The True Darcy Spirit (17 page)

The two men met in the hall, both in evening clothes, one arriving as the other left. It was ironic that it was Lord Usborne, whose house it was, who was on his way out, and Mr. Horatio Darcy, the visitor, who was coming in.

Horatio glanced up to the galleried landing at the top of the first flight of stairs, where stood Lady Usborne, dressed most elegantly in a gown of black and white crape, with black velvet Vandykes on the body and on the flounce. For a moment, he was taken aback by her remoteness; she looked beautiful, detached, and unhappy as she watched the encounter between her husband and her lover at the foot of the staircase.

“Good evening, Mr. Darcy,” said Lord Usborne, with a bow.

Horatio returned the bow, as the butler took his hat from him.

“You are taking Lady Usborne to the theatre, I believe?”

Another bow from Horatio.

“I trust you enjoy the performance.” Lord Usborne glanced up at his wife. “And you, my dear. Going to the theatre is often so much more than the play, is that not so?”

“You refer to the farce. I do not often stay for the farce.”

“I am aware of that. I, however, enjoy the entire performance.” He made a leg to the half-seen figure, and went through the door, his
eyes, with something of malice in them, resting on Horatio for the briefest of moments before the door closed behind him.

Horatio felt strangely discomfited by this chance meeting. It was not as though it were not perfectly correct for a friend to take a married woman out to the theatre; indeed, Lady Usborne called those who went out with their husbands quite gothic. “It is fine in the first flush of married bliss, if there is such a thing,” she declared, “but when you have been married as long as Usborne and I have—it is several years, you know—then you hardly wish to be seen everywhere together like an old Darby and Joan, or who are those tiresome Greeks that people go on about?”

“I believe you refer to Philemon and Baucis.”

“Just so.” Her eyes were glinting, and for a moment, Horatio Darcy suspected tears. No, Lady Usborne never cried, at least not in his presence, and why should she want to weep now? He went up the stairs, two steps at a time, took her hand, drew it to his lips, and led her into the drawing room. He complimented her on her gown, a new one, he noticed.

“That is a difference between you and Lord Usborne,” she said, with a tight smile. “You notice what I wear, he never does. It is unusual in a man, I find. Men take no heed of clothes, and then, when one is wearing some gown that has seen the light of day a dozen times, will remark, ‘Is that new? I have not seen it before.’ One day you will make some woman a good husband, I dare say.”

Horatio could hear anguish in her voice, and for a moment it alarmed him. He did not care for this talk of husbands and wives. He certainly had no intention of marrying at present, or at any time in the foreseeable future. What could a wife give him that would compare with the delights offered by Lady Usborne’s company?

The frisson of adultery added a spice to their connection; he was half in love with her, and that was enough. With such an enchanting creature, for she had the reputation of being a veritable Circe, there might be some danger of a younger man, such as himself, tumbling desperately in love with her, becoming her slave, making wild entreaties
to her to risk all and run away with him, but there was nothing so dramatic in their relationship. She was too experienced and he was too wary and too ambitious in his profession for that to be a danger.

Lady Usborne made a tiny correction to a ruffle in his neckcloth, a proprietary gesture that pleased him, although it would have annoyed his valet, who liked to send him out in a state of perfection, and was primly peeved when his master returned somewhat more dishevelled than when he had set out. The neckcloth rearranged in the darkness of a lady’s chamber, even with her nimble fingers in assistance, was never quite the same.

“Lord Usborne seems in a hurry this evening,” he observed, taking the glass of wine that the flat-faced footman had poured for him. They were in good time; the theatre would not begin until seven o’clock, and for a fleeting second, the harmony of a moment of quiet domesticity, of companionship rather than immediate desire, struck Horatio as being peculiarly pleasant. He dismissed the thought and the feeling instantly; good Lord, was he getting old to have such an idea?

“My husband has a new interest in his life,” Lady Usborne said drily.

“Interest?”

“I mean a woman. A mistress. A dazzler, a chestnut-haired dazzler.”

“I am sure her hair is not so dazzling as yours,” Darcy said at once. Lady Usborne was rightly proud of her chestnut hair; he was not to know that that very evening, she had found a thread of silver among her glossy locks and had frowned as she tugged it out and looked at it coiled in her hand.

