A Private Performance (27 page)

“I dread the thought of a quarrel with you, my dear,” she said. “You have become indispensable to me.”

“I do not seek a quarrel, madam. I do not know that we can understand one another,” Elizabeth said, and she turned to the door.

Lady Englebury reached out and took her hand. “I care for you as I would a daughter. It is a feeling I have not known since being robbed of my own.”

“I pity you for your loss, Lady Englebury, but I cannot take her place. I am a ‘daughter' who will not suffice as she is. I feel that you have prepared a mould for me into which I do not conveniently pour.” Sadness crept in at the edges of her words. “I beg to take leave of you now.”

The marchioness sat quite still for several minutes.

“I shall give this matter careful thought,” she declared, looking up. Mrs. Darcy had left the room.

 

Elizabeth gazed into the mirror absently as Wilkins finished dressing her hair. Darcy knocked and came in.

She said, “I will come down in a few minutes.”

“I shall wait for you,” he said, and sat down.

She felt acutely irritated by his presence. She glanced at him in the mirror; he was gazing at her steadily, an expressionless examination. She looked away.

“Are you intending to wear that gown to dinner?” he asked.

She turned gracefully on the stool and he looked at her. Her favourite yellow, the silk of the gown seemed to cling about her figure.

“I had thought you liked it.”

“That was in London. I do not wish my wife to appear so here.”

“Many fashionable women wear gowns more daring than this.” He shrugged, with a flicker in his eyes she read as contempt. She turned back to the mirror.

“You wish me to change into something else?” He had not wished to prevail at the price of this coldness.

“I cannot comprehend that you have cause for complaint,” he said.

She turned her eyes to the maid's, in the reflection of the mirror. “Wilkins, bring me something Quakerish, will you?”

“Quakerish, madam? Shall I bring the white braided silk?”

Elizabeth, without turning her head, said: “Pray, allow me five minutes.” Dismissed, Darcy left the room. Georgiana was waiting by the door of her room, afraid to go down alone. They walked the length of the corridor together. Georgiana looked up at her brother furtively. He was absorbed in thought, eyes impenetrably dark.

“Fitzwilliam,” she said. He looked at her in surprise, having forgotten she was there. They had walked back past Elizabeth's door.

“You will not fight him, will you?” she whispered.

“I would dearly like to thrash him, but one only fights with a gentleman. I would not duel with the son of a tradesman!” Elizabeth was standing in the doorway. Georgiana blushed as deeply as though those words had been her own. Elizabeth took Darcy's arm.

“I am so pleased you will not shoot my Uncle Gardiner, sir. Shall we go down? I fear we may be late.”

That evening, the ladies seemed only too happy to leave the gentlemen to their port. They played duets and sang together, even Georgiana joining in. The marchioness put some energy into entertaining and had them all laughing over her caustic wit. Elizabeth sang her ladyship's favourite song.

When the gentlemen came in, they were delighted to find the ladies so light-hearted. The marquess chuckled happily, so sick he was of politics.

Elizabeth met Darcy's moody glance and shrugged inwardly.

‘Let him sulk, if he enjoys it so,' she thought. Glover had been watching her, too, with his unfathomable smoulder. ‘What a pair of blockheads they are.'

“Let us have glees!” his lordship quavered. “Pray do not get up, Mrs. Darcy. You shall sing. We heard you piping away as we came from the dining room.”

Sir Beau was to provide his rather thrilling baritone and Whittaker the tenor. Amelia rose. “Arabella, pray take my place. I am sure everyone wishes very much to hear you sing.”

“Thank you, but I decline,” she replied, with her languid smile. “I should spoil the tableau, for you all look so very well together!”

There was a general murmur of concurrence, for they did look well. Whittaker stood at Elizabeth's side, his blond good looks complementing her brunette prettiness and sparkling dark eyes; and Sir Beau's great size and leonine locks making an impressive foil for Amelia's impish charm.

“Oh, Darcy,” said Courtney, with an air of tragedy. “I feel that we are become a surplus commodity.”

From Darcy's expression, Elizabeth feared a sarcastic reply. It was
cut off by Lady Hunt's exclamation: “Sir Beau, you look like a lion alongside a dear little elf,” she said. “Beware, for I shall turn Delilah in the night if you do not call for the hairdresser soon.”

“Madam, I beseech you to stay your hand. I am remaking myself as an interesting personage. You may find you admire the result.”

He produced laughter, for poseurs were, in fact, the favourite butts of Sir Beau's humour. Elizabeth looked questioningly at Darcy. He met her gaze with no warmth in his expression. Elizabeth's eyes wandered on to Georgiana, who sat in a still daze. Lord Bradford, sitting at her side, leant towards her.

