The Second Mrs Darcy (19 page)

Again Octavia marvelled at the picture of family life so removed from most of her own experience, but she said nothing about this, and instead fell to discussing whereabouts in London it might be possible to find suitable lodgings. “Although it may not be necessary, for Mr. Forsyte's elder brother lives in town, in a big house, and we are always welcome there.”

Where to live in London was a subject uppermost in Octavia's mind, as, after several days at Axby Hall, and two days in Leeds talking to her late great-aunt's man of business, Mr. Apthorpe, who was clearly an utterly reliable and capable person, she set off on the long journey south to London.

Once the news got about, she would find life in Lothian Street very uncomfortable; she knew her sister well enough to be sure of that. And she was quite right, for she had barely stepped across the threshold, weary after nine long hours in the carriage, when her sister pounced on her, full of indignation and fury.

“What is this I hear, what is this extraordinary rumour that is flying around town? And where have you been, who are these Darcy relations in Yorkshire you were supposedly visiting? There are no Darcys or Darcy connections in Yorkshire, no one who could possibly have anything to do with you, I am sure of that, I had it from Lady Mordaunt, and she must know, she was born a Darcy, which you are not. Ah, you colour up, you have been caught out in a lie. I knew it!”

“Theodosia, calm down, you will do yourself a mischief. There are always rumours, you should not listen to them.”

Her sister paid no attention. “People are saying you have inherited a fortune. I tell you, it will do you no good to spread such tales, for it must have come from you, who else would put such nonsense about? You will be found out, you will be the laughing-stock of London. ‘Who is there to leave Mrs. Darcy a fortune?' I said to Lady Barchester, when she called round, quivering with curiosity, to see what she could find out. I told her that there was no truth in it, that I had no notion where such an idea could have come from; had you inherited anything, so much as another sixpence, then we, your family, would be the first to know, and I could assure her that it was all a hum. She went away satisfied, but the story has not been quelled, on all sides people ask me impertinent questions. It was always so, you have been nothing but trouble to us from the moment you were born!”

It was only as Octavia had expected. The cat was out of the bag, and she must come clean. “It is true,” she said calmly. “A relation on my mother's side has left property and money to me in her will. It is not a cause for dismay, Theodosia, and if you continue to work yourself up into a state, you will need your smelling salts; shall I ring for Icken?”

“A relation? On your mother's side? You have no relations.”

“Not any longer, no, but it turns out that I did, without ever knowing about them. I am very glad for this inheritance, and so should you be; only consider, there is no need for me ever again to be a burden on any of my brothers or sisters.”

“What property, how much money? A vast inheritance is spoken of, enormous sums, plantations in India, jewels, tens of thousands of pounds in gilts, a large estate in the north of England—” She paused, and shook her finger at Octavia. “Ha, of course, that is where you have been! I should never have believed you could be so sly! And where exactly in Yorkshire is this house and land, pray? I shall find out from Drusilla, make no doubt of it, so you may as well tell me.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Theodosia, what a fuss about nothing. Are you not glad that instead of being poor, I am rich?”

“It is the ungratefulness I mind so much. The ungratefulness and the untruthfulness. You must have known of this for some time, before you even arrived in England; you knew in India, that is why you came home!”

Since this was all perfectly true, Octavia found herself unable to say anything to rebut her sister's accusations; all she wanted was to escape from Theodosia's increasing rage, to go upstairs and wash off the dust of her journey and compose herself.

Theodosia had no intention of letting her off so easily, and her probing interrogation was only ended by the arrival of Arthur, whose anger at his sister becoming an heiress was only exceeded by what he had heard of her defiance of Lord Rutherford: “To offend a man of his standing and influence, have you taken leave of your senses? And meddling in politics; my word, Octavia, your arrogance is beyond all bearing!”

A knock at the door, and Augusta was announced, sailing into the room even as the butler was speaking her name. She moved straight into the attack, but even as she spoke, Theodosia was keeping up her thread of ill-humour, and Arthur, raising his voice in an attempt to silence his sisters, was booming away.

“There is to be no obstinacy in this on your part, Octavia. I and Adderley need to have all the details, we need to ascertain at once just how large this fortune of yours is; no, I do not ask you for the information, how can you possibly have a grasp of values and financial matters? If your inheritance is even a fraction of what is being bruited about, we must step in immediately. Who is the lawyer in the case?”

Octavia, a headache buzzing behind her eyes, looked at the three enraged figures of her sisters and brother, words streaming from them like a scene in the opera, or more likely a farce, and didn't know whether to laugh or lose her temper. Temper won.

