Authors: M. A. Sandiford
23
The barge was built to
transport people, not goods—and in some luxury. The cabin contained rows
of upholstered benches with an aisle down the middle; a spiral stairway at the
back led to the roof, where the more enterprising passengers might venture for
a longer view. The walls were painted with vines on a pale blue background, and
held vases filled with orange-red spring geraniums.
As Professor Pavoni’s guests they shared
a bench at the back, sheltered from the hubbub up front where the musicians
unpacked their instruments and belted out dances and folk songs. Elizabeth had
the window seat, but preferred to draw a curtain so that her face could not be
seen from the bank; beside her, Darcy conversed with Pavoni about the latest
news from France.
The trip would last five hours, which
meant that they were safe, provided that they kept their heads down when
passing through a lock. It was also hard to feel afraid when surrounded by such
jolly company. Liveried servants had brought an ice-box on board, and despite her
protests Pavoni pressed a glass of chilled Prosecco into her hand—a treat
that soon made her even more light-headed. She glanced at Darcy, his expression
typically grave with undercurrents of humour as he defended his view of the
political crisis. She regretted that she had harangued him in the washroom that
morning.
Why was she so skittish? Perhaps, as he
claimed, she was suffering after-effects of the laudanum, but surely the main
reason lay elsewhere.
They had shared a bedroom
. What was more, they had
done so at her own insistence; Darcy, had she permitted, would gladly have made
do with the bath. At the time she had given little thought to the consequences;
it mattered only that they had both had a good night’s rest. But now it was
done, and there
were
consequences. No matter that back in England,
no-one would be any the wiser.
Darcy
knew, and in his mind, obsessed by
honour and duty, that could mean only one thing:
they must marry
. They
must marry despite their difference in rank; they must marry despite her
slanderous accusations and general abuse of his character; they must marry despite
the ignominy of having Wickham as his brother-in-law.
But she could be stubborn too. She knew
what she owed him, and would not allow this to happen.
She smothered a chuckle—the wine,
no doubt—as she recalled the scene at breakfast when they had pretended
to be man and wife. How
natural
it had felt, and also, what fun. Well,
why should she not enjoy it, while it lasted? The more she immersed herself in
the role, the better the deception.
A servant brought pineapple ices, and
she smiled at Darcy as they accepted another treat.
Darcy leaned forward to admire the
grand facade of Villa Pisani, on the outskirts of Padua. He wondered whether to
wake Elizabeth, who had dozed off after accepting a second glass of Prosecco
with her lunch. On balance he thought better not; she had recovered well from
her early-morning panic, but sleep was too precious a restorative to disturb.
‘So Mr Ashley, we approach the
city of
learning
, as some call it.’ Professor Pavoni glanced at Elizabeth’s
sleeping form, and smiled benignly. ‘Before we part, may I tell you a story? It
is one I heard last night from a passer-by. Perhaps it is familiar to you,
perhaps not.’
Darcy flinched, but managed to reply in
an even tone. ‘Go ahead.’
The professor lowered his voice. ‘It
concerns a compatriot of yours, a certain Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. This man
arrived in Venice in the company of a friend, whose older brother had married
into the Carandini family, who have made a fortune from glassware.’ He regarded
Darcy with a twinkle. ‘Perhaps you have heard of them.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, after touring Italy for some
weeks, this Mr Darcy learned on his return that a certain Miss Bennet, an
Englishwoman staying with the Carandinis, had become engaged to the head of the
family—Signor Gabriele. For reasons unknown, this arrangement was not to
Mr Darcy’s liking. Indeed, so extreme was his disapproval that he abducted Miss
Bennet from under Carandini’s nose, and rowed her away into the moonlight. Despite
an intensive search, they remain undiscovered to this day.’
‘I see.’ Darcy frowned. ‘And why do you
tell me this?’
Pavoni smiled. ‘A number of coincidences
strike me. First, the descriptions of Mr Darcy and Miss Bennet are a close fit
to yourself and Mrs Ashley. Second, given your obvious social standing, it is
unusual that you have no carriage, no servants, and no luggage except a single
bag.’ He met Darcy’s eye. ‘Need I elaborate?’