“Miss Darcy?” he said softly.

She turned to him. She had only known one man as gentle as this.

“I hope I have not offended you in some way,” he said.

“Oh, no, my Lord!” she said. “I do not think you could ever offend anyone.” He was touched to the core by the innocence of this remark.

“Then why will you vouchsafe me no conversation tonight?”

“I am so sorry. I did not know.”

“You appear troubled. You would do me the highest honour if you could let me help you.”

Georgiana's eyes stung with tears repressed. “Thank you. You are very kind, but I have no troubles.”

Amelia noticed them deep in conversation and gave her husband a conspiratorial glance.

At last, Lady Englebury rose to retire and many of the company seemed inclined to follow. After seeing those guests on their way upstairs, her ladyship turned back to the room.

“Nephew!”

“Yes, Aunt?”

“Come! I wish to speak with you.” At the door he turned and rolled his eyes at Arabella, then followed the little round figure into the library.

As soon as he closed the door, she turned on him sharply, and said: “Peregrine, you seem determined to stir up trouble for
Mr. Glover over his present work. Do not imagine your spiteful little manoeuvres are lost upon anyone.”

“You know I cannot resist it at times, dear Lady Englebury. Glover, dear man, has a fit of passion over some trivial event every ten minutes. One so enjoys helping him along. Then there is the challenge of trying to get a spark of feeling out of Darcy.”

“You are jealous, Peregrine.”

“Jealous? My dear Aunt, you greatly mistake the case. She is very charming and so forth, but—”

“I speak of Glover, Nephew. I believe you are jealous of his success. You have always mocked him for his failure to produce a serious work. Now that he seems set to do so, you are sick with envy.”

Her nephew opened his mouth to speak, and stopped. Then: “You paint an ugly picture of me, Aunt.”

“If I am wrong, show me I am so by more gentlemanlike behaviour. This present work of Mr. Glover's was of great importance, to the Theatre, as to me.”

“Forgive me, madam.” Then, with a wry smile he added, “Pray, do not send me away.”

She took out her handkerchief and waved it, in jest. He was all but paralysed by the sudden musky scent of her perfume. She patted him on the arm and smiled. He bent and kissed her cheek.

“Goodnight then, dear boy,” she said. “Remember my words.”

He stood alone in the darkened room for some time.

He heard the rustle of silk, and Arabella was beside him.

“What are you doing here, so solitary, Perry?”

“Do you know, Bella, I sometimes swear I smell still the scent of Nurse's clothing?”

“Lavender? The slightest whiff of it and she is before me.”

“I mean that I smell it, when it is not there. For a mad moment, just then, I felt her iron claw plucking my fingers from our aunt's gown. Do you recall the way she would haul me into the carriage to go home?”

“The power of aromas to recall the past to mind! Four delicious years have passed since our father's death freed us, Perry; and still I cannot abide the smell of a library.”

“Poor Bella.”

“He was harder on you.”

“Yes, but then I'd go away to school. Blessings on that wondrous institution! I used to wish I could take you with me.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “I suppose you will leave me soon for some noodle with a large estate.”

“I doubt I will come to such a pass. Husbands are very like fathers, so wretchedly difficult to get away from.”

“Then remain with me, Lovely One. Remain with me.”

He slipped his arm to her waist, and together they ascended the great staircase.

 

Georgiana lay in the darkness, her warm tears spilling steadily. She recalled the day her brother had first left her at school, three months after their father's death. They had toured the building with the headmistress. He had said goodbye to her in the hall, and, as he was getting in the carriage, Georgiana's little figure in black hurtled down the steps and clung to him.

“Oh, fie, Miss Darcy! Is this any way for a great girl of eleven years to behave? I hope to see more ladylike conduct in the near future.”

Fitzwilliam wiped her tears and said: “I will come and see you very soon, Georgiana.”

“Not before half-term, Mr. Darcy. We find that is best in a girl's first year. I am sure you will find we are correct.”

She felt now precisely eleven years old. ‘I am but a babe, really. How am I ever to grow up?'

Why did Elizabeth not see the danger she was in? Why did she not simply ask Fitzwilliam's pardon for whatever it was? Then he would deal firmly with Mr. Glover, take them away, love Elizabeth again and they would all live happily together forever.

