The Darcy Connection (2 page)

There was no question of assembly balls and parties in York or Harrogate for Charlotte and Eliza. Mr. Collins didn't approve of frivolity in any of its guises, and although Eliza knew that her mother had tried to persuade him that the girls needed to spread their wings so that they might meet suitable young men, he had always disagreed. His girls would find husbands at home, here in Ripon, among the unmarried clergymen who visited, or were appointed to livings in the diocese.

And now this miracle had happened, and Eliza had fallen in love with Anthony, and he was head over ears in love with her. And Aunt Grandpoint had appeared, like the fairy godmother in the stories, wanting—no, demanding—that she take Charlotte to London. Eliza wished her sister well, she wished everyone well just now. Why should Charlotte not have a chance of finding the same happiness that she had found with Anthony?

Lady Grandpoint was by far the grandest member of her family. She was sister to Mrs. Collins's mother, Lady Lucas, and had been married young to a respectable man of no especial position or fortune. Later on, widowed, and grown into a remarkable beauty—“I was very much like Charlotte is when I was her age,” she informed them with some complacency—she had made an excellent and unexpected second marriage, far better than she could have hoped for, when a distinguished nobleman had met her on a trip to Bath and fallen in love with her. They had had no children; the younger Charlotte was her goddaughter, and this chance trip to Yorkshire had brought to fruition a plan that had long lingered in Lady Grandpoint's mind.

“I wasn't sure whether it would be kind until I set eyes on Charlotte, now that she is grown up,” she told Mrs. Collins. “For a girl who has nothing to recommend her, no family, no money, no looks, a London season is the cruellest thing. But heavens above, the girl is a diamond, an astonishing beauty! With looks like that, there's no knowing whose fancy she may not catch. And, moving in the first circles as we do, she will have every opportunity to shine in the best company.”

Lady Grandpoint had reckoned without the bishop. He did not want his beloved Charlotte going off to London, where she might fall prey to all kind of adventurers.

“Adventurers? Not under my roof, Bishop, I assure you,” said Lady Grandpoint, her eyebrows raised in a haughty stare.

Bishop Collins could not give his consent. His girls had been brought up to be sober, industrious creatures, who would make good wives to hard-working, respectable clergymen, just as their mother was. Charlotte was a serious girl, with a mind above dancing and parties and the foolishness of London, a dangerous place for any young woman. True, her portion was small, and therefore every effort should be made to find her a suitable husband, but once the estate at Longbourn was his, he would be much better able to provide for his daughters from the income it provided.

“As to that, Eliza may marry a hard-working clergyman, if one can be found to have her,” said Lady Grandpoint. “I detect a pert quality to that girl, Bishop. But Charlotte's beauty is an opportunity, not only for herself but for the whole family.”

Bishop Collins had begged to differ, he must be permitted to know what was best for the women in his family.

His son, Charles, was keen in his support. “There is the expense, madam,” he said to his great-aunt. “A London season, on however small a scale, is not to be thought of for a girl in Charlotte's circumstances.”

“Circumstances may change,” said Lady Grandpoint, with chilly disdain.

So the matter might have rested, had Bishop Collins not received alarming news from Longbourn. Not alarming news of a welcome kind, such as that Mr. Bennet, his cousin, whose entailed estate would pass to Mr. Collins on his death, had fallen into fits or met with an accident. No, this was news of quite a different kind. There was a widow lately come into the neighbourhood; she had taken a house near Meryton, and it was clear that she and Mr. Bennet were getting along famously. Rumour was rife, said Bishop Collins's correspondent; the bishop took good care to keep himself informed about every detail of his cousin's life.

“It could not be worse,” he said, handing his wife the letter.

“I never heard of such a thing, my lord,” cried Mrs. Collins. “What can the man be at? He is past sixty, a widower these ten years, far too old to be indulging such fancies.”

“Men have married before in their sixties and even seventies.”

“True, but she cannot be such a young woman. A widow, you say?”

“Read the letter through. You see her age is mentioned, Harold has taken the trouble to ascertain all the details. She is not above five-and-thirty.”

“Five-and-thirty, he could be her father, it is disgraceful behaviour. She is childless, though,” she said, turning the sheet. “There were no children of her first marriage.”

“Yet it is often so, that a woman's second marriage proves more fruitful than the first, and five-and-thirty is not too old for child bearing.”

“Although risky,” said Mrs. Collins. “A first child at that age, well…”

Terrible visions of a healthy son, a boy who would cut off the entail and deprive the Collinses of the house and two thousand a year that was their rightful inheritance, didn't need to be spoken aloud.

Aunt Grandpoint was soon in possession of the contents of the letter, and she did not, as she announced in ringing tones, care for the news at all. “You may be sure this hussy will do all she can to ensnare Mr. Bennet, of course she will. No, unless Mr. Bennet should go to meet his maker in the very near future, I think you can say farewell to your two thousand a year.”

