The Second Mrs Darcy (17 page)

Octavia was touched by the very real affection between them, and indeed between the older couple. It was the same easy trust and liking that she had found at the Ackworths', marriage as a partnership, not a constant imposition of authority or superiority, an equal match, one where the moral advantage did not fall too heavily on one side nor the other.

Altogether it was a most agreeable evening. The table was laden with Yorkshire food of the best kind, not ostentatious, but full of flavour; if Mrs. Maudlin was a farmer's daughter, then no doubt her family's farm provided the best of everything for the Maudlin household.

After they had dined, the younger granddaughter, a pretty, shy girl of about fifteen, joined the company, and despite what Mrs. Maudlin had said about bringing up her daughters to be useful, the girl sat at the grand pianoforte and played a sonata with execution and taste.

The young Maudlin escorted her back to her hotel in their carriage, and as Octavia undressed and got ready for bed in her comfortable hotel room, she thought rather wistfully of how different her life would have been had her mother married not a baronet, but a merchant, a man such as Mr. John Maudlin. She would have grown up in a world very different from the one she knew. No landed squire and rising parliamentarian for brothers, no grand ladies for sisters. But she must not be sentimental about it, doubtless there was as much lust for power and ambition and folly here in York as in London.

She lay back against the soft feather pillows, reflecting on what her life had brought her; loneliness, yes, but the rare experience of her sea voyages, and the chance to see another country, so far
removed, so very different from settled, green, complacent England. She remembered the brilliant colours of an Indian sunset, the vivid plants and birds, the teeming life, the strange temples, and knew that she would not have foregone that, not for all the comfort and security of these people from whom her mother had come.

She was too sensible to have any regrets, and too self-aware not to know that perhaps a life of the familiar mercantile round would not suit her temperament. Perhaps that was the touch of the gambler she had inherited from her feckless grandfather, a liking for excitement. He had found it in gambling; she relied on life itself to provide it.

But not the life of the country; no, to be busy and occupied was the road to happiness, but not the occupation of Mrs. Ackworth with her last-century devotion to her manor house, nor the buying and making and selling of these new Yorkshire acquaintances.

She did not feel inclined to sleep, so instead of extinguishing her candle, she opened the first volume of a lurid tale she had bought for her journey, hot off the Minerva Press, entitled
The Prisoner of Castle
Porphyry
, and settled down to make her flesh creep.

The next morning, after a night untroubled by the fantastic dangers and alarms of her novel, Octavia rose early, breakfasted, paid her bill, and climbed into the hired carriage that was to take her on the next part of her Yorkshire odyssey, Axby Hall.

She looked out eagerly as they passed through the large village of Axby, a prosperous-looking place, with a broad sandy street. She noticed a baker, a butcher, a general store. Axby Hall lay about a mile beyond the village, Mr. Forsyte had said, and as they drove along a deep leafy lane, she pictured the house in her mind. It would be much like many of the houses she had seen here in Yorkshire, she supposed: red-brick and square, a solid, sensible house.

So she was astonished when the carriage climbed up a slope with a broad sweep overlooking a hilly ridge and the driver called out to her, “That is Axby Hall.” There before her was a magnificent house, built in the classical style, with pillars beneath a fine pediment, set around with a landscaped park, green swaths leading down to a lake.

She had no idea it was so large, nor so fine. Was she truly the owner of all this?

For the first time, the solid substance of what she had inherited came home to her. Until now it had been on paper: lists of jewels, land, tea plantations, title deeds, rent rolls. And the only tangible aspect had been the wad of paper money which the lawyer had
pressed on her, saying that she would need it for expenses, that on her return to town he would, if she would permit, introduce her to Mr. Hoare. Hoare's were the bankers who dealt with the late Mr. and Mrs. Worthington's affairs, and he would strongly advise that she continue to bank with them.

“You need not worry about your money if you bank with them; there is no danger of Hoare's failing.” Mr. Wilkinson had said with a thin-lipped smile; a bank breaking was too serious a matter for more than the mildest jest.

Here was a house, the kind of house she had constructed in miniature, the epitome of great English style, perfectly balanced, the proportions of the ancient world renewed and fitting snugly and serenely into an English landscape—and it belonged to her.

Mr. John Forsyte was at the door to welcome her. Behind him stood his wife, with two or three shy children peeping round her skirts, who skipped forward as they saw Octavia's warm smile to curtsy and make a leg.

The house was as fine inside as it was from the outside. A lofty hall had matching stairs turning up to meet at a landing. The floor was tiled in black and white marble, the perfectly placed niches were graced with classical busts, the house smelt fresh and perfumed with flowers that stood in bowls on every side.

