The Second Mrs Darcy (28 page)

Octavia found there was a world of difference between sitting to one side, with the play in her hand, and taking a role. Lady Susan, Lady Sophronia, and Lord Rutherford were hard taskmasters; Mr. Portal begged for them to have some pity on her, but Lord Rutherford said in his ruthless way that she would need their pity if she fumbled her lines or missed a cue, for then she would be a laughing-stock.

Which did nothing to calm Octavia's nerves; however, as the morning went on, she found herself calmed by the words themselves. As she spoke her lines, the poetry took over, and she found herself becoming Viola, with Octavia receding into the background of her consciousness.

“How very strange it is,” she said to Lady Susan, when they were allowed a brief respite to eat the nuncheon that was laid out in the dining room.

“We will make an actress of you yet,” said Lady Susan. “Your breathing is at fault, however; this evening I shall show you how to breathe, otherwise there is a danger that you will lose your voice; we can lose one Viola, but not two.”

“Two days to go,” said Rutherford at the end of an exhausting day. “Sophronia, we shall need the musicians.” And the next morning, there they were, two bassoonists, one a scrawny man, who looked almost too weak to hold his hefty bassoon, the other a burly individual, the local baker. One of the guests had brought his fiddle with him, another his cello, and a young Lucas, a younger brother of the one who was to play Sebastian, came over from Lucas Lodge with his flute.

To Octavia, the world of the play, of make-believe, was seeping into her normal self. She was confused, now Octavia, now Cesario, now Viola, but when she found herself saying Viola's lines, she was suddenly, acutely aware of the feelings that were echoed in the words.

Orsino, still the melancholy duke, sat on a stool, in the attitude of an Elizabethan consumed with hopeless love. Octavia sat at his feet, and when he said, “And what's her history?” her heart was in her mouth, and she picked up her cue to say,

Lord Rutherford broke in on her words. “When you reply, you must look up at me, into my eyes. I see you as a boy, you see me as a man. Now, try again.”

Octavia's head swam as she brought out the lines. Her breath was wrong; not surprising, she could hardly breathe, overcome with the realisation that had swept over her, the feelings that she had so resolutely refused to give in to.

Lady Susan's voice rang in her ears. “Octavia, please pay attention. You have forgotten all I taught you. Now, breathe, from here—” She held her rib cage with both her hands. “Control your breath, let it flow out through the line. Then you breathe again after the break.”

Octavia forced herself to attend to nothing except the breathing and the words, but looking up at Lord Rutherford, whose dark blue eyes held more than a gleam of amusement, she once again faltered. Then, with an effort of will, forcing herself to think only of the poetry and not at all of Lord Rutherford, she spoke the words smoothly and easily.

The sixth of January, the Feast of the Epiphany, dawned to a magical frost sparkling over the trees and fields. Octavia looked out of her window through the spun crystal of a frozen spider's web into a blue sky. The gardener, Lady Sophronia told her when she came down to breakfast, was the best weather seer in the district, and he had promised them a fine, clear day, and a milder one than of late, so that with the moon full, all the families from round about would feel happy to make the journey to dine and watch the play at Netherfield House.

“And then,” said Penelope, who had arrived early in the day—to help with costumes, she said, but in truth to be near Poyntz—“Christmas will be over.” She gave a heartfelt sigh. “And I shall go back to London.”

Mrs. Ackworth and Lord Rutherford exchanged conspiratorial smiles.

“What have I said that is so amusing?” Penelope asked peevishly, and while her cousin hastened to assure her that she knew her to be enjoying herself in Hertfordshire, Lord Rutherford asked his sister if the post had been brought up yet.

“My dear Sholto, what are you expecting? That is the third time you have asked me. Do not you know how busy all the servants are today? The man who usually collects the post has a dozen other
errands in the town. Now, I must see to the lights. I fear that Mr. Jenkins will set fire to Netherfield if we are not careful; he is fascinated by the limelights, and I am sure we shall end up dazzled by the footlights he is setting up for us.”

“Limelights!” said Octavia. “You know, Lord Rutherford, when I first heard Lady Sophronia talk about a play, I imagined that a country-house performance would be more akin to an evening of charades, not anything so intense and accomplished as what is planned here.”

“Ah, well, we have our reputation to look to. We have to show our neighbours that although Chauntry has gone, the traditions remain.”

The play was to be performed at dusk and followed by a magnificent supper for all the guests. So the house was in turmoil as the final preparations were made for hospitality that would be worthy of the occasion.

As Lady Sophronia predicted, it was late in the morning when the manservant returned from Meryton with the post. The letters were taken at once to Lord Rutherford's room, and when his lordship was told that they have arrived, he broke off at once from a spirited conversation he was having with Pagoda Portal as to a Bill to be brought in during the next session of Parliament, and went to attend to his correspondence.