“She is a young woman, newly come upon the town, I expect. You saw her the other day, when we were driving in the park. She was in a carriage with Lord Usborne and that wretched Mrs. Nettleton woman.”

“I did not notice her,” Horatio said. Lord Usborne’s latest bird of paradise didn’t interest him in the least.

“She is but nineteen,” Lady Usborne went on, a trace of bitterness sounding in her voice. “The last one was young as well.”

“Last one?”

“Harriet Foxley was the slut’s name, only she left him. My word, what a temper that put him in,” she said, with considerable satisfaction. “He is not used to that, he is accustomed to give his women their congé, not the other way around. She was unwise; it does not do to arouse his ire. He savours revenge, and will wait to achieve it.”

“Very melodramatic. I trust he will not extend this courtesy to me.”

“Oh, I am just a possession, not the object of his affections.”

This time the bitterness in her words was unmistakable, and Horatio looked at her closely from under hooded lids, while he seemed to be admiring the colour of his wine. She was not looking at him, however, and did not notice the glance.

“I suppose he will set her up in King Street, in Harriet’s place, and he will give her diamonds and a carriage and let her redecorate the house as she wishes.”

“An expensive business,” Horatio said, keeping his voice deliberately light.

“He is rich enough not to notice it, and after all, he has no children, or no legitimate children to save his money for. His heir is his cousin, you know, that idiotic Lancelot Browne, and Usborne sees no need to preserve his fortune for his sake.”

Lady Usborne rarely referred to the fact that they had no children. “No chance of that,” she had said to Darcy early on in their acquaintance. “And I took care that it should not be so, nothing is so deleterious to a woman’s looks as breeding.”

“His new mistress is presently residing in St. James’s Square,” she went on, “with the odious Mrs. Nettleton. I believe she is newly come from the country. She is a widow, or purports to be one.”

“How do you know so much about her?”

“I have a spy,” said Lady Usborne. “Unbeknownst to Usborne, his groom is in my pay. He knows just where his master goes, and passes the information on to me.”

Horatio found this slightly shocking, and even alarming. “It is a bad servant who spies on his master.”

“And a good servant who obeys his mistress. I found him the
place, he is an efficient groom who does his work well, my husband is pleased with him, so we are all happy.”

Horatio longed to ask why she wanted to know all her husband’s movements, it seemed odd to him. Did she care greatly? All that she said gave him the impression—no, the certainty—that their marriage was a sham, that neither of them cared for each other. Wasn’t her liaison with him the proof of that? Yet, here she was, keeping tabs on her husband in his outings and love affairs.

“Her name is Cassandra,” Lady Usborne was saying. “Pretty enough, but not the one she was given at the font, I should suppose; no woman of that class would have such a name.”

“Did you say Cassandra?” Horatio let his surprise show, and Lady Usborne noticed it at once.

“Do you know her?”

“It is an unusual name, that is all.” Surely it was a coincidence. Of course it was. Cassandra Darcy was in Cheltenham, with Maria Rushworth and Mrs. Norris.

“Mrs. Kent, Mrs. Cassandra Kent.” There was feeling in Lady Usborne’s voice, something more than contempt. Horatio wasn’t attending, and in any case would not have recognised the pain, not covered as it was by a particularly radiant smile.

Coincidence, that was all. “Usborne can never find a mistress as beautiful and attractive as you,” he said, putting down his wineglass and, with a glance at the closed door, going over to join her on the little sofa. He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, then drew her towards him.

Her kiss was passionate and arousing; that there might be desperation in it, did not occur to him.

Footsteps sounded outside the door. They drew apart, and Horatio was on his feet, and standing by the window when the footman came in to announce that the carriage was below.

Cassandra sat in the front of the box, her eyes stretched as she took in the glittering, shifting scene. The theatre seemed so big, and the
din of three thousand people, all speaking at the top of their voices, made her ears ring. So many candles, so much red and gold, so many gorgeous gowns set off by the mostly sombre coats of the men. She was enthralled, and hardly listened to the conversation of the others as they noticed friends and acquaintances and enemies, and, in the case of Mrs. Nettleton and Mrs. Palmer, passed unfavourable comments on the gowns and jewels of various members of the audience.