Octavia was taken into the splendid drawing room, and then, after refreshments were offered and accepted—“peaches and pines from our succession house,” said Mrs. Forsyte—she was taken on a tour of the house by Mr. Forsyte.

He was a man of medium height, with fashionably cut brown hair, very much the country gentleman, and both he and his wife, Octavia decided, were pleasant, intelligent, well-bred people.

They were indeed excellent tenants. The house was in perfect order, inside and out. Mrs. Forsyte showed off the improvements they had made in the kitchen, the closed stove which had replaced the old-fashioned range, and Mr. Forsyte was eager to talk about the drainage, and the work he had done in that direction.

The servants were a clean, cheerful, active set. Octavia had
learned long ago that you might fairly judge people by their servants. Of course it was easier in the country, where families worked generation after generation up at the big house, whereas London servants were notorious for their fickle ways, but even so, it said much for the Forsytes that the whole place was immaculate, within and without: the gardens, the Home Farm, the public and the private rooms, the kitchens, and even the attics, which were piled high with boxes and cast-offs, but all neatly arranged and covered with sheets against the dust.

Octavia was loud in her praise, but she could sense an undercurrent of concern in both the Forsytes. Of course they would feel uneasy. They had made their home here, and now there was a new owner, a young woman who might choose to come and live here herself; their lease was near its end and it might be that they would be turned out of the home they had lavished so much care and attention on, of which they were so rightly proud.

Octavia wanted to reassure them. Wonderful as it was, a happy, beautiful house that was also a home, she was quite certain by now that country life wouldn't suit her any more in Yorkshire than in Hertfordshire or Dorset.

Mr. Forsyte was not sure, she could tell, as to whether he could discuss his tenancy with her. He made a reference to her man of business, had she met Mr. Apthorpe yet? Would he be looking after her affairs here in the north, he had been Mrs. Worthington's right-hand man, he found him to be a clear-headed, competent person.

Octavia saw no point in beating about the bush. Mr. Forsyte sought reassurance; she was able to give it to him. She had no intention of living in Yorkshire, delightful though the county was. On a May morning, with the countryside unfolding in rich greens and the lark ascending and the cuckoo sounding in the woods, it was another Eden, an Arcadia. But come days of fog and rain, come autumn storms and winter snow and ice—then it was a region that held no charms for her. So she told him frankly that everything she knew of him and had seen made her certain that she would be happy to agree to a new lease; she had not met Mr. Apthorpe, who was presently in
Scotland, but would be seeing him in Leeds before she went back to London, and she would instruct him accordingly.

The bright smiles on the faces of all the Forsytes, knowing that the house that suited them so well was to remain their home, was reward enough for Octavia. Mr. Forsyte would by no means have been homeless had she had other plans; he was a man of substance and standing; a man who could rent one fine house could well rent another, but it would not be the same, he was attached to Axby Hall.

Octavia thought that he might in the course of time like to purchase the property; well, unless her views changed markedly, she would have no real objection. Of course, all her advisers would be bound to counsel her otherwise, since a good property with a good tenant was not lightly to be disposed of. However, that was in the future, and if she allowed her heart to rule her head in such matters, what was wrong with that? It would only be if she made a habit of it, was too conciliating, too ready to lend an ear to stories of hardship and distress, that she would be at fault.

So dinner was a cheerful affair. The Forsytes had invited two or three families from around and about to dine, and they bowled up in their carriages, people very much of the same kind as themselves, and Octavia found them agreeable company.

She realised ruefully that this was an end to her secrecy; Mr. Forsyte was open about her status, they all knew she was heiress to the very great wealth of her great-aunt, even if they had no accurate idea as to the extent of that wealth. One or two of the women attempted to sound her out, saying that Mrs. Worthington had property and interests in the East, did she not? but they were too well bred to persist when she was unforthcoming.

Word would quickly fly from here to London; she could expect a sharp welcome from her family on her return to town. Well, that was for another day, and meanwhile she ate the excellent food, more fine cuts of meat, more vegetables fresh from the Hall's own vegetable gardens, more fruit from the pinery, which Mrs. Forsyte had shown her with considerable and justified pride.

Mrs. Forsyte loved growing things, it transpired. She had green
thumbs, her husband said with fond affection. “She can coax any seedling; anything green that will grow will do so under her care. We have exotic fruits here that I dare say you will not find in the whole of Yorkshire. You will be familiar with many of them, I expect, after your time in India.”

