The Second Mrs Darcy (14 page)

The Wyttons' house was in Harte Street, a good-sized town house with an elegant hallway and a staircase rising to the next floor in a swirl of mahogany banisters. Upstairs were two drawing rooms, and as Octavia and Penelope reached the landing, they heard musicians tuning their instruments: fiddles, and the deep plangent sounds of a cello and a bassoon.

“It is not a formal dance, but it is always the greatest fun at the Wyttons',” Penelope told her aunt. “Mr. Poyntz likes going there the best of anywhere in London; he is a particular friend of Mr. Wytton's, of both the Wyttons. I dare say he will be here. You will like to meet him, he is a most interesting man, and he resided in India for some years when he was a child.”

“I believe I have met the gentleman,” said Octavia, not deceived by Penelope's attempt to sound casual. Good heavens, if that was the young man on whom her fancy had alighted, then she would have a difficult job of it; she could not see Theodosia countenancing such a match under any circumstances.

“Met him?” cried Penelope, as they went towards Camilla Wytton, who was standing in the doorway, greeting her guests. “How? Where?”

“In Hertfordshire; he is in holy orders, is he not?”

“Yes, he is, but—” Penelope remembered her manners, and
dropped a curtsy and said a pretty thank you to Camilla for inviting her. “Is Belle here?” Penelope asked, Belle being one of Camilla's younger sisters.

“Not yet, but she will be here, all my sisters are here tonight, except for Mrs. Barcombe.”

“Which is as well,” said Penelope, going further into the room with Octavia, who had in turn received a kind welcome from Camilla. “Have you met Mrs. Barcombe? She is the oldest of them, there are five sisters, but you will know that.”

“No, indeed I do not, I was unacquainted with the family until I was introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Wytton at Haye Park; I never met any of my late husband's family or connections, since we were only together in India.”

“Mrs. Barcombe is very disapproving, one of those people who is always right. I do not think she and Mrs. Wytton get on so very well together. Belle is a younger sister; I was at school with her and Georgina, her twin, although they are a little older than me. Georgina married Sir Joshua Mordaunt, she ran away with him in fact, but I am not supposed to know that was the case. They live in Paris, but they must be visiting London. So you were at Haye Park, was that where you met Mr. Poyntz?”

“Yes, it was.”

“And I dare say Charlotte was talking to him a good deal,” said Penelope in discontented tones. “It is always the same, she makes sheep's eyes at every young man, although she must know that her parents will consider nothing less than a great match for her. They say she is to marry Lord Rutherford, he is a particular friend of Mr. Poyntz's, you know, but I do not think there's any truth in it; why would a man like Lord Rutherford want to marry a goose like Charlotte Goulding?”

“You seem very up on everything,” she observed.

“Is that a criticism? Do you think I should be missish and pretend not to know what is going on? That is how Mama would like me to be, but I think it is all nonsense. One cannot help noticing people, and there is no point in pretending that Charlotte Goulding is not a
goose, for you only have to spend five minutes with her to know that is the case.”

“She is very beautiful.”

“Oh, quite lovely,” said Penelope blithely. “A nonpareil, and when she makes her come-out, she will have the men flocking around her, until they discover she has no conversation, that is.”

Octavia laughed. “Do the young men care for conversation, when there is a pretty face and a title in the background and a good fortune?”

“Some do,” said Penelope. “You are right, however; most of them like a woman to smile and simper and look pleased to be spoken to. And Charlotte is not a flirt, I will grant her that. I am more of a flirt than she is, only not when Mama is present, naturally, for if she sees me behave in a way she thinks not suitable for one of my upbringing, she frowns and shakes her head and glares.”

“I know exactly what you mean, but she does it from care for you, I am sure; she will want you to present yourself in the best way.”

“She wants to sell me off like a Circassian slave, or some prize horse,” said Penelope.

This was exactly how Octavia had felt, those long years ago, when she was doing her wretched London season under Theodosia's eagle eye. But Theodosia had had no affection for her, and she must have affection for Penelope. She said so.