Cassandra was wearing another of the dresses from Mrs. Nettleton’s wardrobe, of dark red silk, much the most daring dress she had ever had on, a far cry from the maidenly muslins and pale colours she was accustomed to. Although very many of the women were wearing white, she noticed, not the simple white of a girl’s dress, but dashing, frothy confections, cut with a line that her artist’s eye noticed and admired. In a moment when Lord Usborne was speaking to Mrs. Palmer, she commented on this to Mrs. Nettleton.

“Oh, my dear, one forgets you are come from Bath and not familiar with the fashions of town. It is quite the thing among certain ladies to wear white, it shows off jewels and a fine skin to perfection, and it is so difficult and expensive to keep clean that it proclaims to the world that the wearer has the wherewithal to keep herself decked out in such a style.”

Mrs. Nettleton turned back to share a joke with Lord Usborne, and Cassandra returned to surveying the restless crowd below. She became aware of a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck, that feeling of being watched, and, without being too obvious about it, she slowly turned her head to see if she was right, if someone was staring.

Dear God, it was Horatio Darcy. Sitting in a box on the other side of the house, in company with a finely dressed woman, heavens, with Lady Usborne. Well, there was no surprise there, not after what Mrs. Nettleton had told her, but she would very much rather that he hadn’t seen her, not here, dressed like this, in Lord Usborne’s company.

His initial, startled look turned to one of anger. He was not going
to acknowledge her, that was clear; he was favouring her with nothing more than a rigid stare.

Furious with herself for caring, Cassandra felt a flush rising to her cheeks, and she put a hand up to touch her glowing face.

Lord Usborne leant forward. “You are feeling the heat, my dear. You should have brought a fan.”

Smells of musky scent assailed her nostrils, the lights danced and broke into stars before her eyes, the red velvet was the colour of blood, then everything came together in a kaleidoscope of colour and sound, filling her head and making her want to cry out in distress.

“What is it?” hissed Mrs. Nettleton, as Cassandra rose, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“I will be back directly,” said Cassandra, and brushed past Lord Usborne, who was rising to his feet. She whisked herself out of the box and walked quickly, nearly running, along the passage. Men and women and flunkeys stared at her, someone tittered. Where was the way out? She must breathe some air, she had to be out of this place, away from the red and gold and heat, away from painted Mrs. Nettleton, away from the affected laughter and voice of Mrs. Palmer, and, most of all, out of reach of Lord Usborne.

She found her way at last down the stairs to the entrance lobby, thronged with people, and plunged out into the street.

No one could have called the night London air fresh; it smelt of smoke and nearby hot-food stalls and horses, and a number of other odours that Cassandra could not have identified, but to her, it was nectar.

People jostled her as she stood, the polite company going into the theatre with a murmur of apology, others with an oath. A man stopped, eyed her up and down, and opened his mouth to address her, and then, miracle of miracles, Petifer was beside her. Cassandra, coming to her senses, stared at the man, with such a look of aloof disgust on her face that he moved hastily away. Petifer took her arm and dragged her away from the crush.

“Petifer! What are you doing here?”

“I followed you. I told you, Miss Cassandra, I was going to keep an eye on you, and it looks like you need it.”

“It was only a visit to the theatre, you know,” Cassandra said, with an attempt at a laugh.

“What, in the company of that man, his lordship, and Mrs. Nettleton. There’s a word for women like her, and it isn’t a nice one. Fine company for a Miss Darcy.”

“Ssh,”
said Cassandra. “Petifer, you must not use that name.”

“And why not? It’s the name you were born with, and it’s the name you’ll have until you’re married.”

“Then it will always be my name, but for heaven’s sake, Petifer, not here, not in public. Mrs. Kent, if you please.”

They were walking away from St. James’s Square now, up Haymarket. Cassandra was not really aware of the direction they were taking, but realised they were in Piccadilly Circus, with its bustle of traffic.

“I go the other way,” she said to Petifer.