The Second Mrs Darcy (16 page)

Octavia came to the conclusion that she was lacking in moral fibre; she stood self-convicted of cowardice and was also turning into an unblushing liar. She had put off yet again breaking the news of her inheritance to her family; she would, she decided, tell them when she came back from her journey north. And that meant she had to find a reason for her visit to Yorkshire, one that would satisfy Theodosia. She was ashamed of how readily the falsehoods came to her lips.

“Relations of Mr. Darcy, you say? They have invited you for a visit? Pray, what are they called? Perhaps Drusilla knows them.”

Since Octavia had just made up the entire family, this was unlikely. “They live near York,” she said. Drusilla's house was in the South Riding, she could not be expected to be on visiting terms with a family in the North Riding.

“Oh, York. Nettleton, you said? I do not know the name, they do not come to London, I suppose?”

“He is a lawyer,” said Octavia, improvising rapidly.

“Married, I dare say, or he could hardly invite you to stay.”

“Married with several young children.”

“Oh, children. Well, if you feel you must go, but it is very odd to be leaving London now, with the season in full swing. I had several parties to which I was going to take you—however, you will not be
gone long. You will travel on the mail, you will not be comfortable, it is a long journey.”

“I go post,” said Octavia boldly. “It is all arranged, the Nettletons are being very kind.”

“What, paying for your coach travel, and post? He must be a very successful lawyer, or is he a man of property as well?”

“I believe they have a good income.”

“Strange that they do not come to London.”

Octavia packed quickly and discreetly, with Alice's help. The maid had become much attached to Mrs. Darcy, “such a pleasant-spoken, agreeable person,” she told the other servants. “She treats you like you was a human being, not something brought in on the sole of a shoe.”

So only Alice knew that Mrs. Darcy had packed more clothes than Theodosia was aware that she possessed and also a riding habit; Octavia hoped she might have a chance to ride while she was away.

She had written to Mr. Forsyte, the tenant of Axby Hall, saying that she was coming north and would be calling upon him. He had replied by return, writing in most cordial terms and inviting her to stay.

Which she intended to do, but she would go first to York, and put up at an hotel, and take time to explore that ancient city.

“The Minster?” said Mr. Cartland, who was fond of the north of England. “A fine cathedral, although rather large.” He recommended, when his wife was out of hearing, that she put up at the White Swan. “It is not the smartest hotel in York, but it is clean and comfortable and quiet.” He hesitated. “Their charges are not high, but if you find yourself … I would be most happy to … I should not like you to find yourself short of money.”

“You are very kind,” said Octavia warmly. “But I assure you I can well afford a few nights at the White Swan.”

He gave her one of his sideways glances, and a quick, sly smile. “It occurs to me, sister, that your situation is not quite what it seems.”

“I—that is …”

“Oh, I do not mean to pry. What you do not tell me, I cannot find myself passing on to your sister. I am glad for you if you are better cir
cumstanced than appears, very glad. A woman on her own should not have to scratch for every penny.”

Well, reflected Octavia, as she settled back into the comparative comfort of the hired chaise, there was one member of her family who wouldn't huff and puff when the story of her fortune came out. He would be pleased for her, and take no offence that he hadn't been told the instant she knew.

The journey was a long one, as Theodosia had pointed out. Octavia travelled swiftly, spending only two nights on the road, and arrived at York tired and stiff, glad to be out of the carriage, even though she had taken some pleasure in the changing scenery and sights along the way.

The next day she set out to explore the city, going first to the bookshop suggested by the hotel, where she purchased a guide-book to the city. She spent an hour in the cathedral, which was big, as Mr. Cartland had said, looking up at the rose window and imagining the Minster as it must have been on the day when Henry Tudor, recently crowned as Henry VII, had married the last of the York family, Elizabeth, uniting the white rose of York with the red rose of Lancaster. History was vividly in her mind as she walked along the line of Kings at the entrance to the choir; she herself had always held by the missing Richard III, having taken all the Tudors in strong dislike.

