The Darcy Connection (23 page)

Eliza was too astonished to say anything, to do more than mechanically return Maria's kiss of greeting, or to shake Anthony's hand. He pressed hers warmly, and a feeling of guilt came over her, as she responded with no more than a light squeeze.

Nothing came to her lips but questions, what was Anthony doing in London, and with Maria, when did he arrive, why had they not let her know, where were they staying, how came they to be at the Wintertons' ball?

“It is all due to Sir Roger's gout,” Anthony explained, never taking his eyes from her face. There was an intentness about him, he was holding something back, what?

“Not that I would wish the Guv'nor such an affliction,” he went on, “only it was damn—very convenient.”

“You have never seen a man in such agony,” put in Maria heartlessly. “It was entirely his own fault, for he was warned not to drink port, and so what did he do but down several glasses of a new bottle, some crusty special vintage that had been sent to him by a friend. Mama told him not to, even threatened to take the bottle from him and pour it away, but by that time the damage was done. He sits in the library, his foot bound up, resting on a footstool, shouting at anyone and everyone.”

“Well, I can see that can't have been very agreeable for the house-hold, but did you need to come all the way to London to escape from his irritable mood?”

“No, that is not the reason,” began Anthony. “Eliza, are you attending? You seem strange. This place is most dreadfully warm, the heat is affecting you.”

“No, no, and of course I am delighted to see you. It is just that it is so unexpected.” She could see Bartholomew Bruton out of the corner of her eye, looking at her intently. She tried to indicate with the tiniest movement of her head that he should not approach her.

“Why do you shake your head?” asked Maria. “Don't you believe us? Oh, I knew you would be in raptures at this happy turn of events. For Papa has a lawsuit going on, there are papers to be gone through, it is an urgent matter, it could not be put off. He was to come to London, you see, only with the gout it was impossible. So there was nothing for it but that Anthony had to come in his place, that or lose the lawsuit, and there is a great deal at stake. So we had everything settled in a trice, our bags were packed up, the chaise ordered, and here we are.”

“But, Maria, you cannot be involved in a lawsuit?”

“Oh, I am here for another reason. Mr. Goshawk has offered for me!”

Eliza forgot all the turmoil of her mind at this astounding piece of news. “Harry Goshawk? Maria, you are out of your wits, you cannot marry Harry Goshawk. He is the most disagreeable man in all Yorkshire.”

“Only very rich,” said Maria with satisfaction.

Eliza looked at her friend, whose wilful face was brimming over with mischief. Harry Goshawk was known for his cruelty: to his animals, to his tenants, and he had come close to being taken up by the law for some of his practises. Not even the ambitious Diggorys could possibly consider him a suitable husband for their only daughter.

“No, you are quite right. His visit, to ask for my hand, put Papa into an even more shocking temper, I thought he was going to have a fit. And Mama was beside herself, wringing her hands, and lamenting—”

“No, Maria,” Eliza said. “Not hand-wringing and lamentations, not Lady Diggory.”

“Well, if she had an ounce of proper sensibility, she would have done so.”

“The upshot was,” said Anthony, before his sister could launch into another speech, “that my parents felt it would be wise for Maria to be out of the neighbourhood for a while. Goshawk is a vindictive man, and he did not take my father's refusal in good part. Mama wrote at once to her sister, and here we are.”

Eliza's heart sank. This didn't sound like a fleeting visit. Yet, only a month ago, she would have been filled with delight at such news. “And the Wintertons?”

“Oh, Mrs. Winterton is an old friend of my aunt's, they were at the same seminary or some such thing. My uncle and aunt were coming to the ball, and so she whipped a note round, asking if we might come as well. I would not have had her do so, for it seems an intrusion, but now I see how many people are here, I realise one or two more or less cannot make any difference. And I hoped”—he lowered his voice, and looked straight at her—“dearest Eliza, that you might be here. For we have heard, even in Yorkshire, of what a success Charlotte is having in London, and of course, my aunt, who has a great interest in all that goes on in society, confirmed that it was so, and that Miss Collins would very likely be at this ball, and so might you. Which you are.”