Darcy paused. ‘And supposing that what
you imply turned out to be true, what then?’
‘As a responsible citizen I should
inform the authorities,’ Pavoni said. ‘Which is what I
would
do, were it
not for one fact. I happen to know Gabriele Carandini.’
Darcy stared at him. ‘Yes?’
‘It is hardly surprising.’ Pavoni spread
his arms. ‘He is a man obsessed with music. He attends every concert, large or
small. I have known him since he was a student at the conservatory, rebelling
against his father’s wish that he should learn the family business. I have
heard him speak up in lectures and symposia. I know him to be passionate and
articulate. As a violinist he has attained proficiency in spite of limited
talent. His dedication and hard work deserve respect. But there is one further
thing I would say of him.’ Pavoni leaned closer, speaking softly and very
distinctly. ‘I have a daughter, named Maria Grazia. She is charming, lovely,
the apple of my eye. Signor Ashley, if Carandini wished to marry my daughter,
I
would do everything in my power to prevent it
.’
Darcy nodded, wheels spinning in his
head. Could this be a trap? But if Pavoni sought to expose him, why not simply
call a constable? Why make friendly conversation and then reveal his suspicions
privately?
He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And
if it were admitted that I
was
Darcy, and had acted from a similar motive?’
‘I would like, if I may, to help.’
24
Elizabeth reclined in the
soft leather divan of the
Sartoria Padovana
as a model displayed a
cream-gold silk gown with sheer net overlays on the upper arms. Beside her,
Signora Pavoni and her daughter Maria Grazia purred approval.
‘
Elegantissimo
.’
‘Exquisite. The nets are detachable of
course?’
Elizabeth sighed. The gown was truly
delightful, and she believed the colours would suit her. But the price! Of
course Darcy would pay, and he had encouraged her to choose at least one
evening gown that could be worn at a ball or concert. He seemed to have
forgotten that only two days ago they had been rattling along country roads in
a farm wagon.
She had awoken in Padua at a small dock,
from where a private gondola had taken them along a tributary to the city
centre. They had disembarked at a bridge just outside the city gate, where an
official eyed them suspiciously, but waved them through after checking their
false papers.
A few yards further along, in Professor
Pavoni’s regal apartment, they were introduced to her new companions, Signora Pavoni
and her daughter Maria Grazia. Their reception was overwhelming. She must take
tea and cake; a maid would help her wash and change; how distressing to lose
their luggage; so difficult to get competent help in these times; she
absolutely must accompany them to the modiste later in the afternoon when the
shops would be open. Both women were her own height, or a little taller, with olive
skin and deep brown eyes. Before long Elizabeth was left in the daughter’s
care, and pressed into borrowing powder and a change of dress …
The cream-gold silk gown was added
to her order, and a clutch of bonnets brought out. Signora Pavoni had gone away
to another section of the emporium, dedicated to hairdressing and cosmetics,
with the aim of securing Elizabeth an immediate appointment—a concession
that might require a
little push
, or bribe.
‘You must order something yourself,’
Elizabeth said to Maria Grazia, whose English was fluent.
‘My allowance for this month is spent.’
Her expression flipped from moue to grin. ‘But I shall be back next week for
your silk gown, if it can be done in silver.’
Elizabeth pointed to a bonnet with a
broad peak, well-suited to hiding her face as well as protecting her from the
sun. ‘This one please.’ She turned to Maria Grazia. ‘And that should be all,
except that I must choose a wig.’
‘
Una parrucca
?’ Maria Grazia
stroked Elizabeth’s hair with a finger. ‘But your hair is beautiful
al
naturale
.’
‘Mr, ah, Ashley insists,’ Elizabeth
said. She swallowed, having nearly said
Darcy
by mistake. ‘He has a
fancy to see me with fair hair, while he looks distinguished in grey.’
‘What a strange notion!’
‘Indeed, but since he is paying, it would
be churlish to deny him!’