Octavia had no time to wonder what letter Lord Rutherford might be so eagerly awaiting. Lady Susan, serene, but with an excitement about her, had instructed Alice to make up Viola in good time, and Octavia, whose excellent complexion needed no enhancement, found herself being painted to within an inch of her life. “Good gracious, whatever do I look like?” she exclaimed when her maid handed her a looking-glass for her to inspect her face.

Lady Susan cast a critical eye over her. “Like an impure, or alternatively, an actress. To most of the English, they are the same thing. You should visit America, my dear Octavia, and then you would find yourself in a different world, with many of the truths and shibboleths you have grown up with quite ignored, or considered plain wrong.”

“Do you miss America?” Octavia asked, putting down the mirror.

“I confess that I do,” said Lady Susan with a sigh. “It's a young country, and full of a sense of adventure which I don't find in London. However, fate has decided that I am once again an Englishwoman, so I must make the best of it.”

A footman came into the room. “A letter for you, my lady,” he said.

Lady Susan took it without looking at it, and tucked it into her reticule. Her mind was on the present moment and on the play; she didn't have time to read a letter now, she remarked, as she picked up the velvet cap that Viola wore in the first act and directed Alice to pin up Octavia's hair to go under it.

Carriages were soon bowling up the drive, disgorging guests all in a happy mood of expectation. The Wyttons and Mr. Bennet were early arrivals, and Camilla put her head round the door of the room set aside as a dressing room to exclaim at Octavia's appearance and to wish her luck.

“You must not do that,” said Lady Susan, driving her out of the room. “Do you not know that you must never wish an actor or actress luck before a performance? Ill wish her if you like, that is considered much more fortunate.”

Octavia's mouth was dry, her lines had flown from her head, and she turned a desperate face to Lady Susan, who laughed at her in a most unfeeling way.

“Never look at me with that tragic face. You will do very well, as soon as you are out there on stage, you will be a shipwrecked girl cast up on the shores of Illyria, and Shakespeare will do the rest.”

With her Elizabethan skirts heavy and clumsy over her boy's costume, Octavia went to the ballroom. Lord Rutherford was already on stage, hidden from the gathering, chattering audience by the great fall of curtain, issuing directions to Mr. Jenkins, who was wrestling with a tree that formed part of the scenery.

When he saw Octavia, his eyebrows rose, and he swept her an elegant bow. “How does Viola, my queen, my mistress?”

Octavia felt her rouged cheeks flaring into more vivid colour, and
annoyed with herself, tried to turn off his greeting with a smile. There was something more than the usual amusement in Rutherford's expressive eyes this evening. Laughter, yes, but also a tenderness that made her heart thump; a sensation that had the effect of driving away her theatrical nerves, but left her feeling peculiarly defenceless standing there in front of him. However would she get through the performance with even a modicum of credit if she couldn't control her feelings better than this?

Lord Rutherford disconcerted her by changing the subject. “I have news for you that will put a lilt into your step and joy into your voice,” he said. “Mr. Warren has withdrawn his claim.”

Octavia couldn't believe her ears.

“Mr. Warren has done what?”

“Withdrawn his claim to your inheritance. Absolutely, without reservation, he agrees he has no claim.”

“But how—when did you hear this.” And then, “How came
you
to have this news; and what has it to do with you?”

Then Lady Sophronia was there, telling Octavia to go off to the side and chivvying Mr. Jenkins to finish his work.

“The two of you must not stand here gossiping; the performance will begin very soon, and there is Mr. Jenkins, listening hard. I don't know what you think you are about, Sholto!”

Octavia made to follow Lady Sophronia to the side, but Lord Rutherford laid his hand on her arm to hold her back for a moment. “It is true, I wouldn't tease you on such a subject. I will tell you everything afterwards.”

As they came off the stage, he paused to twitch the edge of the curtain so that he could look out into the ballroom. “Let us make sure that we are to have an audience for our efforts,” he said.

“You must be deaf if you think we have not,” said Octavia. “It sounds as though half of Hertfordshire is present; let us trust that they stop talking when the musicians strike up.”

Lord Rutherford wasn't listening. “What the devil is that Mr. Richard Forsyte doing here? Who invited the man, why is he in my house?”

Lady Sophronia was at his side, mocking him. “Your house, your invitation; you are not the only person in the world, Sholto. Mr. Forsyte is here by my invitation, and I am very happy that he is able to attend.”

With which she whisked herself round the curtain and into the ballroom, where in a moment she was beside Mr. Forsyte, greeting him with evident delight. Octavia, peeking through a gap in the curtain left by the indignant Lord Rutherford, saw the warmth in Mr. Forsyte's eyes as he stood looking down at Lady Sophronia.

“Well, I will be damned,” said Lord Rutherford, even more wrathfully. “If Sophronia thinks—” Then he caught Octavia's eye; it was her turn to look amused, and for a moment his mouth tightened before he relaxed, laughing. “I make too much of it, Sophronia is of course entitled to her friends, although I would have thought a fellow like that—”

“If you are talking about Mr. Richard Forsyte, Rutherford,” said Mr. Portal, who had come up behind them. He was swelled to quite twice his normal size by the stuffing in his doublet and made a startling figure. “I have to tell you that you are being absurd. He is a man I would welcome to my house at any time, and before you retort that I am another cit, I beg you to refrain from making any such remark.”

