The True Darcy Spirit (8 page)

Now here she was in London, alone, with little money and no friends or acquaintances to ask for help. She must stop dwelling on what was past, even though her heart still ached from her betrayal by James Eyre, from the knowledge that her lover’s affection for her was not equal to hers for him, that prudence had ruled his emotions as it had not hers.

It was time to take stock of her situation and start planning her future. Life must go on. First, she decided, she should return to her lodgings, and collect her few belongings before moving elsewhere. That in itself seemed an insuperable problem, she had not the least idea how to go about finding respectable new lodgings.

She looked at the window on the other side of the doorway into the shop. There were prints and two paintings on display; looking at a water-colour of a collection of flowers, she told herself that she could do very much better than that, and if such paintings might be sold, then why not hers?

Cheered up by this, she opened the shop door and went inside, a bell proclaiming her arrival to the wrinkle-faced man who came bustling into the shop from an inner room. The air smelt of linseed oil and varnish, and gave Cassandra comfort. This was a familiar world, and one where she might find a truer base for happiness—if not survival.

She bid the shopkeeper good day, in her pleasant, well-bred
voice. He glanced behind her, expecting, Cassandra knew, to see an accompanying maid or a companion of some kind.

She would begin with a purchase.

Mr. Rudge had the new blocks of water-colour, and she had to restrain her impulse to buy a boxful; she must take care of her money now. Then a chance mention of Herr Winter brought a smile and a gleam to the faded blue eyes of the shopkeeper. Herr Winter had long been a customer, a friend, he would venture to say, such a shame that he had had to leave London.

Of course, for any acquaintance of his, a pupil, did she say…? Indeed, then it was a privilege to help, and Cassandra found that the prices were suddenly less than had originally been quoted.

“Is there anything more I can do for you?” he asked, as he made a neat brown paper parcel of her small purchases.

She hesitated. “Perhaps. I am to make a little stay in London, and my friends, with whom I was to stay, are longer out of town than they had planned,” she said, improvising rapidly. Did he know of some respectable woman who let out rooms?

He pursed his lips, and shook his head from side to side. “Not that would be suitable for a lady of quality,” he said regretfully.

It was an impasse, for she could hardly claim not to be what she so obviously was.

The bell tinkled, and a middle-aged woman, of smart appearance, dressed in bombazine, came into the shop. Cassandra stood to one side, hoping to have a further word with the proprietor when he had finished with this new arrival, who seemed to be an honoured customer. The design for a screen was ready, she would wish to see it and approve before any more work was done on the panels. He hurried into the back, and reappeared with several sheets of paper intricately worked with a pattern of peacocks and urns.

An unbalanced design, Cassandra said to herself, but she said nothing.

Mrs. Nettleton—for that was how Mr. Rudge addressed her—studied and questioned and approved. Then she turned and smiled at Cassandra.

“I am sorry to have interrupted your business here; I had thought you were finished.”

Her voice was ladylike, and her smile was pleasant but not over-familiar.

“No, pray do not worry. I have made my purchases, I was lingering to ask Mr. Rudge about another matter.”

“A pupil of Herr Winter’s,” Mr. Rudge told Mrs. Nettleton. “I mention it, for you bought one of his paintings some years ago, a fine work, on a mythological theme, if I remember correctly. Miss”—he looked enquiringly at Cassandra—

“Kent,” she said quickly.

“—is but recently come to town, but finds herself at a stand for lodgings, her friends not having returned as soon as they were expected. Your best course,” he said, addressing Cassandra, “will be to put up at one of the hotels.”

Mrs. Nettleton nodded her approval, but the look she gave Cassandra was shrewd and appraising.

“Do you live far from London?”

More invention came into Cassandra’s head. “I have come from Bath, where I resided until recently. I am a widow, my husband was wounded at Waterloo, and was never well again, and he died last year. From his wounds. My friends, Mr. and Mrs. Fortescue, dwell in Wimpole Street.” Cassandra had little idea of where Wimpole Street was, but had heard Emily describe it as the kind of place where maiden aunts with no great social position or money often chose to live.