“And wearing a monstrous fine gown,” said Maria, looking her up and down. “Where had you that, for I never saw it in Yorkshire?”

“I must say, you are dressed very fine,” said Anthony, a slight frown on his forehead. “Oh, here are my aunt and uncle.”

Sir Godfrey and Lady Hatchard seemed an amiable pair. Introductions were made, Lady Hatchard began to look about her for a suitable partner for Maria, and Anthony, telling his sister to take care how she went on, this was not a Yorkshire romp, took Eliza by the arm and led her on to the floor. “For we may talk while we dance, and to be sitting out behind one of those big palms, in close conversation, might be to attract attention.”

“I don't think anyone would notice us, or care,” said Eliza, who wanted nothing less than to dance with Anthony. How was it possible that in such a short time this man, whose mere name had been enough to set her heart thudding, seemed just like many other men, his evening clothes not as smart as many, his manners less polished than those of men accustomed to move in London society? Handsome enough to turn several female heads, though, she noticed, as they stood waiting for the music to strike up.

How could her feelings for him have undergone so complete a change? It was as though their brief courtship and furtive engagement had been a madness, from which she had now recovered.

He clasped her round the waist, and the waltz began. He waltzed well, despite being a tall man; sports at school and university had made him graceful, and she was the one who missed her steps, moved clumsily, trod on his feet.

“What is this, Eliza, I never knew you to dance so ill,” he said into her ear. “I know how it is, you are all in a flutter at seeing me so unexpectedly. I did not write, we had so little time, and I wanted to surprise you.”

“Surprise me? Oh, yes.”

Was he going to stay by her side all evening? Hadn't his mother written to warn her sister about Miss Eliza Collins, with instructions that he should be discouraged from seeing her?

Apparently not. “You know how it is with Mama,” he said with glee in his voice. “Once you had left Yorkshire, and I went on with my normal pursuits, and was clearly not going to throw myself into the river or fall into a melancholy—as if I should”—he laughed—“she put you out of her mind. Then news came through of how Charlotte had
taken
. Or isn't that the right word? We heard that she is to marry a marquis, I can hardly believe it, but my aunt assures me it is the buzz of the town.”

“She is not engaged to Lord Montblaine, and I am sure never will be,” Eliza said. “She has many admirers, and the marquis is a cold man, not the kind of man to fall in love with.”

Anthony paused to look at her with astonishment. “What has that to do with it? Of course, if he can be brought to the point, if he proposes, she will have him. And that, you see—”

His words were drowned in the music and the sudden flow of people twirling around them. Eliza looked at her feet, trying to mind her steps, vexed at her clumsiness, ashamed at her lack of enthusiasm for Anthony's arrival, in a quandary about what she should do. If only she had written to him, releasing him from the engagement, the minute she knew that her feelings towards him had undergone a change. Honesty demanded she tell Anthony the truth—yet what was the truth? She had met another man, whose proposal she had turned down with abruptness bordering on rudeness, who would probably never ask her again. Could she simply say that his parents were right, they should not suit, that they should part friends?

The ardent way in which Anthony was looking down at her had little of friendship in it and a good deal of the lover. Particular! Goodness, everyone in the room would guess how it was with him, and they would be quick enough to attribute reciprocal feelings to her. Anthony might not be in line for a seat in the Lords, nor heading for a successful career in Parliament or government, but word would fly around the ballroom that this handsome young man was heir to a very pretty estate, as well as the baronetcy, he would be considered eligible by most standards, and the gossips would say that Miss Eliza Collins might consider she was doing well for herself if it turned out he was in love with her.

It was with difficulty that she persuaded him that he must not stay at her side all the time. “Please fetch me a glass of lemonade,” she said. “For I am very hot. I will give you another dance later, but for now I cannot be seen to be living in your pocket. Where is Maria?”