Bishop Collins gave vent to some most un-Christian language, which went almost unnoticed by his wife and her aunt as they contemplated the end to these hopes which had burned so brightly for so many years.

“There is no point repining,” said Lady Grandpoint with her accustomed briskness. “It isn't only the money, it is also a matter of position. A minor bishop with a good inherited estate stands quite differently in the eyes of the world and, I may say, in the eyes of those who hand out appointments, from one who has only the income from his bishopric and one or two livings. Ripon does not carry a large income, as we know. In which case, my dear Bishop, you must seek advancement and an increase of income in the only way left to you. You must obtain a better bishopric, one that provides a more substantial income. Salisbury, Wells, Gloucester, one of those.”

Bishop Collins shut his eyes to conceal the expression of pain that crossed his features. Lady Grandpoint had touched a sensitive spot, for, happy as he was to be Bishop of Ripon, the comparatively small stipend had always been a drawback. Moreover, in his heart of hearts, he had a hope that, once in possession of the Longbourn estate, more of the good things that the Church had to offer might come his way. The senior bishoprics tended to go to men with great connections or a good income, so perhaps, in due course, he might find himself installed in the close of one of the great cathedrals.

His careful ways and Mrs. Collins's shrewd housekeeping had made a small income go a long way, and now that they were more comfortably off, he and his family lacked for little. But what was there in that to encourage the minds of those who had the high Church appointments in their hands to look in his direction? His talents alone would not recommend him, and although he was assiduous in cultivating anyone who might advance his clerical career, the truth was that he simply did not move in sufficiently high circles for this to be of much use. He had been lucky in his patrons, but their patronage had extended as far as it was going to.

He gave a kind of groan, and his wife patted him comfortingly on his arm, her eyes full of concern.

“Pull yourself together,” said Lady Grandpoint. “This settles it, Bishop. Your only hope lies with Charlotte. If she can attach herself to a man in a good position, a man whose voice counts in the circles of the great, why, then there is hope for you. For her husband would obviously prefer that his father-in-law should be Bishop of Lincoln or Bath or Wells or some such diocese, and speak with authority in the Lords, than that he should be languishing in Yorkshire, with an insufficient income to be able to attend sessions in the House on a regular basis.” She didn't add that she, too, would prefer for her niece's husband to be among the great and good of the land.

It was settled. Charlotte was to go to London. There had been a difficult moment, when Mrs. Collins had felt it was her duty to accompany her daughter, but this idea was quickly quashed by her aunt and her husband and son.

“It will be hard enough providing for Charlotte,” Charles said with a heavy frown. “Were you to go, there must be clothes and so on for you—”

“As to that,” said Lady Grandpoint, looking down her nose at Charles, who was, she thought, nearly as dull and pompous as his father, “as to that, I shall see to everything that is necessary for Charlotte. No, do not thank me, she is my goddaughter, and I want her to have this opportunity, which I am sure she will make good use of.”

Charlotte, on hearing of her good fortune, had smiled with unusual animation, which gave her lovely face even more beauty; Lady Grandpoint nodded her head in approval. “Looking like that, my dear, and dressed fine, you will turn the head of any man.”

Eliza was delighted for her sister. She was fond enough of Charlotte, although always wondering how anyone could go through life with such calmness, a calmness that might even be called passivity. But it was right that her beauty should be shown to the wider world. No, she assured her mother, she felt not the slightest jealousy at Charlotte's good fortune. No one would look twice at Eliza if she went to London, and besides, she was perfectly happy here in Yorkshire.

She spoke no more than the truth. The sisters, so close in age, had neither been close friends nor indulged in the spiteful hostility which can sometimes arise between sisters. They were so different in character, had so little in common beyond the circumstances of their family life, that it was not so very surprising. Eliza was quick: in apprehension, in wit, in movement. She loved to laugh and took a keen interest in her fellow creatures and in ideas and opinions from beyond her immediate circle. In contrast, Charlotte was self-contained, resolute, quiet in voice and manners. It was almost, Eliza sometimes felt, as though her sister were in a state of waiting—for what? A prince? A revelation? Her self-control and reserve irritated her livelier sister, who disliked all forms of priggishness.

Still, family bonds were a strong tie, and Eliza did truly rejoice for Charlotte, and she knew that if her attachment to Anthony had been acceptable to his parents, if they could have entered into an engagement with the approval of both families, then Charlotte would have been pleased for her, in her cool way.

“You are a good girl,” said Mrs. Collins to Eliza. “And we must look about for a husband for you, although you are young yet, barely twenty. Why, I didn't marry until I was nearly thirty, there is plenty of time for you to find yourself a suitable husband. And when
your
godmother comes back to England, I am sure you can go and stay with her for a few weeks.”