The talk at the dinner table turned to politics. There was much local interest and excitement; the small town of Axby, although it had only a handful of voters, returned an MP to Westminster. This was the Mr. Urquhart who had celebrated his recent victory—his tenth—at the general election the previous month by drinking himself into a stupor, and being overcome with a fatal apoplexy as a result.

“It is not surprising,” said Mr. Forsyte. “He was the size of one of Cooper Joe's biggest barrels, and a man who indulged himself. It was bound to get to him in the end.”

“What will happen?” said Octavia. “Will there have to be another election?”

The table fell silent, and the guests with one accord stared at her.

“Why, of course there will,” said Mr. Forsyte. “There has been no reform act passed, more's the pity, and so London will send word to the Castle as to whom they wish to be elected. Strictly speaking,” he went on, “the seat is in your hands, Mrs. Darcy, but for many years, since Mrs. Worthington took no interest whatsoever in politics, and indeed never lived in this part of the world, preferring her house in Leeds, it has been part of the Castle interest.”

“Which castle is that?”

“Why, Rutherford Castle, seat of the Earl of Rutherford.”

“Lord Rutherford's seat is here? I had no idea,” said Octavia.

They were amazed at such ignorance, it seemed inconceivable that anyone should not know all about Rutherford Castle.

“Lord Rutherford is rarely here, not as often as we should like. And of course, there is another parliamentary seat there, the Castle seat, a member of the Rutherford family always holds that seat. The Whigs will have a candidate lined up for Axby, you will find it is all a matter of form.”

The next morning, waylaying Mr. Forsyte before he set out for his
chambers in Leeds, Octavia asked him some more questions about the seat. Would the electorate—all twenty-six of them—automatically vote for the Castle choice? Was he ever opposed?

“No, never.”

“But if I chose to put up another candidate—”

“You?” Mr. Forsyte looked thunderstruck. “It would be … But there is nothing … You own most of the village, you will find; most of the inhabitants are your tenants, and the householders, who are of course the only men with the vote, are your tenants, too, all but one of them, I believe. What you say must go; that is the nature of rotten boroughs. They will be done away with in the end, it is stark wrong that a small town like this sends its man to Parliament whereas cities with a population of fifty thousand people have no representation. It will be righted in the end; Pitt tried for reform in the last century but to no avail, the vested interests were too strongly ranged against him. And the Tories will never reform, they are afraid of change, they work on a principle of what was good enough for their forefathers is good enough for them. They are secure in office, but things change, and the Whigs will have their day, and then we will see some action on this front.”

“You are a Whig yourself, Mr. Forsyte?”

He hesitated. “I am something of a Radical persuasion, although I know that these days to be considered a Radical is to be considered by many to be unsound if not dangerous. I am Whiggish, definitely Whiggish, never a Tory, despite my country background—but yet I am still Radically minded.”

“Would not you like to sit in Parliament?”

“I, Mrs. Darcy?”

“Yes. Why should Lord Rutherford, who may live nearby, but is not of this neighbourhood, have the choice of Axby's MP? If the choice is mine, as you say it is, why should I not choose you?”

Mr. Forsyte's jaw dropped. “You cannot be serious!”

“I would hardly make a joke of such a matter. I find the seat is, despite appearances to the contrary, mine to bestow. I am expected to have no say in the matter; the candidate is chosen by the Party—whether a Party I support or not. I find I do not care for this.”

“Are you a Tory, to go against the Whig interest in such a way?”

“To be truthful, Mr. Forsyte, I am only now beginning to form political opinions of my own. My family are Tory, through and through, but from what I have heard and seen since I came back to England, I rather think I share many Whiggish views. I may even wake up one day to find myself a Radical!”

She saw from Mr. Forsyte's countenance that he was struggling between delight and apprehension.

“I should like nothing better than to have a seat in Parliament,” he said finally. “Only, think what you are about; to antagonise the Castle interest might not be wise.”

“Oh, you will have to bear the brunt of that, for I shan't be here, and I don't give a fig for what the Castle thinks or wants. And,” she added shrewdly, “I do not believe you are quaking in your boots at the prospect of upsetting Lord Rutherford.”

“He will be annoyed, he is not, from what I know of him, a man who cares to be thwarted, but he will get over the disappointment. If you mean it, Mrs. Darcy, if you really mean to offer me the seat, then I accept. I must consult my wife, naturally, but I am sure she will support me; she is well aware of my political ambitions.”

“Then it is settled.” She held out her hand, and he shook it warmly. “I shall look forward to seeing you in London when you come up to take your seat.”