Mr. Darcy Vampyre (5 page)

He was very handsome in the French fashion, with a high brow, sleek hair, and pronounced features. He played with exquisite taste, his fingers running over the keys more quickly than seemed possible, blending the notes in a strange and rippling liquidity. It flowed out from his fingers and into the room, filling the space with the hypnotic melody.

‘I have brought someone to meet you,' said Philippe.

He introduced Elizabeth to the three women leaning across the piano and then to the pianist, Monsieur Huilot, ‘a young musical genius.'

Monsieur Huilot took the compliment gracefully, never once breaking off from his hypnotic melodies, and asked Elizabeth if she enjoyed music. When she answered that she did, he said, ‘That is good. Music feeds the soul, and the soul, it needs feeding.'

He continued to play, his tapering fingers caressing the keys, and the music was gorgeous. But Elizabeth could not keep her eyes on him, for they kept wandering to Darcy, who was still watching her whilst the women around him tried to catch his attention.

There was a lull in the music and Darcy stood up, crossing the room to Elizabeth and saying, ‘Will you not play?'

‘You of all people know that I am an indifferent pianist,' she replied.

She had played before him on a number of occasions, first in Hertfordshire, when they had both been guests of Sir William Lucas, and later at Rosings, the home of Darcy's aunt. She had not wanted to do so, even in such small gatherings, and she was even less disposed to play here, where there was so much musical talent.

‘I beg to differ; you play very well. Besides, you cannot mean to refuse me, now that I have come in all my state to hear you,' he said with a wry smile.

Elizabeth laughed, for it was the complaint she had made against him at Rosings. He had been aloof and superior, and she had suspected him of trying to discomfit her; though she had been quite wrong, for he had just wanted to be near her.

‘Very well,' she said, adding to the other guests, ‘you have been warned.'

She played and sang, and received a polite response, despite the fact that she was in truth an indifferent pianist, for she was not willing to devote several hours a day to practise. But this lukewarm response was more than made up for by Darcy's look, and by his saying to her, not long afterwards, ‘We have been here long enough. What do you say to our going to the Lebeune's ball? I would like to dance.'

She needed no urging. The sumptuous atmosphere was starting to oppress her and the strangely sinuous people were unsettling. She was relieved to get outside and breathe the fresh air.

Night hung over the city like a dark mantle, pierced with the light of flambeaux, and up above, there seemed to be a thousand stars.

There was as much activity as there was in the daytime. Paris was a city which did not sleep. Carriages rolled through the streets taking brightly dressed passengers to balls and
soirées
, and light and laughter spilled out of the taverns. English voices could be heard mingling with the French, as Elizabeth's compatriots took advantage of the peace and visited Paris in great numbers.

And yet despite the colour and laughter there was a lurking horror beneath the brightness, a sense that violence could erupt again at any time. For all its elegance, Paris was a city torn apart by destruction. The revolution had left its mark.

‘You're very quiet,' said Darcy.

‘I was thinking,' said Elizabeth.

‘About what?'

‘About the revolution. About how it changed everything.'

‘Not everything,' he said, touching her hand.

The carriage pulled up outside a long, stone building and they went inside.

The Lebeune's house was shabby, full of faded splendours and battered grandeur. The marble columns in the hall were dull and the carpet covering the stairs was worn into holes. As Elizabeth ascended to the first floor, she looked at the portraits hanging on the walls, but they were so begrimed that she could not discern their features and she could see nothing beyond a dark and gloomy outline. Their frames too were begrimed, and although they were gilded, they had long since lost their sparkle. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, splendid in size and shape, but so denuded of candles that it gave out no more than a dim glow.

The people too were faded. The men's coats were shiny with wear and their shoes were scuffed, whilst the women's dresses were mended and patched. They wore the old style of clothing, heavy gowns with full skirts and damasked fabrics. Elizabeth had met their type before, in England, people who had once been wealthy but who now lived on the charity of their friends—not by taking money, but by accepting invitations to dinner or to stay, which both parties knew they could never return.

