The Second Mrs Darcy (10 page)

Octavia was smiling. “Now tell me, Mrs. Darcy, what amuses you?” said Alexander.

“It is just that on all hands I hear people discussing Lord Rutherford and whether he will or will not marry.”

“Oh, there's always gossip about Sholto,” said Alexander. “Much he cares. At the start of every season, the question is, will Rutherford bestow his hand, his title, and his immense fortune on some lucky damsel? And the answer these many years has been that he won't. And I think the matchmaking mamas should watch what they wish for, at least those who care for their daughters should.”

“Alexander, what are you saying?” exclaimed Camilla. “Lord Rutherford is no ogre.”

“No, but he's got a devilish sharp tongue, and I never knew a man who suffered fools less gladly. Life with Rutherford would be lively, I grant you, but with a woman who could not stand up to him, was not nearly his equal in quickness of mind and wit—well, it could be a very unhappy household and a poor life for the unfortunate woman. Charlotte would be eaten alive, and there'd be nothing left for her but the vapours.”

“You are severe on Lord Rutherford,” said Octavia.

“Oh, I say nothing behind his back that I would not say to his face. He is the best of fellows. We are related, through my mother's side of the family, and I have known him all my life. He is excellent company—for me, and for Camilla, but not for a Charlotte.”

“And he is a man who doesn't like to settle for second best,” said
Camilla. “He would not want an unequal match, he would expect any marriage he made to be a source of pleasure—no, don't look at me like that, Alexander. Sholto would want to take pleasure in his wife's company, to find that his life was enhanced by the married state. That is a high ideal for a state that, although the lot of most of us, often falls short of what might be wished for.”

“Oho,” said Alexander. “Now we hear some news.”

“I do not speak of us, wretch,” said Camilla, laughing. “I think Rutherford is such a man. There, that is all I have to say on the matter. Now, Octavia, this is very dull, for I do not believe you have met his lordship. Tell me about your family, for although we are kin, I know next to nothing about you.”

Tea was brought in, carriages were called for, Sir Joseph bustled around his parting guests, assuring them that it was a fine night, no hint of frost, with the moon shining clear and bright in a cloudless sky.

“Very pleasant weather for the time of year,” he added. “Positively balmy, with just the hint of a breeze.”

“Goulding's breeze is a stiff southerly,” said Mr. Ackworth, once he and his wife and Octavia were seated in the carriage, and bowling down the long drive of Haye Park, the full moon glinting between the leaves of the oak trees set along the drive.

Mrs. Ackworth was concerned that Octavia was not warm enough. “Put this sheepskin across your knees. Sir Joseph may say it is balmy, and it is mild for the time of year, but you, used as you are to the extreme heat of the East, you will be glad of a sheepskin.”

Octavia sat back, marvelling at how the brilliance of the moonlight drained the countryside of colour.

Mr. Ackworth sniffed, leant forward, and let the window down, despite the outraged protests of his wife. “Hugh, what are you thinking of, put that glass up directly, we will all catch our death of cold.” He took no notice, instead leaning his head further out of the window before turning back into the carriage and saying, “Can you not smell it?”

“It is smoke,” said Octavia.

“A chimney has caught fire, that is all,” said Mrs. Ackworth. “Do shut that window, Hugh.” At that moment, the carriage rounded a bend and a gust of acrid-smelling smoke came into the carriage. Now Mrs. Ackworth was looking alarmed. “That is more than a chimney, my dear, can they be burning ricks?”

“More than a rick,” said Mr. Ackworth grimly, and putting his head out of the window once more, he called to the coachman to stop.

The coachman drew up, and Mr. Ackworth leapt down to the lane. Octavia heard the coachman say, “Looks like Chauntry's on fire, sir. That's a fair old blaze, and no mistake. Shall I go back and take the Leythorpe road, it's a long way round, but—”

“Good God, no,” said Mr. Ackworth. “Drive on, we must see if we can help.” He jumped back in, the coachman whipped up his horses, fretful now with the smoke in their nostrils, and pressed on.

Octavia was peering out of the window; the coachman was right, below them was the shadowy outline of Chauntry, its chimneys stark against the moon, and clouds of dark smoke billowed from several of the windows.

“The west wing is on fire,” muttered Mr. Ackworth. “Not ablaze yet, but it soon will be!”

“Dear God,” said Mrs. Ackworth, “let us pray that Lady Rutherford and Sophronia and all the servants were wakened in time.”

“It looks to me as though most of the household is out on the lawn,” said Mr. Ackworth. “I reckon it's been burning for quite a while.” The carriage turned in through the gates and rattled up the drive, until the coachman brought it to a halt, calling down that he couldn't trust the horses any nearer.

The poor animals were in a lather, and the coachman jumped down and went to their heads, patting them and calming them as they rolled frightened eyes and moved restlessly in their traces.