She thought of Lord Bradford. She guessed that Fitzwilliam
hoped she might marry him. She pictured the marchioness and trembled at the notion she might be expected one day to fill that place. Then she thought of the present marquess. Perhaps she would be more like him, and wander about lost in this vast palace with its perfect proportions and incomprehensible paintings hanging side by side with the ancestors. If he were plain Mr. Joseph Bradford, not Earl thereof, let alone his grander expectations, and if he loved her, which was most unlikely, then she might have been able to gratify her brother's wish one day. ‘Joseph.' It was a nice name. He had almost the kindest eyes she had ever seen. He had looked so happy when she said she did not think he could offend anyone. She blushed in the darkness. What a thing to say! How Elizabeth would laugh at her! Yet he had blushed too. She recalled the way he leant towards her. She was leaning towards him now, falling against him, her cheek resting on his shoulder, nestling there. His arms were holding her, and she felt her own arms creep up around his neck. She started awake and blushed again, hotly, in the darkness.

 

Darcy was lying on his back when Elizabeth came in. He watched as she took off her wrap and draped it over a chair, but he saw she remained in her secret cloak. She walked over to the bed and lay beside him.

“Goodnight, Fitzwilliam.”

He turned on his elbow and reached across her to blow out the candle. Despite his sullen mood, he felt the stirring of desire. He wanted to talk, but he wanted this first. The smell of the wax was in her nostrils, and his face was above hers in the darkness. She felt the rage of impotence and wanted to push him away. She felt a convulsive shock at the touch of his hand in her hair and his mouth on her mouth. Then his lips on her throat, with no word of apology or endearment! She felt a crawling of repulsion through her body; he must have felt it too.

“Goodnight,” he said and turned on his side away from her.

She stared into the darkness. Outside, the storm was raging. At last, she slept.

T
HE SKY WAS CLEARING AND
the sun shone weakly over Deepdene. Elizabeth eluded the others and went for a solitary walk. The ground was too wet for exploring the woods, so she passed through the arch in the high enclosing hedges and went into the rose garden. The flowers drooped their heads with the weight of the water and petals lay everywhere upon the ground. She moved towards the centre and came to the pool that two days before had sparkled at the sky.

A gardener and boy were raking leaves and other debris from the water. All that remained of the muse, who had stood on her rock in the middle of the water, was the broken hem of her garment.

“What happened to the statue?” she asked.

“It is here, ma'am.” The gardener indicated the wheelbarrow, filled with broken pieces of stone. She looked across the pool to the back of the rose garden. An ugly gash was torn through the hedge where the top of an old cypress had come down in the night. She had been too occupied to notice. Leaves and branches were scattered over broken rose bushes on the far side of the pool.

“Oh.”

She turned back into the avenue of roses and, filling the archway darkly, was Mr. Glover. She averted her head and passed silently, but he spoke.

“Listen to me for a moment, I beg you.”

She turned.

“Mrs. Darcy, pray believe that I never intended to cause you the least discomfort or annoyance.”

“I cannot believe in your sincerity, Mr. Glover. In March I told the marchioness that the work she sent was unacceptable to me, and she undertook to convey that information to you.”

“She did do so. Pray do not blame her. I found I could not abandon the work. I truly believed that, with your courageous
disdain for the hypocrisy of our world, you would rejoice in my celebration of your spirit when you saw it finished.”

“You understand nothing about me, Mr. Glover. How do you dare?”

“I beg you, madam, to grant me permission to finish the work. I will make changes, and yours will be the final decision whether or not the public will see it.”

His eyes expressed some fervent feeling and she flinched in distaste. She sought to pass him, when a hand fell on Glover's arm.

“You overreach yourself, sir. You will importune this lady no longer.”

“Whittaker!” Scorn spat from the dark eyes. “You will stand in the way of art for an occupation?” They were blocking her exit.

“As it happens, Glover, I need no occupation. Art is a refinement in my life.”

“You are a dilettante.”

“Perhaps it is best I aspire to nothing more.” Whittaker paused, looking the other up and down. “There is no sight more pitiful than the clown aspiring to play Hamlet.”

For a moment Elizabeth feared Glover would strike him, but he turned on his heel and rushed from the garden. They could hear the scattering of gravel as he fled along the path.

“Why do you do it, Mr. Whittaker?”

“Why indeed, Mrs. Darcy? Lady Englebury accuses me of jealousy.”

Elizabeth was too startled by this unwelcome confidence to speak.

“I can understand if you doubt me,” he said. “I was, myself, deeply shocked by her accusation.” He looked away and, seemingly forgetful of Elizabeth's presence, continued, “Yet, I see now that I have been sick with envy, as though his success in the arts precluded me from my aunt's esteem.” He started, becoming aware of her expression of surprise and faint distaste. “Why do I tell you this?”