But despite the weary air of both people and surroundings, Elizabeth preferred it to the Rousel house. There, the surface had been dazzling and the undercurrents jaded; here, it was the other way about. Beneath their wary smiles, the people were warm and friendly. They had known sorrow and loss, but their spirit survived.

Elizabeth felt herself begin to breathe more freely.

She was introduced to a dozen people. She told them of England and talked to them of their own city, but at last she could resist it no longer, and with a glance at Darcy, she invited him to lead her onto the floor.

‘A married couple. How
outré
!' was the whisper as they took their places, for it was not done for married couples to dance together.

But Elizabeth did not care. It was like the days of their courtship. She and Darcy talked freely of everything they had seen and heard that day. They talked of art and music, of the people they had met and the people they still hoped to meet.

‘My cousin liked you, as I knew she would,' said Darcy with pride.

Elizabeth thought of Mme Rousel's eye and thought that
liked
was a strong word, but at least the beauty had not disapproved of her and had made her welcome.

‘It is a good thing not all your family are against the marriage,' she said. ‘Will you invite her to visit us at Pemberley?'

‘Possibly. But I do not think she will leave France. Her life is here, with the glamour and amusements of Paris.'

Elizabeth was not sorry. She could not imagine Mme Rousel in England, where, in her gossamer-like dresses, she would surely catch her death of cold!

***

Elizabeth woke late on the morning after the ball. She and Darcy had not returned home until almost four o'clock in the morning, and when she finally roused herself, it was almost midday.

‘Good heavens!' she said, jumping out of bed. ‘Why did you not wake me?' she asked her maid.

‘The master said I was to let you sleep,' said Annie, as she placed a tray of
pain
and chocolate in front of her.

‘Well, perhaps he was right. But now I must hurry,' she said, eating her breakfast. ‘We are supposed to be going riding in an hour.'

Darcy had bought her a new mare and the animal was due to be delivered that morning. They had arranged to go riding by the side of the Seine if the weather was fine.

She had not brought a riding habit with her, having not intended to ride, but she had been able to buy one in Paris. The Darcy money and the Darcy name had ensured that the habit was made and delivered quickly, and it was now ready for her to wear. It lacked the artistry of London tailoring, but nevertheless, it was finer than anything she had worn as Miss Elizabeth Bennet. It was made of dark green broadcloth, with a high waist and a long, slender skirt, and she matched it with a green hat and York tan gloves. Her ruffled shirt showed white between the lapels. She glanced at herself in the mirror and then went downstairs.

As she crossed the hall, she heard a voice she recognised and she smiled with pleasure because the voice belonged to one of Darcy's English cousins, Colonel Fitzwilliam. She knew Colonel Fitzwilliam well. They had met at Rosings the previous Easter and they had spent many happy hours walking and talking together. They had got on so well that he had thought it necessary to let her know, in a roundabout fashion, that he could not afford to marry a poor wife and that he must marry an heiress if he were to have the comforts he had come to expect from life. She had not been offended, indeed she had thought it well done, and besides, she had not had any interest in him as a husband; she had not even, at that time, had any interest in Darcy.

She went into the drawing room, looking forward to greeting him, but the men did not hear her enter and she heard Colonel Fitzwilliam saying, ‘Are you mad? You should never have married her. What were you thinking of, Darcy?'

Elizabeth was shocked. She had not known that Colonel Fitzwilliam objected to the match. He had liked her at Rosings but it seemed that, whilst he liked her well enough as a guest of his aunt's parson, he did not like her as Darcy's wife.

‘Let her go, Darcy,' he continued. ‘You can't do this to her. Send her home.'

‘No,' said Darcy, turning away defiantly.

As he did so, he saw Elizabeth. He held out his hand to her and she went and stood next to him, taking his arm and presenting a unified front to his cousin.

‘Well?' demanded Colonel Fitzwilliam.

‘Well?' returned Darcy implacably.

‘Are you not going to tell her? You owe her that much. Give her a choice.'