“Yes, I have inherited a fortune, a considerable fortune, and no, Arthur, I do not need any assistance from you, nor from Adderley, nor from Mr. Cartland, in managing my affairs. I have a good lawyer and a first-rate man of business, thank you, and if I am foolish and lose every penny, then I shall have no one to blame but myself.”

“Lose every penny?” Augusta shrieked, turning pale at the thought; money and property were sacred, they were not a fit subject for jesting.

“I am not going to lose any of it, Augusta,” Octavia said wearily.

“This settles it,” said Theodosia, a scheming light coming into her sharp eyes. “It makes it even more imperative that we find you a husband. Of course, it will be much easier, men will be prepared to overlook your height and your ungovernable tongue when there is a fortune involved. You must and can marry a lord, a man of substance, an influential man. Augusta, let you and I put our heads together and discuss what is to be done.”

It was too much. Octavia pressed her hand against her burning eyes, and with a firm step headed for the door. Deaf to her siblings' instructions to stay where she was, there was still so much to say, she almost ran out of the room and upstairs to her bedchamber.

In a moment, Alice was there, and after one look at Octavia, she hurried away to make a tisane, advising Mrs. Darcy to lie down upon the bed, she could see she had the headache as bad as ever so. She pulled the curtains across the windows to shut out the slanting evening sunlight, and then whisked herself out of the room.

“Not surprising that she has the headache,” she said to herself as she ran nimbly down the back stairs to the kitchen quarters. “The way they were going on at her in there, Lordy, what's she done to deserve that?”

Coxley the butler was on hand to tell her. “Mrs. Darcy is an ungrateful woman and a disloyal sister,” he pronounced. “A vast great fortune, and never a word to them, leading them all up the garden path, thinking as how she didn't have two pennies to rub together. They say”—he lowered his voice to a sepulchral whisper—“they say she's rich enough to buy an abbey. Chests of gold coins and jewels, all from India.”

“Why should she want to buy an abbey?” said Alice. “It seems an unnatural thing to do.”

“You play your cards right,” said Hannah, the sullen head housemaid, “and you'll get taken on when Mrs. Darcy sets up her own establishment. Lucky for some.”

“If you ever had a smile on your face, she might employ you,” Alice retorted, heaving the heavy kettle off the fire.

“Own establishment?” said the butler. “Ho, that's not very likely, she'll be married in a trice, to one of the royal dukes, like as not, if her fortune's as big as they say it is.”

“No more scrimping and saving for her,” said the cook. She was a wiry woman, with muscular arms. She thumped the pastry she was working with extra force. “Some folk have all the luck. And don't they say this money comes from trade? It's not the same as real wealth, it's not land or old money.”

“Money's money,” said the butler sagely, “and when there's enough of it, people, however grand, won't be too particular where it came from. She was a Melbury before she married, and Darcy's a good enough name for anyone, so no one's going to start asking ques
tions about her mother's origins. Oh, she'll find London society treats her very different now, bowing and scraping they'll be.”

“It couldn't happen to a nicer lady,” said Alice. She finished stirring the brew she had made, and poured it from the jug into a delicate porcelain cup. “And her family have no need to go turning on her like that.”

“She deceived them,” said the butler.

“Kept her mouth shut, that's all,” said the cook. “Like a sensible woman. Look a' them now the cat's out of the bag, she'll be wishing she stayed in Yorkshire, I reckon. Look lively with that tisane now, Alice, or it'll be stone cold by the time you get it upstairs.”

Coxley was quite right; London did treat Mrs. Darcy very differently, as soon as the word spread that the rumours were true; a rich, a very rich Mrs. Darcy was not at all the same person as the Melburys' indigent widowed sister. Somehow, a fair approximation of her wealth was arrived at, and Theodosia could barely restrain her anger when one of her oldest friends addressed her on the subject—taunted her, she said to Mr. Cartland later.

“Well, Theodosia, you must rejoice in her good fortune, I think she deserves it as well as any woman. Upon my word, it is a fairy tale come true for your despised younger sister. Unmarriageable at nineteen, London at her feet at twenty-five!”

All this was a red rag to a bull, and Mr. Cartland regretted the words the moment they were spoken.