“Indeed, sir, I know not. My question was rhetorical.”

“I wish desperately for you to understand me; I know not why.”

‘They are all mad,' she thought, and something of this was conveyed in her expression.

They were in the archway now, concealed from the shrubbery outside. She turned to go.

Blinded by emotion, Glover had brushed past Darcy unseeing. Nameless suspicion and anxiety caused Darcy to leave the path and cut across the grass to find her. She was there, with him, cheeks flushed, eyes widely dark, as Whittaker said: “I have been tortured. You are surprised. Thought you that I had no cares? I was jealous of him. Yet now, I see there is no cause.” It was when he broke off that she saw Darcy.

“Come, Elizabeth.” She blanched and looked a little angry at his peremptory tone.

He offered her his arm, in a manner she dared not refuse, lest she shame him before Whittaker. However, she would see he did not behave so again. They walked rapidly along the path, anger sizzling between them.

“I would thank you, sir, not to use me so again! I am not your servant.”

“No, indeed, madam. You are my wife; and you will remember it,” he said. She stared at him in disbelief.

“How could I forget it?” she said.

They parted without further speech and did not meet again until dinner.

 

Elizabeth passed the rest of the morning with the ladies. She walked out with Amelia, their gowns brushing the wet grass, scarves fluttering in the wind. They followed the gravel path up as far as the woods, where the damp ground halted them; then turned and looked back over the gardens. Amelia saw them first and touched Elizabeth's arm.

Georgiana was walking in the park with Lord Bradford.

“Miss Darcy.”

The girl slowed her steps and stopped. He looked at her sweet face, her downcast eyes. Lord, how she had eclipsed the lovely Arabella in his estimation!

“Miss Darcy, since I have come to know you, you have occupied my thoughts and my heart exclusively. I scarcely dare to hope, but will you be my wife?”

She could not answer him.

“Let me care for you, love you, keep you from harm.”

Georgiana spoke, so softly he had to bend his head to hear her: “It is too great an honour for me, my lord. I … I could not do justice to the position you offer me.”

“I am a simple man, Miss Darcy. Some would say I am not fitted for my position in the world. If you would share it with me, I would not ask more than you could comfortably learn to perform.”

She could not answer him for looking at his shoulder, and recalling her dream of leaning her head there. All her senses told her how his embrace would ease her pain. How could she so yearn, when she loved an unattainable other? She did, did she not?

“I feel I have spoken too soon,” he said. “Do not say me nay at once, dear Miss Darcy. Allow me the chance to convince you that I can make you happy.”

She nodded.

“When shall I speak again? Tell me, at the end of your stay here? Or later?”

“I know not. I feel so confused.”

“You do not dismiss me?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then I have your permission to hope?”

“I do not deserve your kindness,” she whispered.

“You deserve more than I can offer you, and in six weeks, I shall again offer you all I have to give.”

She flushed and looked away, her lips slightly parted. He looked at that mouth, which whispered so few, yet treasured, words. He would have so much liked to kiss those lips. She looked at him then and knew it, and could not draw her eyes away from his.

He sensed his chance and longed to put his question again, but wondered if it would be ungentlemanlike, after her promise to hear him again.

In that moment's pause, Georgiana slipped mutely away from him and returned to the house.

She went to her room. Something of Bradford's essence had impressed her so deeply, had made her so aware of all the love swelling her heart that she felt capable of the courage that love demanded of her. She sat at the desk and reached for the pen. She wrote the note off hastily, and rang the bell. She watched her own hand giving it to the footman and sat down, watching her clock tick away fifteen slow minutes.

She went to meet her enemy, and found him waiting. She blushed deeply, and her prepared speech burst out: “Mr. Glover, I beg you to desist from all your attentions to my sister. You do not know what unhappiness you cause her.”

The left side of his face twitched. He said nothing.

She shook under his dark stare. Her throat was tight and dry. She bit her lips to quell their trembling. She said, “I tell you, sir, you must do as I say.”

He stared at her. The silence, which in the past would have made her very afraid, called up a surge of emotion that shook her.

“Well?” she burst out. Her voice took her by surprise; it came out an octave lower than ever before.

“Pray, wait here for me.” He rushed out. What kind of man was this? Georgiana had never met with such a one. She had told him, a man, a celebrated writer and a favourite of the marchioness, that he must obey her. What was she thinking? The previous afternoon, for all her distress and fear, she had not stilled a secret voice that whispered to her that Glover's work was the embryo of something great. A thousand deaths, including the death of their family happiness, could not halt its birth. What right had she, Georgiana, to try?