Mrs. Nettleton looked faintly surprised. “Wimpole Street? Indeed. I would have thought…but that is no matter. Are there no servants at home?”

“The knocker is off the door. They have been away in Scotland, but were due to return last week; I can only conclude they have been delayed. I hope no mishap can have befallen them.”

“Is your stay in London to be of some while?” Mrs. Nettleton asked.

Cassandra blushed. “I intend to establish myself here, I am well-taught
as an artist, and I hope that I may find employment instructing young ladies”—she turned with a smile to Mr. Rudge—“as Herr Winter did me.”

“Have you no family in London, no other acquaintance?” Mrs. Nettleton said.

“I fear not. My parents are dead, I have no brothers or sisters.” Cassandra felt a momentary qualm, consigning her mama to the grave, but she didn’t want Mr. Rudge to pursue the subject of her family; it was best to keep away from the county of Kent.

Mrs. Nettleton searched in her reticule and produced a card, which she handed to Cassandra. It was engraved in an elegant copperplate, and gave her address as 7 St. James’s Square.

“It so happens that I have a room which I let out from time to time, only to ladies of good family, and generally to persons I know. My house is large, and I am glad of the company that a lodger provides. It is a comfortable apartment, on the second floor.”

Cassandra stared at the card and then looked up at Mrs. Nettleton. Could her problem be solved in this fortuitous way?

“You know nothing about me,” she said.

“Mr. Rudge vouches for your master, at least, and I am sure Herr Winter would instruct none but those who came from the best houses, is that not so, Mr. Rudge?”

“Indeed, a man of Herr Winter’s standing and reputation might pick and choose where he chose to teach, and I did hear that he has pupils at several great houses in his neighbourhood…” Mr. Rudge looked questioningly at Cassandra.

“That is so,” said Cassandra. “But he also instructs young people from more modest establishments, such as myself. My late papa was a clergyman.”

Why had she not thought to say that sooner? It was not so far from the truth as some of her wicked lies, for was not her stepfather, although still alive, an ordained clergyman?

The clerical touch worked magic. Mrs. Nettleton and Mr. Rudge beamed approval. She was placed, she was respectable.

“Pray step round at any time to suit you,” said Mrs. Nettleton. “You have my direction. Where are you staying at present?”

“With my old nurse, in Parker Street, but it is not precisely convenient for her…”

“And not suitable for a young lady such as yourself,” said Mrs. Nettleton firmly. “I have a numerous acquaintance; perhaps it will be possible for me to find some houses with daughters in need of a drawing teacher.”

“I will keep my ears open, also,” promised Mr. Rudge, “although it is an overcrowded profession, especially here in London. However, a pupil of Herr Winter’s would come highly recommended, I feel sure.”

The two women left the shop together, shaking hands as they stood outside on the pavement.

“I hope to see you soon, my dear Mrs. Kent,” said Mrs. Nettleton. “Shall we say tomorrow morning?”

Cassandra walked back to Covent Garden with a lighter heart than she had had for many days. Even the hostility of Mrs. Dodd, who was not her old nurse at all, but James Eyre’s, could not upset her that evening. Mrs. Dodd thoroughly disapproved of her, for she had a great fondness for James, as was only natural, and knew that he and Cassandra had had a violent quarrel. Cassandra suspected that only the knowledge that Mr. Eyre would expect to find Cassandra there when he came back prevented Mrs. Dodd from tossing her and her possessions out into the street. She was grateful for that small mercy, but nonetheless, she must be gone before James did return. He was in Ireland, to visit a sick godfather, from whom he had expectations; he had said he would be away less than a week, and that time was nearly up.

She had arrived at Parker Street in Covent Garden in quite a different mood to that of the present. Their departure from Bath had been sudden and thrilling, slipping out from Laura Place at midnight,
the door left on the latch for her by a reluctant Petifer, with the few things she could bring with her hastily made into a bundle.

She had left a note for Mrs. Cathcart, saying that she was bound for Gretna Green; this she had laid on her own pillow, knowing that by the time it was discovered in the morning, she and James would be many miles on their way northwards.