“Of course I would not say any such thing,” said Lord Rutherford. “What do you take me for? It is just that he seems very forward, very free and easy with my sister.”

“If you have eyes in your head, Rutherford, which I sometimes doubt, you would see that your sister and Mr. Forsyte are in love.”

“In love?”

“It happens to people, Sholto. Even you,” and with a roguish glance at Octavia, and a quick pressure on her arm, he moved away to where he would make his first entrance.

The lights in the ballroom were extinguished at Lady Sophronia's bidding. The actors heard the chattering voices of the audience die down and fade away as the musicians began to play, and then the cur
tains drew apart to reveal Duke Orsino, dashing and insouciant in his black and gold, to speak his opening lines:

Octavia, intensely moved, knew with sudden awareness that there was no difficulty in playing her part as Viola, no difficulty at all. Viola was young and deeply in love with the Duke Orsino, and here she was, inhabiting Viola's persona and sharing all her character's emotions. She had never seen Lord Rutherford look more handsome than in his extravagant costume, and the sound of his voice speaking the golden poetry sent shivers up and down her spine.

She went through the play almost in a dream. The words were Shakespeare's, but she spoke them from her own heart, with an ardour that made up for her inexperience as an actress. She did well, she knew she had done well, although there was no question but that Lord Rutherford and Lady Susan were the hit of the evening. The audience were attentive and responsive, and burst into joyful applause as Octavia put her hand in Orsino's, and the duke said,

As his eyes looked intently into hers, Octavia felt as though the world stood still; the audience, the applause, the other actors faded from her senses, as though only she and Rutherford existed.

Mr. Ackworth, who loved his Shakespeare, was all attention, and at this he turned to his wife, sitting demurely beside him, and said, in a loud whisper, “Well, you were quite right, my dear. You so often are in affairs of the heart; they will make a match of it, his lordship and Mrs. Darcy.”

Such was the effect of this spontaneous and indiscreet utterance that the audience hardly attended to the closing song, instead breaking into a flurry of whispers, interrupted only by the need for enthu
siastic and sustained applause as the curtain was drawn across, and the actors and actresses came out to take their bows.

The cast stayed in their costumes, with the exception of Octavia, who had no intention of wandering about Netherfield in her breeches, despite Lord Rutherford's provocative remark of how well she looked in them. She hurried upstairs to put on a more conventional evening dress, while Mr. Portal, proclaiming that his own girth was quite substantial enough for any man, put aside his padding in favour of his own coat.

It was a very happy gathering, with friends and neighbours delighted to celebrate this last day of Christmas in one another's company. News was flying round about Charlotte and Mr. Dance. They had been apprehended in Scotland, where they were not yet married, and had agreed to come back to Hertfordshire for a more seemly ceremony than one over the anvil. Sir Joseph was reported as becoming more and more pleased with his new son-in-law, and Lady Goulding, joyfully reunited with her daughter, had shed tears of mingled joy and fury, before admitting that she thought Charlotte might do very well with her Mr. Dance.

Penelope was radiant, and as soon as Octavia came down, she took her to one side to confide in breathless tones that no one had ever been so happy. At Lord Rutherford's urging, Mr. Poyntz had written to Mr. Cartland and had received a letter giving his consent to the match and requesting him to present himself in Lothian Street as soon as he was in town.

“I don't know how Papa persuaded Mama. He enclosed a note from her; he must have made her write it. It is all so strange, for normally—She is very displeased with me; she is quite outspoken, but she is prepared to let me marry Mr. Poyntz at such a time as he is in a position to support a wife. And Dr. Rawleigh is to become a canon of somewhere or other, and so he will give up the living of Meryton. But I think it is all due to Lord Rutherford; Mr. Poyntz declares it is, at all events. He is the kindest man imaginable to go for so much trouble on our behalf. Oh,” and her eyes took on a mischievous twinkle, “I do not need to tell you how kind he is, since you are
going to marry him. Oh, how cross Mama will be, when you are a countess!”

Octavia, who had been listening to her niece with only half an ear, her own thoughts running on Lord Rutherford's extraordinary words about Warren, blinked. “I do not know where you got such an idea from.”

“I have eyes in my head, and being in love myself, I recognise all the signs in other people; a cold and love cannot be hid, Aunt. That is what they say.”

“Minx,” said Lord Rutherford, appearing beside her. “A glass of wine, Mrs. Darcy, to restore your nerves after such a fine performance.”

“Thank you,” she said, all dignity. And then, abandoning her lofty air, she said urgently, “Please do tell me what you meant about Warren. Can it really be so? Can he have given up his claim?”