‘I implied no criticism…’ Signorina
Pavoni blushed. ‘Pardon me, Signora, I am all nerves. Father wishes me to
perform this evening.’
‘Not on our account, surely?’
Maria Grazia sighed. ‘We have visitor
from Austria, a singer named Hilda Edelmann. Fraulein Edelmann has taken some
days off at the hot springs in Abano to recuperate before giving two recitals
next week. She will return this evening and asked that we might run through her
programme at home …’
‘With yourself as accompanist?’
Maria Grazia covered her face. ‘
Esattamente
.’
‘Why not your father?’
‘His instrument is the violin. Not the
pianoforte.’
Elizabeth put a hand on her arm. ‘If the
keyboard part is not too demanding, I could share the burden.’
Her face lit up. ‘Would you?’
‘I warn you that sight reading is not my
forte
. Still, if I fail horribly, at least you will gain from the
comparison.’
In a splendid saloon overlooking
Piazza
della Frutta
, Darcy sat opposite Professor Pavoni sampling an aperitif of Prosecco
and soda water, served in a wine glass with a slice of orange. In an hour he
had achieved several useful goals, starting with a visit to a barber, where
after a shave and trim he had invested in a grey wig. With his appearance thus
altered he had called at a gentleman’s outfitters to be measured for a new coat
and boots, and selected a shirt and breeches ready-made for immediate use. In
his new clothes and wig he had strolled past Pavoni at their rendezvous without
being noticed—an encouraging sign.
It had been agreed that their real identities
should not be divulged to the professor’s family. If Darcy and Elizabeth wished
to circulate in society without alerting Carandini’s spies, they would have to
preserve the alias, and it was unfair to expect Pavoni’s wife and daughter to
contribute to the deception. So for the time being they would remain Mr and Mrs
Ashley—at least in public. In Pavoni’s apartment they could occupy
adjacent rooms, designed for a married couple, with a dividing door decreed by
Darcy to be as impassable as the walls of Jericho.
In the café, the gossip inevitably
centred on Napoleon, who from latest reports had reached Paris, to be welcomed
by crowds of admirers. The royalists were in disarray, the king Louis XVIII
having already fled. Pavoni was reading a newspaper report on preparations for
a further war when his daughter approached arm-in-arm with a lovely
blonde-haired woman in a fine muslin dress.
The men stood up and bowed, and Darcy
took Elizabeth aside. ‘I hardly recognise you, Rebecca dear.’
‘Disconcerting, isn’t it?’ Elizabeth
whispered. ‘When I look in the mirror I see Jane.’
‘And I see my father.’
She sighed. ‘The world has gone mad.’
‘In more ways than one. We have been
discussing the latest reports from France, which may affect our plans for
returning to England.’
‘It is very disturbing.’ She grimaced.
‘And you will receive a further shock when the modiste delivers my purchases
and you see the size of the bill.’
‘It is well spent, Rebecca. We need
suitable clothes, and at present, money is the least of our troubles.’
She smiled at this use of her new name,
and took his arm saucily. ‘Well dearest, shall we return to our friends?’
25
When they reached the
apartment, Fraulein Edelmann had arrived, and gone to her room to rest.
Elizabeth decided to follow her example, and received another shock when she
saw herself in the mirror—she had forgotten about the wig. She spent some
time repinning her natural hair, and adjusting the cosmetics applied by the
beautician. A maid tapped on the door and carried in packages from the
Sartoria
.
Elizabeth did a jig of delight: she could now try on the silk dress, which she
planned to wear to dinner.
Thinking back to the embarrassing scene
at the hotel that morning, she marvelled at the transformation in her mood. She
had woken in a panic; now, one by one, her problems had been solved. They had
found transport to Padua, passed inspection at the city gate, bought clothes,
and changed their appearances; best of all, they were now comfortably accommodated.
Most of this had been due to Darcy, who had befriended Professor Pavoni, as
well as procuring all the necessary false papers back in Venice. He had also
responded calmly to her rant about
never marrying him
, although he
seemed not to understand that her purpose was to reassure him.