“Take them over to that tree,” said Mr. Ackworth. “And turn the carriage so that it faces the other way. They will be upwind of the smoke there, they will be less distressed.”

Mrs. Ackworth was down on the grass. “Let John Coachman go with you, Hugh,” she said. “Octavia and I will hold the horses.” She spoke soothingly to the horses and stroked the nose of the offside one, telling him not to be such a booby.

“If you can manage them,” said Octavia, looking after Mr. Ackworth and the coachman, who were running towards the house, “perhaps I can go with them, there might be something I can do.”

“Yes, yes, you go,” said Mrs. Ackworth. “The horses know me, they will be all right.”

Octavia gathered up her skirts and set off at a run.

“And tell Lady Rutherford and Sophronia that there is a bed for them at the manor,” Mrs. Ackworth called after her. “They cannot stay here unless the fire is swiftly extinguished.”

“And there seems little hope of that,” said Octavia, holding her skirts in one hand as she plunged down a bank and came level with the house.

It was an extraordinary scene. The area just beyond the great gateway was strewn with furniture and carpets and pictures, and more things were being carried out of the house in a steady stream. A tall figure was calling out commands and advice in a loud, unpanicked voice; Lord Rutherford—how must he feel, to see his home burn?

Octavia looked about her to see what she could do. A capable-looking woman was tending to a man sitting on the ground, who seemed to have sustained a blow to his head; she was stanching the blood from a cut and issuing brisk orders to a couple of scared-looking maids. Clearly any necessary womanly succouring was well in hand; Octavia had the use of her limbs, she would help in another way.

She saw Lady Sophronia, dragging out a wicker basket, and ran over to her. “Rescuing the puppies,” said Lady Sophronia, coughing furiously. “The bitch just whelped, couldn't leave them in there.”

“Is everyone out? How is your mother?”

“At the moment it is the west wing that is on fire, and Sholto fears the whole house will go up, although there is a chain of men with
buckets from the river, and there is a pump round at the back—it will not do, the fire has too strong a hold.”

Octavia headed for the front door in the central part of the house and went in, holding her skirt over her mouth and nose. The smell of smoke was strong in the air and she could see sparks and hear the ominous crackling of flames. Servants were throwing down all manner of things from the upper landings, tapestries and more pictures, and to the left, an anguished-looking man in clerical dress with a black smudge on his nose was hurrying to and fro with armfuls of books.

Tapestries she could not help with, but she could carry books. She followed the clergyman into what turned out to be the library, a room shelved from floor to ceiling, complete with disdainful-looking Romans and other worthies looking down from their pedestals.

“Which ones first?” she demanded.

“The ones at the far end, those nearer the door may all be replaced, oh, dear, I do not know—”

Octavia didn't wait for him to finish his sentence, but went rapidly to the shelves at the far end and pulled down an armful of books. Out through the hall and down the steps—where were they putting the books?

“Over there, over there,” a smoke-smudged man in footman's livery shouted to her.

A carpet had been spread at some distance from the house, and the volumes were piling up on it.

It was on her third trip that Octavia, head down, a wet rag now wrapped around her face, intent on her purpose, ran smack into Lord Rutherford, who seized her roughly by her arm.

“Who the devil are you? What do you think you are doing? Are you mad?”

“The fire is not yet in this part of the house,” she said, breaking free. “You should be grateful for another pair of hands.”

“But—” And she was gone, back towards the house. Coughing
from the smoke, terrified by the growing proximity of the flames, Octavia nonetheless felt more alive than she had done in her life. She was not at all chastened by Lord Rutherford's outburst, dismissing him as merely another man who assumed that women were frail creatures, fit for nothing but to watch and be fearful.

What the devil was that woman doing?

Sholto's mind had little room for exasperation or anything beyond watching the steadily increasing flames; trying to keep the more dim-witted of the servants from panicking, running into each other, or dashing into the smoke after some forgotten item; and directing the removal of the more valuable items from the house. Yet, in the midst of the turmoil and the smoke, there was room for annoyance that to add to his concerns, here was some woman heaving books around, damn it, she was as bad as Sophronia, who paid no attention at all to his commands to go away, far out of reach of the fire, and take care of her mother.

“Mama is very well able to take care of herself,” Sophronia retorted. “She has her menagerie out of the house and is tending to them, the horses are all safe, and she doesn't give a button about anything else.” With which she darted off to help an elderly footman, staggering under the weight of a hideous epergne.

“Pollet, you should have left that to melt,” he heard her say. “It is a hideous thing, now go over there and let Mrs. Glimmit see to your arm, which is burnt.”

And now this tall woman, in evening dress, forsooth, a complete stranger, was heading back towards the house.

“Stop!” he cried, aware that his voice was growing hoarse; in any case, she appeared not to hear, instead plunging in through the door; how he hated a mannish woman.