He was with her again in minutes. In his hands was a manuscript, the pages held together with a ribbon.

“Take it,” he said.

She looked at him mutely. She could not reach for it.

He hurled it onto the fire. She gasped and would almost have pulled it forth. It seemed a long time that they stood there, watching
as the flames licked around the edges. At last a great whoosh of destruction sucked it to oblivion.

He bowed, abrupt, yet somehow courtly in his way. He turned towards the door.

“Mr. Glover!” He turned back.

“I can only guess what this sacrifice means to you. I hope you do not think me impertinent.”

“You are courageous.” The fine angles of his face seemed alive with feeling. She had never known such a person existed.

“I am the most fearful person in all the world,” she said.

“In the small things, perhaps. Yet in the great things, you are courageous.”

“My brother and his wife are all I have in the world. I must fight for them.”

“Constantly, women astound me.”

“All your work. You make people so happy,” she said.

“They laugh for an hour. They do not even see that they laugh at themselves. I was ambitious, but never mind. Whittaker is right; this longing to play Hamlet is every clown's tragedy.”

He was halfway through the door when she said: “No! No! You must not listen to the vulgar chatter of the world. You must listen only to your own heart and to your conscience and you will do right. Then, God willing, you will succeed.”

“I thought you a child,” he said, and quitted the room.

 

By evening, the last of the storm had been chased away. Through the long windows Elizabeth looked out on to the fingers of light across the lawn. She sighed.

“You weary of us already,” said a voice close behind her. She started. Whittaker stood beside her. He leaned against the window frame and gazed at her profile. He said: “I have had some dealings with Sir Graham Eston of late, and I wondered if you knew much of him. The gossip is so various.”

“Really, I know him only by repute. You would do better to speak to Mr. Darcy about him,” she said.

“Your husband would as soon converse with a toad as with me.”

Elizabeth laughed involuntarily, a light sound that filled her with pain, and glanced across to where Darcy sat, ostensibly listening to Sir Beau but, in reality, studying his wife. Their eyes met: his gaze was impenetrable. Her laughter faded, and by habit she smiled at him with a hint of coquetry. He looked away.

She turned back to the window.

“I am sure you underestimate yourself, Mr. Whittaker. To my knowledge, Mr. Darcy never talks to toads.”

He laughed out loud.

“You may have reason for complaint if he did, I think.”

“Not at all. I understand that conversing with amphibians is not on that very short list of crimes about which a wife might complain.”

He laughed again.

‘I believe she rather enjoys Darcy's saturnine moods,' he thought. ‘The man is sulking now because she exchanges the occasional word with a man who admires her. He must love her to distraction.'

The thought of Darcy suffering distraction from any cause made him smile. ‘I am safe from that, at least. No-one will ever hold such power over me.'

Miss Whittaker called to them in her softly carrying tone: “I cannot imagine in what way my brother has deserved your attention, Mrs. Darcy. You are cruel to deprive the rest of the company of your wit.”

“You are deceived by my hollow laughter, Sister,” her brother replied. “Mrs. Darcy has been drawing a comparison between myself and the toad, with the latter coming out much to advantage.” Elizabeth laughed in relief at his silliness.

Georgiana had bowed to pressure and was nervously taking her place at the pianoforte. Sir Beau and Arabella had been practising a duet written by Whittaker. Elizabeth moved towards the small sofa where Darcy was sitting. He rose, with courteous alacrity, and she sat down alone.

“May I bring you something, Elizabeth—a glass of wine?”

“Thank you, no.” She gave the merest flash of a polite smile.

He took up a position standing behind her. She watched as Arabella glided to the instrument to sing. She was dressed with beguiling elegance, in clinging silk of autumnal gold. ‘Perhaps Fitzwilliam would have married her, if he had not fallen so foolishly in love with me first,' she thought. Miss Whittaker would not mourn, she imagined, when a husband's affection faded.

Whittaker approached and sat next to Elizabeth on the sofa.

“What enviable calm your sister has, Mr. Whittaker,” she said. “I cannot imagine what upheaval it would take to ruffle her.”

He half turned to her and said, with quiet abstraction, as though his words were involuntary: “My sister and I suffered such storms in our early life that, by contrast, any squall is nought but the most wondrously bracing breeze.”

Elizabeth looked at him, astonished. His eyes were soft, open blue; she sensed in him a pain lying deep beneath his ennui, his shallow pleasures. She wanted to reply, but her lips trembled.