It was not until the first raptures of their journey had abated, that Cassandra had discovered they were not heading for the border.

“On reflection, my love,” James had said, “I came to the conclusion that we are better off in London. It will be harder for them to trace or follow us, you know, and after all we do not wish to be hauled back like a pair of school runaways. In London, we may make our plans without any fear of interference.”

Cassandra would willingly have accepted a suggestion that they set off for the steppes or the wilds of Turkestan, if that had been what James wanted. He was older than she was, and much more experienced in the ways of the world. And the last thing she wanted was to find Mrs. Cathcart banging on an inn door on the road to Scotland, summoning her for retribution and separating her from James.

She asked whether they could be married so easily in London, since she was underage, but he smiled at her tenderly, and said that anything could be arranged in London, she was to leave it all to him. It might take a little time to arrange, but as long as they were together, what did a few days matter?

“We had best tell Mrs. Dodd that we are married, however,” he said. “I do not suppose you have a ring you could wear, no, of course not. We must stop and purchase one, only I am very short of funds just at present. It’s a dashed nuisance.”

“I have my mother’s wedding ring,” Cassandra said. “Will Mrs. Dodd believe that you are married, with no announcement of an engagement or a wedding?”

“She is used to my impulsive ways, and when she meets you, she will love you as much as I do, and not ask any awkward questions, you need have no fears on that score.”

Mrs. Dodd did not seem exactly enthusiastic over their arrival,
but she was obviously fond of James, if suspicious of Cassandra. “You’re in a scrape, James, and too old for me to get you out of it as I used to when you were a little boy. You may have the best bedchamber, you and the new Mrs. Eyre.”

Even if there was a hint of sarcasm in Mrs. Dodd’s voice, it warmed Cassandra’s heart to be called Mrs. Eyre. And an idyllic night of love with her beloved James made her care even less when and how their marriage was to take place. She was living for the moment, and these moments were filled with rapture and happiness. In the daytime, they strolled arm in arm about London, exploring and laughing together. He told her tales of his nautical life, and she hung on his every word. She gave him all her money, although it seemed sadly depleted; she must have spent more in Bath than she had thought.

“It’s only a temporary difficulty,” James said. “I shall come back from Ireland with full pockets, and this will last us meanwhile.”

Cassandra could not bear to be parted from him. “Must you go to Ireland?”

“I wouldn’t leave you dear heart, not for an hour, if it were not necessary. My godfather has not been well for some years, and he looks forward to my visits, I cannot disappoint him. And you know, he has named me in his will, I do not want to incur his displeasure. I shall leave on Tuesday, and be back by that day se’ennight, if I travel fast.”

What a fool she had been, how wrapped up in her love and in James! Cassandra looked about the best bedchamber with an aching sadness; how could she imagine that her dream could shatter in such a way?

“Shall we be married when you return from Ireland?” she had asked him.

“I have it all in hand, do not concern yourself about it.” He gave her a hearty kiss. “I am going to leave you in here for an hour, no more, for I have some business to conduct, and Mrs. Dodd has given me the use of her parlour. I beg you will not stir from here, do not come downstairs, for I would not have you seen.”

“Is this business with someone I know?” she asked in a teasing voice.

“No, why should it be? Of course not. What put such an idea in your head?”

“Do not snap at me, it was a remark, I do not mean to meddle in your private affairs.”

“My affairs are your affairs, but in matters of business, you know, one deals face-to-face, and does better with no distractions.” Another kiss, and he was gone, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The room overlooked a small yard, in which grew a mulberry tree. Cassandra opened the casement as wide as it would go and sat herself down on the wide window seat with her sketching book, happy to spend an hour catching the exact shape of a leaf, and, more difficult, the movement of the leaves in the slight breeze.

It was a hot day. The sun shone down on the garden, and the sounds of London, the city that was never still, never quiet, were all around her. She could hear voices, someone singing a popular catch, someone bawling out the details of sweetmeats he had to sell, a groom talking to a horse. Closer now, that was James’s voice, coming up from the room below; the window downstairs must be open, too. She smiled, just the timbre of his voice made her feel warm inside.