Mrs. Collins sometimes felt that it had been unwise to ask her dear friend Elizabeth, who had made such a brilliant match when she caught the fancy of and married the rich Mr. Darcy, to be her younger daughter's godmother. It was as though an impish fairy had crept into the child's cradle and blown some of the liveliness and high spirits of Elizabeth into her namesake, for certainly, from the time she opened her eyes and smiled, it was evident that Eliza took after neither her father nor her mother.

Not for the first time, Mrs. Collins felt uneasy about Eliza. There was a glow to her that she could not like, and she had been almost sweet-tempered these last few weeks, and Eliza had formerly always had a quick temper which she found hard to control. Well, she was growing up, leaving behind the fidgets and fancies of her girlhood. Had there been a young man in question—but, no, who was there? Eliza had made no new acquaintance in the neighbourhood, there was no one new to meet. She had none but the men she had known any time these five years. No, she must just feel relieved that her younger, troublesome daughter might be growing more sensible and calm.

“You are not to mention it, but Charlotte is even more fortunate than at first appears. Lord Grandpoint's money will of course go to his family, but my aunt has some money from her first husband, and her settlement, and she hints that she will leave it to Charlotte. Expectations, of even a modest kind, added to Charlotte's beauty make me very hopeful for a good match for her.”

“Oh, a good match,” said Eliza. “I care nothing for a good match, as the world calls it. I only hope that Charlotte will meet a man she can love.”

Mrs. Collins gave her daughter a sharp look, but Eliza's head was bent dutifully over her sewing.

“I hope that Charlotte will love her husband, whoever he may be, just as she ought.”

Eliza helped with the preparations for Charlotte's trip with a will. Lady Grandpoint announced her intention to extend her stay in Yorkshire, so that Charlotte might accompany her back to London. “I shall write to Grandpoint,” she said, “and tell him not to expect me so soon as I had planned. There is no point of going to the cost of another carriage for Charlotte when she can travel with me. And there can be no question of her going anything other than post, such a beautiful young woman could not travel on the common stage.”

Eliza, still unaware of the storm that had broken around her father's head, took herself to bed, consoled by the thought that Anthony could not need to spend long at Udall, that he might be back the very next day, and if she walked in the Western Woods, and he were to be riding there—She laughed at herself. If he were back, he would certainly be riding in the woods. They had a trysting spot, beneath an ancient oak, just off the bridle path, where they could sit on his cloak and talk and gaze into each other's eyes and steal kisses, while always on the alert for some other walker or rider or a woodsman taking that way home.

Upstairs, Bishop Collins, in his ponderous way, was telling the doleful news to a horrified Mrs. Collins, while in the adjoining bedchamber, Charlotte slept the deep sleep of one whose conscience was utterly clear, and whose behaviour had been rewarded by this unsought treat of a London season.

In Diggory Hall, Sir Roger was also talking to his wife. They had retired for the night to their panelled bedchamber, a room that he had refused to have redone in the modern style, and her ladyship's maid had been dismissed. Lady Diggory was already in their high four-poster bed, where generations of Diggorys had been begotten, born, and died. Sir Roger wrapped his voluminous nightgown around his still well-muscled legs, pulled his nightcap firmly on to his head, and climbed in beside his spouse.

“That's done,” he said. “I put it to the bishop fair and square. We'll have no trouble from him, he knows which side his bread is buttered. I've told him he must send the girl away, she's to go to Derbyshire, I believe, to Pemberley.”

Lady Diggory drew her mouth into a tight line. Derbyshire! That was not so very far away; a vigorous young man might think he could make the journey to Derbyshire. Cornwall would be better, or the far north of Scotland, a remote isle among the Hebrides, for example. “Isn't one of the Darcy daughters living in Rome? Perhaps a trip abroad? Indeed, a continent between Anthony and that young woman would be best of all.”

Sir Roger snorted. “Bishop Collins would never allow that, his daughter among all the papists? No, Derbyshire is the best we can hope for, she can go and rusticate there and perhaps her rich cousins will find her a husband.” He made the snorting, sighing noise that indicated he was about to settle himself to sleep. “She must be got rid of before Anthony returns. I'll send a note to Collins in the morning, telling him to be quick about sending her off.”

“Mrs. Collins may not be happy for her to go to Derbyshire; you talk of husbands and she won't meet any likely young men at Pemberley with the family away.”

“We don't know they're away.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Darcy are abroad, for Mrs. Collins told me so last week. And she is right to be concerned, that girl needs a husband.”

“Not Anthony.”

“I hope he doesn't take it too hard,” said Lady Diggory. “If he imagines himself in love…”

“Nonsense! Out of sight, out of mind. Boy and girl stuff, and he's too old for that.”

“She's a taking creature, Miss Eliza.”

“Eh?”

“A flirt, too. Men like her.”

“Well, I don't,” said Sir Roger, heaving himself over to blow out the candle.