The silk dress fitted well, and she
changed back into muslin before sitting at the bureau and writing to Jane. Of necessity
she glossed over the adventures of the last days; her story would be that she
was returning in a
party
that
included
Mr Darcy. With a smile she
imagined the effect on her family had she admitted that she was travelling now
as Darcy’s wife and had shared his bed. More shocking yet was that she had
actually
enjoyed
this role. Not the embarrassing sleeping arrangements,
but the fun of taking his arm in public, whispering asides, calling him
dearest
.
She put down her quill, and as if to
test her feelings, imagined how their lives might have turned out. Suppose her
perception had not been poisoned by Wickham, and she had seen Darcy for what he
was—not as charming as Bingley, but intelligent, honourable, kind.
Suppose she had heeded his warnings about Wickham, not just at Hunsford but
before, in Hertfordshire, and passed them on to her father. Minor differences,
but what a transformation in outcome! Lydia would still be at home, having had
no opportunity to elope. She, Elizabeth, might already be Mrs Darcy. How would
that
feel?
It was hard to say. She had no doubt now
that Darcy was a good man. Too good, perhaps. He was not sharply critical like
Carandini, but he did set high standards both for himself and others, standards
that she would doubtless fail to satisfy.
My good opinion, once lost, is
lost forever
.
That was the problem.
She
was not
good enough
.
Still, how pleasurable to enact the role
of his wife …
At dinner, Signora Pavoni was in
her element. Not to be outdone by Elizabeth she had also chosen silk—including
the fashionable net overlays, which Elizabeth had decided to leave off. In a
word she was
attentive
, her eyes flicking from one guest to the next as
she checked that every possible step had been taken to assure their comfort. Maria
Grazia was timider, but Elizabeth noticed that she backed up her mother
unobtrusively. While Signora Pavoni lauded Fraulein Edelmann’s dress to the
whole gathering, her daughter preferred a whispered compliment. The table was
set for eight people, since they were to be joined by the leader of the
orchestra and his wife.
Elizabeth had been wary of meeting Hilda
Edelmann, imagining an imperious diva with an overpowering voice. Instead she
was confronted by a slender, tallish woman of her own age, with a quiet manner
and style of dress. Her colouring was pale, with very fair hair that she wore
in a coiled braid at the back, and grey eyes set far apart. After the introduction
Fraulein Edelmann lingered at her side, and answered questions about Abano in
careful English, rather as if she were reading from a book.
‘The baths are large enough to swim in,
and hold water from underground springs that are naturally hot.’ She winced.
‘Very hot. Afterwards you lie on a towel and mud is spread over your face. Also
hot. It is said to be healthy for the skin. How do you say, the
complexion
.’
‘I would like to try it—I think.’
Fraulein Edelmann smiled. ‘Have you and
your husband travelled in Italy?’
‘A little. Most recently we were in
Venice.’
‘I was staying in Florence with my
father. Unfortunately he was called away, since he is an
Oberstleutnant
, a colonel
in the Austrian army.’
Elizabeth frowned. ‘Was this related to
Bonaparte’s return to France?’
‘It happened earlier, when Bonapartists in the
Kingdom of Naples rebelled against the Austrian Empire.’ She flushed and
lowered her voice. ‘It is best not to speak of it, since our intervention is
unpopular in Italy.’
‘Did this oblige you to return to Austria?’
‘I planned to remain in Florence, since the
war is not expected to last many months. However, we received word from my
family in Salzburg that my mother is ill, so I am trying to make my way home.’
She pointed to Pavoni. ‘Antonio is an old friend. He has been so kind as to
arrange recitals in Padua and Verona so that I can pay my
vetturino
, how
do you say,
driver
, and keep a maid.’
Elizabeth swallowed, awed that this
woman was travelling alone, except for servants, and would be performing to
discerning audiences. ‘I hope your mother soon feels better.’
‘I’m not too concerned, since she has
had the vapours before and recovered well.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Sometimes I
believe she is simply anxious for my father.’