A pause for refreshments in a tea-room near the cathedral and then she wandered through the old part of the town, with its narrow, crowded streets. This was what London must have been like, before the Great Fire, but York also boasted fine modern houses, like those where her hotel was situated, near Bootham Bar. Altogether an agreeable city, if provincial, and she had an idea that the lowering grey skies might be a regular and unwelcome feature of the place.

In the afternoon, she set out to find Caper Street, and stopped, amazed, in front of a large establishment that proclaimed itself to be
WORTHINGTON'S, GROCERS, SUPPLIERS TO THE GENTRY
. She pushed open the door, the bell clanged, and a man in black came hurrying forward to attend to her.

“I do not wish to buy anything,” she said. “I was interested—that
is, my attention was caught by the name of the shop. I—I know someone by that name, you see. Is it the name of the present proprietor?”

“No, madame, it was the name of the original grocer who set up business here, in the last century. There has been no one of that name for many years, but the present owner, Mr. Maudlin, kept it on, for the reputation, you know. Worthington is a name that means quality and service in York to this day. Perhaps you would like to speak to Mr. Maudlin?”

He bowed her towards a chair set by the broad mahogany counter. It was a large shop, a very large shop, in immaculate order, everything arranged just so, attentive assistants scurrying to and fro, and seemingly carrying a wide range of goods. Minutes later a little round man, balding, with spectacles perched on his broad nose, came out of a door behind the counter and towards her.

“Good day, madame, Mr. Timley tells me you are enquiring about the name above the door.”

He looked a question.

“My name is Mrs. Darcy,” Octavia said, with a friendly smile. “Worthington was my mother's name, and I believe that this was my grandfather's shop.”

“Good heavens,” he cried. “What an honour, indeed it is. You are Samuel Worthington's granddaughter, oh, he was a good man, such a sad …” His voice trailed into silence.

“I never knew him,” Octavia said, wanting to spare him any embarrassment. “Did you know him well?”

“Oh, dear lady, he was a lifelong friend, lifelong. I was in tea, I was a tea merchant, and I supplied him for many years. Then when—In time, I took over the business, but I kept the name, I did not wish to change it.”

Mr. Maudlin was hesitant, wondering how much Octavia knew about her grandfather's business and its failure.

He felt uneasy in her presence. Here was the granddaughter of one of his good friends, whose mother he had dandled on his knee
when she was a child, whose failure, decline, and death had made him wretched—but she was a fine lady, everything about her proclaimed it, her air, her clothes, the way she spoke. She belonged on the other side of the counter from him.

Her mother, his own daughter's playmate and equal, had taken a leap out of the world into which she had been born when she married Sir Clement. He had seen her weep before her wedding, but he and all her friends had felt sure it was the right thing for her to do; Sir Clement might be a much older man, they might have few interests in common, but given her circumstances, it opened a new life to her, far away from the city where her family had known disgrace. At the moment at the altar when she uttered her “I do” and became Lady Melbury, all that was wiped out. She took her husband's rank, belonged in his world, was safe, and that was a cause of rejoicing to all her family and well-wishers, although the rejoicing might be muted by the knowledge that a lovely young woman was marrying a man old enough to be her father.

All this was running through his mind, and part of it, at least, Octavia could guess. He was uncomfortable, so was she, and yet she longed to talk more about her family.

The invitation was tentative. If Mrs. Darcy—it would do them great honour—he had to say that Mrs. Maudlin kept a good table, always, and if she would consent to dine with them, he would send this instant to his house, to expect them, they dined late, not from any wish to be fashionable, but to keep in with his shopkeeping duties.

Mrs. Darcy would be delighted, the honour would be all on her side, she would be very happy to meet Mrs. Maudlin, and to dine with people who had been such close friends of her grandfather's.

The gulf was bridged, Mr. Maudlin let out an audible pouf of breath, and Octavia left determined to pay another visit to the cathedral, perhaps to hear the evening service, at four o'clock. She would present herself at Mr. Maudlin's house—detailed directions were given—and they parted with mutual satisfaction.