“You may sit there, high and mighty, and pretending not to mind. She is richer than we are, how can she deserve that? It seems that she will have getting on for a hundred thousand in gilts and funds, and jewellery worth nearly as much. The income from the India tea gardens is substantial. Pagoda Portal will know how much, but one can get nothing out of him, he's like a Trappist monk when he wants to be, I always said he was a disagreeable man. And the estate in Yorkshire, all those acres, and a fine house. Then there are shops in Leeds, and some in London, good tenants, long leases, more income; oh, I can't bear it.”

“Compose yourself, my dear. What is it to you? I am not a whit the poorer for her wealth and nor are you.”

George Warren heard the news from his stepmother. He stared at her in disbelief, and drummed his fingers on her marble mantelpiece. “It's all a hum, Caroline, where would she get that kind of fortune from? Her mother was a grocer's daughter, and he went bust, I am sure of that.”

“It was the grocer's brother who made the fortune, he was a younger son, sent off to India in disgrace—an old story, but one that rarely turns out so well. He died, left everything to his widow, no children—she named Octavia Darcy as her heir, and there you are.”

George's eyes narrowed. “I wonder exactly when this widowed aunt of hers—”

“Great-aunt.”

“Great-aunt, then—I wonder when she died. For, if by any chance it was before Christopher snuffed it, then the money would be his, would have to be, as Octavia's husband. And under his will, I inherit everything except her little capital sum of three thousand pounds. I shall make some investigations as to dates and times, as to the accuracy of reports of Christopher Darcy's death; we may have been misled or misinformed, the man who was supposedly with him might have been mistaken, or could be encouraged to remember that he was mistaken—”

“I cannot bear to think of her with all that money and property,” said Caroline with vigour. “Nabobs! India has a lot to answer for, enriching people of a class who could never in the normal run of things expect to have two pennies to rub together!”

One thing was certain: Octavia must move out of Lothian Street as soon as ever she could. She was longing for a home of her own; Theodosia was being tiresome in the extreme, and she had Arthur hounding and haranguing her. He was a strong-willed, forceful man, a bully, as he had always been, and she longed to be free of him. Which she might be in her own house, but could not when she was living with Theodosia.

Even Mr. Cartland was finding it wearing; he risked his wife's fury by expostulating with her about Arthur, saying, “Your brother treats this house as if it were his own, and he is wasting his time, Octavia will not budge.”

Mrs. Cartland was not standing for a breath of criticism of Arthur, and told her spouse so in no uncertain terms.

“Next we shall have Sir James arriving, spluttering and harrumphing,” Henry Cartland was heard to observe to Penelope as he left the house to find solace in his club.

Alone of her family, Penelope was delighted by Octavia's new wealth. It seemed exactly like a fairy tale to her, and she told her aunt so, her eyes sparkling at how annoyed all kinds of people would be. And, she added casually, did Octavia perhaps have any livings at her disposal now? For Mr. Poyntz was a most deserving case, an excellent clergyman, would adorn any parish in the land.

Octavia didn't know the answer to that; perhaps she had, she would make enquiries, although surely Mr. Poyntz's friend Lord Rutherford was the person to approach on that front.

“Oh, Lord Rutherford has promised him the living of Meryton whenever it should become vacant, and it is a good living, but of course a clergyman cannot have too many livings.”

“How would he serve his parishioners in Hertfordshire at the same time as those in Yorkshire, pray?”

“There is no problem with that, he would appoint a curate, you know, and give him a stipend to do the work. But Mr. Poyntz will not remain a parish priest for long, he is too clever and amiable and well-connected for that; I am quite certain he will advance very rapidly, do not you agree?”

“I am sure of it,” said Octavia, privately thinking that it would have to be a remarkably swift advancement to further Penelope's hopes, since Theodosia would hardly countenance a match with anyone less than a fully fledged bishop.

And Camilla Wytton, like Penelope, was delighted at the news. She called on Octavia, mercifully during Theodosia's absence, with an invitation to accompany her to a bookshop in Leadenhall to purchase some frivolous novels to occupy her time during the rest that the physician was obliging her to take every afternoon.

“It is all nonsense, I am in the rudest health, but Dr. Molloy is an old woman, and Alexander is another, so I do as I am bid, lest I be nagged into distraction by the pair of them. Only it is the most tedious thing to be lying with one's feet up in the daytime, I have never wanted to rest in the day. So I want some exciting tales to while away the time. Do come, have you ever been there?”

No, Octavia hadn't, she had purchased the novel for her journey north from Sam's bookshop in Bond Street.