Anthony had flushed at being given his congé, but he accepted with more or less good grace, acknowledging the justice of her words, but extracting a promise that he might take her in to supper. “We have to talk,” he added. “I have so much to tell you.”

Maria was dancing with Lord Rosely, and they seemed to be sharing a joke. Eliza looked around for Charlotte, who was not dancing, but sitting talking to Lord Montblaine. She had seen Anthony, and she raised an enquiring eyebrow at her sister before turning back to his lordship; what did she find to talk to him about?

Mr. Portal walked in from outside, looking round in his genial way, and spied her.

“Forlorn, alone, no dancing partner?” he said. “Come, this will not do, you must let me find you a partner. I saw Mr. Bartholomew Bruton wandering around, not dancing, let me—”

There was a gleam of perception in his eye, which Eliza did not like, and she said quite sharply that she must not trouble him. “My partner is just fetching me a glass of lemonade,” she went on.

“Ah, this handsome fellow forging a path towards us. From Yorkshire, perhaps?” And then, in a soft voice, before Anthony was near enough to hear, he added, “No, Miss Eliza, he will not do for you.”

Eliza presented Anthony to Mr. Portal and they exchanged bows, smiles, polite remarks. “You are a stranger here, let me introduce you to some young ladies,” Mr. Portal said. He looked about him, and his eye fell upon Miss Chetwynd, who was loitering behind a palm and looking at Anthony with undisguised interest. “Ah, Miss Chetwynd. Allow me to present Mr. Anthony Diggory to you as a desirable partner.”

There was nothing Anthony could do but bow and submit, and take Miss Chetwynd off for the country dance that was forming on the floor.

“That's got rid of him for half an hour,” said Mr. Portal with some satisfaction. “My dear Miss Eliza, it is none of my business, but you look somewhat fraught, and perhaps in need of advice. Mine is that it is best to be off with the old love before you are on with the new.”

Eliza's eyes flashed. “You are making fun of me, Mr. Portal, and I do not care for it. Anthony is an old friend, that is all, you do not know what you are saying.”

Mr. Portal took the rebuke with good humour. “I am right, however, and he looks like a young man who is inclined to be possessive. Take care, there, now that is excellent advice I am giving you: make sure you know what you are about with him, he is the type that will suddenly launch into some extravagant gesture, some excess of folly. Is that his sister, the pretty girl dancing with Rosely? She has a look of her brother. Perhaps she'll cut him out with your sister—no, don't flare up again. Your sister and Rosely would be at daggers drawn within six months of going to the altar, do not encourage that affair, if you have any feeling for your sister.”

“While for my friend, it is not of any importance.”

“I do not know your friend, so I can't say, yet by the look of her, she is just the kind of woman who might suit Lord Rosely. Time he settled down. Has she any money?”

“Enough.”

“Ah, you are trying to crush me. It will not do, I shall know just how much she is worth within five minutes of leaving you. I think you should dance with Mr. Bartholomew Bruton. He is another man who should settle down. Although not, perhaps, with Miss Grainger,” Mr. Portal added, looking towards where she was circling the room with Mr. Bruton's hand resting lightly on her waist. “I never saw such indifference.”

That evening, Eliza was for the first time in her life grateful for the precepts and behaviour which her governess had instilled in her and Charlotte. The governess was a woman of modest accomplishments, and no intellectual pretension; she had taught them a little French, a little geography, and enough of the basics of arithmetic for the two girls to be able to cast a set of household accounts.

What she had most of all was a conviction that manners smoothed away all difficulties, that knowing how to behave in any situation was essential for even the most cloistered or countrified young women. She had been brought up as the poor relation of a great family who had seen to it that she had sufficient education to permit her to earn her living in a gentleman's family, and from them she had acquired her worldly knowledge of how a girl should “go on,” as she put it, in society.