“Do you think so?” said Penelope. “I do not. She wants me to make a remarkable match, the kind that makes all the other mamas mutter and feel envious. Most of all she wants me to marry someone of higher rank than Louisa. But it is easier for her, because she is the daughter of a nobleman, and Papa's family is an old one, but not aristocratic. They are gentry, landowners, and he is rich, richer than many members of the House of Lords, but it is not the same. Mama dearly wants me to be a peeress, she wants to be able to talk of my daughter, the Countess of this or the Marchioness of that. I don't care a button for all that, do you?”

Octavia said that there was no question of her caring or not car
ing, there was no possibility of her marrying anyone from among the peerage.

“I do not see why you should not, as well as anyone,” said Penelope. “As long as he were tall. You would not do to set your cap at Lord Silloth, for example, for he is barely as tall as I am, and would not come up to your shoulder.”

“I am not a girl in my first season, I don't have to find myself a husband,” said Octavia. She was looking around the room, filling up fast with the Wyttons' friends, lively looking people with intelligent faces; how different from the dull politicians of her last party.

“Mama says you should,” said Penelope, who was anxiously watching the door for every new arrival. “She says it is the only hope for you, with no money and no means of making a living for yourself. And Aunt Augusta says in the end you will have to go for a governess, but I took no notice, she is always making extravagant remarks—oh.”

Mr. Poyntz came into the room, side by side with Lord Rutherford. They paused to exchange some words with Camilla and with Alexander, who was by her side, but Mr. Poyntz's eyes were looking round the room and he at once came over to join them. Penelope was in a glow; she should take care, Octavia thought, suddenly worried. Her niece was very matter-of-fact about her mama's ambitions, but did not perhaps comprehend how ruthless Theodosia might be in carrying them out.

Rank held such sway in London. Everyone was either up or down, or ascending and descending. Most anxious and nervous were those among the gentry who were looking upwards, keen to leave behind the quieter world of the country estate for the headier circles of the nobility. Of course, they might not aspire to marry sons and daughters into the very highest ranks; the Cavendishes and the Spencers, the Howards and the Churchills, tended to marry among themselves as they had always done. But an attractive daughter might catch a lesser peer, the son of a first baron or viscount or earl. Hadn't she heard that Lord Liverpool was the son of a physician who had been raised to the peerage? And there were others, such as Henry
Brougham, who had made their way into the upper House through the law or a dazzling career in the House of Commons.

Theodosia was aiming high if she had her eye on such as Lord Rutherford for her daughter. And Penelope, though brimming with vitality, was not a beauty like Charlotte Goulding or half a dozen other of the young ladies who were here tonight. Lord Rutherford, with an ancient title and a family line stretching back into the mists of the mediaeval age, might look as high as he wished for a bride—when and if he wanted one.

Mr. Wytton was at her side, wanting to introduce her to some friends, “For I do not believe you will have so many acquaintances here in London.”

Sholto Rutherford, who had been watching Poyntz and Penelope with a thoughtful expression, saw Wytton taking Octavia over to join a little bunch by the window. “You are watching the maypole,” said Snipe Woodhead, materialising at his elbow, and holding up a quizzing glass to take a better look at Octavia. “She annoys me with her air of self-possession, I cannot think why the Wyttons have invited her.”

Rutherford rather wondered why they had invited Snipe, who was answering his own question. “Oh, of course, she is a connection by marriage of Mrs. Wytton's. Mrs. Wytton does not seem in looks, and that yellow dress gives her a very off appearance, do not you think so?”

“I am an admirer of Mrs. Wytton's,” said Rutherford repressively. “She is breeding, and is tired, I dare say. It is foolish of her to entertain in this way,” he went on, speaking to himself rather than to Snipe. “Wytton is not happy about it, but she laughs at him and says she is not going into purdah on account of her condition.”

“She always was headstrong,” said Snipe. “She is obstinate, like all the Darcys.”

“Or you could say she knows her own mind, just as her father does.”

“Well, this Mrs. Darcy, this gawky female from India, appears to be just as obstinate as her Darcy connections; she has a determined look to her chin.”