“I am a good customer there as well, but for the novels from the Minerva Press it is best to go to Leadenhall Street, where you may find everything in print. And if I come with you, I can tell you which ones I possess, and you can borrow them from me, and save the expense. Although of course,” she went on merrily, “you could buy
the whole press yourself, I dare say, never mind the odd three guineas for the novels! How delightful you must find it to be so rich.”

“I have not got used to it yet,” said Octavia. “After spending so many years of my life having to watch every penny, it is strange to know that I can buy as many books as I please, and fashionable clothes. Besides being able to be as generous with my purse as is necessary for charitable concerns. I am looking into funding orphanages in Yorkshire.”

“Fellow feeling?” said Camilla, quick on the uptake as ever. “I plan to interest you in a scheme I have of my own, to help country girls who are stranded in London and are forced on to the streets and into brothels. We women must stand by our own sex, even the most unfortunate members of it.”

“Certainly I will help. And on a more selfish note, I want to buy a horse, although that will have to wait until I have found a house.”

“As to the house,” said Camilla, settled comfortably in her open carriage, “I have some ideas on that. For the horse, let Alexander assist you in the purchase, for women, however rich, cannot so easily be buying horses. I am of no use to you there, I do not care for riding.”

Octavia and Camilla passed a very happy couple of hours in Mr. Lane's establishment, coming away with several mottle-covered volumes. They went from there back to Harte Street, “to eat a nuncheon, for I am always hungry these days, and cannot go without food in the middle of the day,” Camilla said.

What had Camilla to say about the house? Octavia ate her cold meats and fruit, while Camilla talked about her family, passed on absurd snippets of London gossip, and related the plot of the book that her former governess, Miss Griffiths, was presently writing—“She has had half a dozen novels published now, and they are a great success.”

“Now,” said Camilla, when they had finished the light repast, “let us go to the drawing room, where I may lie down upon the sofa, and I shall tell you my great idea.”

Octavia watched, amused, as Camilla's maid bustled about with
cushions and shawls and smelling salts—“horrible stuff,” said Camilla, “I can't imagine why she thinks I need them on the table here, I never ever use them. Now, go away, Sackree, I am quite at my ease.”

“Do not let her get up, if you please, ma'am,” Sackree said to Octavia.

“Goodness, how they all do fuss,” said Camilla. “You would think no one had ever produced a child before. Now, have you ever heard of Lady Susan Threlford?”

Octavia had not, although she had a vague recollection of hearing the name Lord Threlford mentioned.

“You might very well have, but you will not have met him, for he never comes to London. He and his wife and half the rest of the family all live perfectly happily in a rambling great house in Shropshire. Lady Susan is his youngest daughter, he had about five of them, I believe, and she alone of her family felt that the remoter parts of England were not where she wanted to spend her life. So, having some money put by, she decamped with her maid to America, where she became an actress.”

“An actress?”

“Yes, it is incredible, is it not? But it was what she chose to be, and while she was there, she married a fellow Thespian. However, that ended unhappy, for he turned out to already have a wife, in Chicago or Minnesota, I can't remember, and it doesn't matter. The upshot was, she has returned to England, to be reunited with her family.”

“You mean they didn't cast her off?”

“No, no. She is the apple of her father's eye, and they think nothing of her escapades, they are those sort of people. And so grand, you see, that it is difficult for people to criticise them, and it doesn't bother them one jot if they do. But Lady Susan is no happier in Shropshire than ever she was, and longs to be in London. She is older than you, past thirty, but the greatest fun. However, she does not have a great deal of money, very little in fact, and so cannot be setting up her own establishment in London. And nor, to be frank with you, Octavia, can you.”

Octavia did not agree at all with Camilla on that. Why should she
not have her own house? She was a widow, not an unmarried girl, why should it be the least kind of a problem?

“Because of the way the world is. Of course, since you are now so rich, you can choose to do as you like, and I know that you do not give a button for the opinion of the polite world, but I assure you, it matters more than you think it does. Besides, it is lonely living on one's own, and I think you have had more than your fair share of loneliness.”

That struck home, that was all too true.

“Lady Susan is the best company in the world. She will never bore you, will not impose her company on you when you do not want it, for she has a great number of friends of her own, excluded though she is from some circles on account of her having trodden the boards. At least let me introduce you, she is paying a visit to London next week, and see how you like one another. Oh, and I forgot to mention, she is a poetess, she has a volume of poetry preparing this very moment, that is what brings her to London, to discuss the work with Mr. Murray.”

Octavia didn't want to say so, but she privately thought that Lady Susan sounded not only eccentric, but far too formidable to make a comfortable companion. But yes, she would dine with the Wyttons next Tuesday, and make the acquaintance of Lady Susan.