After dinner Elizabeth joined Hilda
Edelmann and Maria Grazia in the music room to look at the piano accompaniments.
A few were familiar, including arrangements of arias by Purcell and Mozart, but
she was pleased to find Italian folk ditties too. The recital was to close with
two unpublished songs by a young composer named Franz Schubert, who had allowed
Fraulein Edelmann to write copies when they met in Vienna.
‘What do you think?’ Maria Grazia asked.
Elizabeth ran a finger along a piano
arrangement of Dido’s Lament. Compared with the Beethoven sonatas demanded by
Carandini, it was straightforward. ‘Would you like to play this one, Signorina
Pavoni?’
Maria Grazia pointed to a stretch in the
right hand. ‘Not sure about this bit.’
‘Leave out the bottom note,’ Fraulein
Edelmann said.
Elizabeth grinned in appreciation of
this simple solution, which Carandini would never have countenanced.
‘I could try the Mozart,’ she offered.
They divided the other pieces, Maria
Grazia still anxious. ‘Should we rehearse them now, before the others come in?’
The singer laughed. ‘
Nein
. This
whole evening is a rehearsal, is it not? It will go splendidly. You will see.’
The music room was the grandest in
the apartment, with two rows of chairs upholstered in floral chintz facing a
slightly raised platform for the grand piano and other instruments. Overhead
hung a ten-candle chandelier in the French style; a matching candelabra on the
piano illuminated the musical score.
As a guest, Elizabeth was invited to sit
in the front row, with Darcy on one side and the lead violinist’s wife on the
other. Small ornate tables held brandy for the gentlemen, but Elizabeth opted
for coffee in hope of clearing her head.
‘Are you not playing, Rebecca?’ Darcy
asked.
‘Be patient, dearest. We’re taking
turns.’
‘You look exquisite in that dress.’
‘So I should, considering what you had
to spend on it. Still, thank you for the compliment. My good qualities are
under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible.’
They fell silent as a tentative Maria
Grazia played the opening bars of Dido’s Lament. Fraulein Edelmann waited
calmly, hands loosely clasped, her gaze directed over their heads into the
distance. She sang the first line,
When I am laid in earth
, in the
original English, and Elizabeth shivered. It was as if the room had been
transformed. The voice was magical. It was not the voice of an operatic diva,
resonant with vibrato, but thinner, more fragile, with a purity that took the
breath away. Elizabeth saw now why Fraulein Edelmann gave recitals to small
audiences, rather than concerts in grand halls like
La Fenice
. In a huge
auditorium filled with people fidgeting and coughing, her art would be lost.
But in a drawing room she was hypnotic.
The piece ended, and during the applause
Elizabeth observed that Darcy too was captivated. It was now her turn, and she
was surprised by her own confidence as she replaced Maria Grazia at the piano.
She knew the aria, a popular duet in which Don Giovanni tries to seduce a peasant
girl who is engaged to another man.
Là ci darem la mano
—Give me
thy hand. Professor Pavoni, who was to sing the seducer’s part, followed her to
the platform. This time there was no introduction: Pavoni beat time with his
forefinger, met her eye, and they began together.
He sang pleasantly enough, but as she
played the simple chord sequences Elizabeth found herself waiting for Fraulein
Edelmann’s response, and when it came she was again so electrified that her
scalp tingled. Somehow she managed to continue the accompaniment, as if her
hands and eyes went ahead on automatic while her attention was fully occupied in
listening. They finished with a flourish, and Maria Grazia ran to her side.
‘Signora Ashley,
bravissima
!’
Elizabeth blinked. ‘Did I play it correctly?’
‘Every note! You must play the others as
well.’
‘I would rather take turns.’
She returned to her seat, very aware of
Darcy’s admiring gaze. He touched her arm gently. ‘That sounded truly
beautiful, Rebecca.’
‘We both know who deserves the credit.’
A servant came to refresh their drinks,
and she felt a glow of intense happiness as they chatted before the next piece.