Rutherford rather agreed with him, but he was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. He moved away, spying Pagoda Portal, who had entered the room a few minutes ago and was standing by the fireplace in earnest conversation with Camilla Wytton and Henrietta Rowan.

“So you are back from France,” said Lord Rutherford, joining their little group, and making a graceful bow to Henrietta.

“Ha, Rutherford,” said Portal. He was a large man, with a gorgeous waistcoat stretched over a generous stomach, but he had an air of benevolence and shrewd eyes that looked his lordship up and down. “You have the air of a harassed man,” he said, with a twinkle.

“You have heard that my mother is in residence in Aubrey Square,” said Rutherford. “The house is filled with creatures that caw and yap and snarl and nip at one's heels. It is no wonder that I look harassed.”

“Papa tells me you have taken Netherfield House,” said Camilla. “Will Lady Rutherford move there? Or is she to live in the Dower House at Chauntry; it was untouched by the fire, was it not?”

“A dreadful business, that,” said Portal, shaking his head. “I was in Paris when I heard the news, and I was shocked.”

“Perhaps Lord Rutherford does not find it altogether a misfortune,” said Henrietta.

“Yes, Lord Rutherford,” said Camilla. “You have always complained about how inconvenient and damp it was.”

“Whether I liked it or not, it is gone, beyond rebuilding. So I plan to start afresh, that is one reason for my taking a lease on Netherfield House; however, it will also be a more suitable home for my mother and sister. My mother will not move into the Dower House; she says she is not the Dowager Countess, which is, strictly speaking, true, and that the house is haunted.”

“Haunted?” said Henrietta.

“By whom?” said Camilla.

“By no one and nothing. There is a legend that the wife of the ninth earl walks the rooms there; she fell out of a window or some such thing, and left behind an uneasy spirit, according to the locals.”

“Lady Rutherford is a sensitive woman,” said Camilla.

Lord Rutherford would not say aloud what his opinion was of his mother's sensitivity, so he merely smiled.

“Portal,” he began. “Have you heard about Urquhart?”

“What about Urquhart?”

Robert Urquhart was the MP for a rotten borough in Yorkshire, one not in Lord Rutherford's control, but near where his seat, Rutherford Castle, was situated.

“He got so drunk after his victory at the polls that he fell in a ditch, and was not discovered until the next morning, dead.”

“Good heavens, the unfortunate man,” said Camilla.

“Not at all,” said Portal calmly. “A fitting end for a disagreeable man. So there is to be a by-election, Rutherford; who is to take the seat?”

“I shall have to go up there in a little while to discuss it. Mr. Septimus Stanley is our man, I believe, he will be a thorn in the government's flesh, especially with regard to finance, on which he is something of an expert. He missed a seat at the election, and will be glad to have this one.”

“An excellent man,” said Portal. “If you set aside that he is pompous and humourless, I grant you his intelligence and ability.” He turned to Camilla. “Tell me, is Mrs. Darcy here? I refer to the wife of the late Captain Darcy; she is newly arrived from India, and since her husband was a connection of yours, and she must now be out of mourning, it occurs to me that she might be here.”

“Indeed she is. Do you know her? No, of course not, or you would have seen her at once, she is that tall, fair, striking-looking woman talking to Alexander. Let me take you over and introduce you; did you know her husband?”

“Yes, and I was acquainted with her great-uncle and -aunt. I should be honoured to make her acquaintance.”

Lord Rutherford watched as Camilla led Mr. Portal through the room, which had filled up rapidly. He saw Octavia break off her conversation with Alexander and give her hand to Portal; tall she might be, but there was a certain grace to her. Still, Snipe was right, she was
too sure of herself for a penniless widow who had never held any position in London society, nor ever would. Arthur Melbury might be looking out for a second husband for her, but he would look in vain; she was too tall, too out of the fashion, and made no effort, from what he could see, to charm or attract. She hadn't shared the good looks which had allowed her older sisters to make such good marriages; he supposed that she took after her mother.

Then he was greeted by another friend, and at once forgot about Octavia and the Melburys, finding his friend's account of a pair of carriage horses he had just bought much more interesting.