that time she won't have a shred of reputation, she'll be packed off back to Yorkshire, the family will try to hush it up. Word will get about, it will be a two-day wonder, but she is a person of no consequence, a mere impoverished bishop's daughter, who in London will care? She will soon be forgotten by society.”

“There is a brother, may he not call you out?”

“I doubt it, and if he does, I dare say I shall put a bullet through him. But it will not come to that, there is no section of English society quite so hypocritical as the clergy. They will pay some poor curate to take her off their hands, and she will languish away her life in some muddy parish, doing good works among the poor and for ever suspected by her husband of making eyes at the sexton or some other bumpkin.”

Laughter; unkind, unpleasant, triumphant laughter.

The other person down there was Lady Warren, of course. Charlotte felt as though she had been struck a physical blow, that all the breath had been drawn out of her. She was clenching her hands so tightly that her nails were driving into her palms. She must stay in control, keep quiet, must not move a hair, must not let them become aware of her presence.

“Lord, look at the time,” said Lady Warren. “I must make haste, how tedious it is here, always having to be punctual to the minute. How much better it will be when modern ways come to the abbey!”