It was a happy evening. Mrs. Maudlin was a well-looking, sensible woman, younger than her husband by several years. Their eldest son and his wife were at the table; he a prosperous merchant in his forties, she a goldsmith's daughter who would, so Mrs. Maudlin confided in her, inherit her father's substantial business in due course, for she was an only child, and the apple of her father's eye.

“Will she sell it, when that time comes?”

Mrs. Maudlin was shocked. Businesses were not lightly to be bought and sold. “She knows a great deal about the goldsmith's craft; were she a man—however, she will manage it, with John's assistance, of course, and do it very well. There are many people of our sort who want their daughters to grow up removed from trade, to go to genteel seminaries to learn French and play the piano, to live lives far removed from the world of their parents. But we do not hold with that. I come from a farming family, and when my father died, my mother ran the dairy side as well as any man, supplying cheese to all the towns roundabout. We women can be just as hard-working as our menfolk, if we are allowed to be. I want my daughters to grow up to be good wives and mothers, of course, but also to make themselves useful.”

“My great-aunt,” Octavia said, “took over my great-uncle's concerns when he died, tea plantations in India, and property and other interests. I believe she handled it all most capably.”

“Aye, Mrs. Anne Worthington had a remarkably shrewd head on her shoulders.”

Mr. Maudlin was looking across the table at her. “I did hear—nothing more than a rumour, perhaps—that Lady Melbury's daughter was old Mrs. Worthington's heir.”

“She has left me an inheritance,” Octavia said.

“Well, your mother was no fool, it was a sad day when she was taken away by the Lord, and I dare say you are like her. But now you have no husband to advise you and be at your side, that is hard on a young woman,” said Mrs. Maudlin.

“It is, but I must contrive as best I can.”

“Aye, as we women have always had to.”

Octavia felt a surge of panic, hearing again how shrewd Mrs. Worthington was. It was all very well, supposing that she could pick up where her great-aunt had left off, all very well the assurances from Mr. Portal and Mr. Wilkinson that Mrs. Worthington had chosen sound men of business to manage her widespread affairs—but would they be impressed with her? And when, in time, new appointments had to be made, decisions taken, actions approved of, what made her think that she would be capable of acting wisely?

Mrs. Maudlin was quick to notice the troubled look in Octavia's eyes.

“Yes, we in our family have all been brought up to trade and business, and you have not, but it's in your blood. You'll make mistakes, but you'll learn from them; that's what mistakes are for.”

Young Mr. Maudlin was a blunt man, with a dry way about him. He fixed her with a stern, level look. “Providing, that is,” he said, “that Mrs. Darcy is not tempted by the card table, not inclined to participate in gaming, which is, I know, fashionable among ladies in London, in the circles where I dare say Mrs. Darcy moves.”

That at least she had no doubts about. “I do not have a gambler's nature,” she said. “I do not bet on cards, in fact I seldom play cards, nor can I see that speculation or wild risks are in my nature. My father was a sound man, and I hope that is an inheritance I have from him.”

On the other hand, Theodosia was more than a little inclined to gamble, and to bet far more than she ought. She had married a man with a pocket deep enough to sustain her losses, but … Might she be more like Theodosia than she knew, could she find the lure of a sudden win too great to resist? Since she had never had much money to risk—but no. The biggest gamble she would make would be to take the reins of her inheritance into her own hands, instead of relying on her brothers to manage it for her, or instead of at once looking out for a husband, to whom, under law, the whole of her fortune would then belong.

Mrs. Maudlin was alive to that risk. “You will marry again, no, you say you will not, and that is only right, with your poor husband not long gone, but it is in the nature of things, and then you need to
choose well; if you have even a part of Mrs. Worthington's estate, then you will be a rich matrimonial prize.”

“Lord, yes,” said young Mrs. Maudlin, looking at Octavia with interest. “They will buzz around you like bees to the honey-pot. It was the same with me, but”—she stretched out her hand to her husband—“my dearest John was never a buzzer nor a fly. There are good men in the world, many of them, if you know where to find them.”