Meanwhile, Pagoda Portal had been busy on her behalf. There were half a dozen houses, he said, which might be suitable, let her name her time, and, if she wished, he would go with her to view them. Much to Octavia's pleasure, Mrs. Rowan came with Mr. Portal. “For I love looking at houses,” she said.

Two of the houses were to be let unfurnished, and it was those Octavia wanted to see first. “I should so much enjoy seeing to everything myself, and buying furniture and fitting it all out,” she said. “Perhaps Mrs. Rowan will help me to purchase some Turkey rugs, for I love those rich colours.”

Octavia found the first house unsatisfactory. Her keen eye spotted many deficiencies which she said would have to be put right; the prospect was a dark one, the kitchen quarters inconvenient, and, she
said, there had been some internal alterations which had been carried out in a shoddy manner.

“Upon my word, you seem to know a great deal about it all,” said Mr. Portal.

“I like houses, and have always been interested in their design and construction. When I lived with my stepmother, she had a great deal of work done on the house, and the architect and builder were kind enough to answer all my questions.”

“In which case,” said Mr. Portal, “I think that this next house we are to see will take your fancy. It is new built, and just the right size for your purposes, I would venture to say. It was designed by Mr. Quintus Dance, have you heard of him?”

“I have indeed,” said Octavia. And, when she saw the house, she exclaimed with pleasure and admiration, “It is perfect.”

Fitting snugly in between the neighbouring houses, and built entirely in the modern style, it was a creamy stucco on the outside, with wrought-iron balconies. Inside, the house was light and airy, with the traditional two rooms on each floor. The fine drawing room on the first floor pleased Octavia particularly. It had a wide, curved balcony outside the deep sash windows, and looked out on to a small front garden through elegant wrought-iron arches.

“Everything in just the right proportion, the rooms are all a good size, and the servants could never complain about their quarters.”

“I agree,” said Henrietta Rowan, inspecting some cupboards. “It is as neat a house as I have seen. Three bedchambers; should you want to invite guests, there is room, and look, there is a modern water closet installed, what could be more convenient?”

“It is a fashionable street,” said Mr. Portal, throwing up a sash and peering out to look up at the guttering. “Mr. Oliver, the painter, lives at number 15, and the Macauleys have number 9.”

“Will you be setting up your carriage?” said Henrietta. “We should go and look at the mews, to see what stabling there is.”

That was also just right, a small coach house, with stabling for four horses, room for a carriage, and accommodation above for a coachman and groom.

“You may want to ask your sister's advice on hiring staff,” said Mr. Portal, when Octavia told him that she was very happy to take the house, “but if I and Mrs. Rowan can be of any assistance …”

Octavia thanked him; no, she did not share her sister's ideas of what made a good servant. She would hope to bring her maid from her sister's house, if her sister would agree, for the girl suited her; otherwise, she would hardly know where to begin.

“And hiring London servants is not so easy, if you are not used to it,” said Mrs. Rowan. “You will need a housekeeper, a cook, a kitchen and scullery maid, your maid, a chambermaid, a footman, or perhaps two. And a butler. As well, of course, as the stable staff.”

“So many?” said Octavia, for although she had been used to a large household in India, such a number seemed unnecessary.

“For a house this size, you can do with no less,” said Mrs. Rowan. “You do not want to be working your servants into the ground, for it never pays.”

Octavia was feeling slightly daunted; perhaps she should have thought of taking some rooms, where she would manage with a much smaller staff.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Rowan. “You are used to running a house, you did so in India without any difficulty. The staff I suggest will do you well; nothing extravagant or extreme, but in keeping with the house and with your position.”

Her position! She was still not used to having any position at all, and then her heart gave a leap at the prospect of furnishing and equipping this enchanting, pristine house. She went round the rooms again, and looking into the bedrooms found herself hoping that she did like Lady Susan, for she might indeed find it lonely here, with only the troop of servants for company.

“Mrs. Wytton has suggested that I should have a friend of hers to live with me,” she said to Mrs. Rowan as they drove back to Lothian Street.

“That is a sensible notion,” said Mr. Portal. “Who is it she has in mind?”

“Lady Susan Threlford.”

“Susie!” cried Mrs. Rowan. “Oh, what a capital idea, how clever of Camilla to suggest it. She is one of my oldest friends, we went to the same boarding school, only she ran away, she was always running away. And now she wants to run away from Shropshire again, and live in London. I do so hope you like one another. I am sure you will.”