His mother's butler was at his side. “My lord, the roof has gone on the east wing, I fear there is little more we can do.”

And then Sholto had no time for anything else but driving the servants and helpers away from the house—for people had come hurrying up from the village as the flames soared into the sky—commanding everyone to stand back, to get well away. He ran back into the hall, calling out, just as that woman appeared again, her face sooty, clutching a large tome.

“For God's sake, put that down and run,” he said, taking three swift steps forward and attempting to take the book from her.

“No, I can manage,” she said, but without further ado, he swept her up, over his shoulder like a large bolster, and carried her out of the house, dumping her unceremoniously on the grass in front of Sophronia.

She was flushed and indignant, and, superbly unaware of the smuts on her face, she gave him a contemptuous look.

“I never saw such foolhardy stupidity,” he began.

“I think intrepidity is the word you mean,” said Sophronia, still as calm as though her house burning down were an everyday occurrence. “What book have you gone to such lengths to rescue?” she asked Octavia.

“A first folio of Shakespeare,” said Octavia, overcome with a fit of coughing. “It would be a tragedy were it to have been burnt.”

“Not so much of a tragedy as if you had gone up in flames,” said Sholto, then turned as a shout went up, and with a roar and a dreadful rumbling, the roof of the main part of the house caved in in a shower of flames and sparks, and the fire, unquenchable, spread with terrible rapidity.

Sholto stood, hands on his hips, his face impassive as he watched the flames engulf his house.

“It was a chimney that caught fire,” Sophronia said calmly. “It was bound to happen.”

Sholto moved towards her and put an arm around her. “It is more your home than mine, do you care very much?”

“Not at all,” she said as he looked down at her with a glinting smile. “My eyes are red from the smoke, not from any sadness. It was a terrible old house. I am sorry that you have lost so many of your possessions, but then you have plenty more, do you not? And I think you owe Mrs. Darcy here an apology.”

The tall woman was standing very straight, staring at the blazing house, and it wasn't smoke that was causing tears to cut a channel through her dirty cheeks.

“Why on earth are you weeping?” Sholto said.

“To see a house that has survived so long destroyed like this. Only think of the people who built it, men in ruffs and doublet and hose, women in farthingales, and then all through two or three long centuries, the men and women and children who made their lives here—”

“Sheer sentimentality,” he said. “It is—was—my house, and you don't see tears pouring down my face. It was inconvenient, and beyond repair, and although I would rather it had been demolished brick by brick, which would be of some use for the future, this fire has saved me a heap of trouble.”

“You have no imagination, brother,” said Sophronia. “Mrs. Darcy, I think your cousin is looking for you.”

“Thank God, there you are, Octavia,” exclaimed Mr. Ackworth, who came up to her. He was in even a worse state than she was, in his shirtsleeves and with a livid mark on his cheek. “Good evening, Rutherford. I am deeply sorry to see Chauntry burn. Octavia, what have you been doing? I left you with Jane to mind the horses, and they tell me you have been running in and out rescuing books from the library—what folly.”

“Folly indeed,” said Rutherford furiously. “She could have been killed.”

“But as it happens,” said Octavia, rubbing her cheeks with the back of her hand, and laughing, “I was not. I am perfectly all right, and I am glad I brought out the books, I do not care to see books burn.”

“Lady Sophronia, if there is anything we can do, my wife says that of course you must come to the manor …”

“My mother and sister will come back to London with me, Ackworth,” said Sholto.

“Good,” said Sophronia. “I shall enjoy that.” She held out a hand to Octavia. “Thank you. I hope we meet again in happier circumstances.”

Sholto watched as Ackworth hurried the tall woman away. “Who exactly is she?” he demanded of Sophronia.

“She is a cousin of the Ackworths, a widow, a Mrs. Darcy.”

“Oh, she's the second Mrs. Darcy, is she? Melbury's sister. I hate an interfering woman, what business was it of hers what became of my books?”

“How ungenerous you are, Sholto. We women are not so helpless as you men would have us believe. I for one am grateful to her, and I think she showed great good sense in helping Mr. Newsome bring books out; she was giving him directions most competently, and I dare say saved his life, making him attend and set to going to and fro with the more valuable folios instead of standing in the library wringing his hands until he went up in smoke.”

“What nonsense. Go and find Mama.”

“It will take her a while to arrange what is to be done with all her animals. I am sure you will not mind if she brings one or two with her to London.”

“I do mind. Oh, very well, if it keeps her quiet she may bring one or two of her dogs, but not that damned parrot. I will not have that parrot in my house. The horses are being stabled in the village, the grooms may take care of her zoo.”

Some two hours later, when the moon was setting in the eastern sky, Sholto set off for London, his mother fast asleep in the corner of the carriage, snoring gently, his sister looking out of the window as though she were off on a pleasure outing. In the other corner, a large parrot gave a dismal squawk, and ruffled its bright green plumage.