Darcy seemed to fight a battle within himself, then he turned towards her and searched her eyes, as if he could find the answer to his problem written there. He cupped her face with his hand.

‘Well, Lizzy, what do you say?' he asked, looking into her eyes. ‘My cousin would like you to return to Longbourn. I want you to stay with me. Which is it to be?'

Elizabeth knew that she had not been accepted by Darcy's family, that there had been disapproving eyes turned on her at the salon, and that she would probably never be accepted by all the Darcys, but she was not unduly concerned. She was not the kind of person to be easily intimidated, and she was certainly not going to be driven out of Europe or out of her marriage by ill will. If Colonel Fitzwilliam thought that she would crumple under a bad-natured reception, then he had much to learn about her character.

She turned to Darcy. ‘Where you go, I go. If you stay, I will stay.'

Darcy slid his arm around her waist then turned to his cousin and said, ‘You see?'

‘I see only that she does not know what it is she should fear. If you will not take my advice, speak to your uncle,' said Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘You have always respected him. Go and see him, and be guided by him.'

She felt a relenting in Darcy and he said, ‘I had already decided to do so. Elizabeth and I are going to visit him after we finish our sojourn in Paris. Now, if you will excuse us, we are going out riding.'

‘I am surprised you can find a horse to carry you,' Colonel Fitzwilliam said darkly.

‘I brought my own from the Pemberley stables,' Darcy said. ‘It travelled with us, tethered to the back of the coach.'

‘I should have guessed,' said Colonel Fitzwilliam. Then, saying, ‘Darcy. Mrs Darcy,' he made them a curt bow and took his leave.

Elizabeth looked at Darcy enquiringly as he left the room.

‘What was all that about?' she asked. ‘Does he disapprove of our marriage, or does he think that I am expecting your family to welcome me? Does he think I do not know that there are some among them who will never accept me, and does he really think me so poor spirited I will be afraid of a cutting remark or a cold shoulder?'

‘Elizabeth—'

‘Yes?' she asked.

He looked as though he was about to say something more and suddenly she felt a sense of dread, as though there were something dark lurking beneath the surface of her life, something which threatened her world, her security, her happiness. But then he stroked her hair and everything was as it should be. He relaxed, and she relaxed as well.

‘No matter. The horses are ready. Let me see if I can convince you to enjoy Paris from horseback.'

They went out into the street, and there in front of the house was Darcy's impressive black stallion and the sweetest mare Elizabeth had ever seen. Although she was no horsewoman, she had lived in the country all her life and she knew that the mare was exceptional.

‘She is called Snowfall,' said Darcy.

The name suited her. She was white, with a long mane and tail, no more than fourteen hands high with slender legs and nicely sloping shoulders. Her neck was arched and she had an overall air of elegance.

Darcy made a sign to the groom, who trotted her up and down the road on a leading rein, showing off her paces and her neat, small hooves.

‘She looks as though she has Arab blood,' said Elizabeth, as the groom brought her to a halt.

‘Yes, she has.'

Elizabeth took a carrot from the groom and gave it to the mare, feeling the animal's soft mouth nuzzling her hand as the carrot disappeared.

‘Do you like her?' asked Darcy.

‘I do indeed,' said Elizabeth.

He helped her to mount, holding her hand as she stepped up onto the mounting block and then settled herself comfortably on the mare's back, hooking one leg around the pommel of her side saddle before arranging her skirt and allowing the groom to adjust the straps. Then she declared that she was ready.

Darcy mounted beside her and the two of them set off towards the river.

The main city was dirty, but once they approached the Seine, it was clean and beautiful. The river was lined with grand buildings, their long elegant lines stretching gracefully into the distance. Their walls were of stone and their roofs were of a pale grey, as though a watercolourist had chosen the shade to echo the river and the sky.

They rode past the Louvre, where they had already spent a morning looking at the luscious paintings of Titian and Rubens, and where they now saw a great many people making the most of the Peace of Amiens to enjoy the activities which had long been denied them. Elizabeth enjoyed the sights, and she took pleasure in the neat steps of her mare and the warm air and her husband beside her.