The True Darcy Spirit (3 page)

“You have a vulgar mind, Thomas,” Darcy said coldly. “And as for rich, you know very well I have a younger son’s portion.” He was silent for a moment. “She is a very distant cousin,” he added in a harsher voice.

“What is she doing here, in the Inner Temple?” said Bailey. “Oh, I suppose she has come to see you. Has her father asked you to crack the whip? And who’s the lucky fellow, I wouldn’t mind—” He saw the fury on Horatio’s face and stopped himself in time, turning the rest of his sentence into a half cough.

Normally, Horatio found Bailey a very good kind of fellow, but today he was filled with irritation at the sight of him. “Haven’t you any work to do?”

“I can take a hint,” said Bailey, amiably enough. He went out with Henty, telling him to look out the papers on Lady Ludlow’s estate.

Horatio, still standing at the window, saw Cassandra check her pace and then straighten her shoulders, as though taking up a burden,
before she made her way to the gate that led out of the Inner Temple.

He was filled with a sudden rage, at her obstinacy, her refusal to see sense, to conform to the rules and proprieties of that order of society into which she had been born. Would her stepfather really cast her off? Would her mother, who was after all her own flesh and blood, allow him to do so? He was not closely acquainted with Mrs. Partington, but what little he had seen of her he hadn’t admired. She seemed to be completely ruled by her second husband, a poor fellow, in comparison to the clever, amiable man that the late Thaddeus Darcy had apparently been.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it. He could merely wait and hope that during the next few days his cousin would come to her senses. Perhaps Eyre would return from Ireland and her affection for him, which must be considerable in order for such a girl to cast herself under his protection, would be sufficient to persuade her that marriage to her naval lieutenant was the best hope of a reasonable future that she had.

At the same time he felt a sudden loathing for Eyre. Had he meant to ruin Cassandra? No, that wasn’t likely. By all accounts he had left Bath in a hurry because of his indebtedness. And he wasn’t the kind of man not to seize the chance of a pretty companion, especially one who he knew might well be possessed of a large fortune.

How could Cassandra be guilty of such folly as not to see that Eyre was only interested in her fortune? Although he supposed that he might have had some feeling for her as a person as well. She was well-looking enough, although he himself would never choose to live with a girl who had a look as direct and alarming as Cassandra’s—or so pigheaded a character. She reminded him, uncomfortably, of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, also his cousin, and a formidable man.

Damn it, where was Henty? Here was the day half-gone and no work done, nothing achieved. He flung open the door into the outer office and curtly told his clerk to come in, that there was much to be done.

He started to dictate a letter, to go to Mr. Partington, in Kent.
Then he thought better of it. This was a family affair. He would write to Partington himself that evening, and give him a brief account of the meeting that he had had with Cassandra, saying that he had duly passed on Mr. Partington’s message and the conditions that he laid down for his stepdaughter. When he had an answer from Cassandra, which he was sure would be in favour of marriage, he would again be in communication with him.

He said no more about Miss Darcy to Henty, and indeed made every effort as the day went on not to think of his cousin. If he was going to think of any woman, he would prefer to think of Lady Usborne, with her pretty, flattering ways, and no grey eyes sparkling with anger, or—and this irked him even more—amusement, when she looked at him.

Cassandra found that the flowing river, the people walking at their leisure taking in the air, enjoying the sunshine and the warmth of the day, jarred with her mood. It was too leisurely, too comfortable here. She wanted to be in motion, she needed to take action, not to muse or brood.

So she left the Inner Temple, with its calmness of centuries of learning and law, and went out through the handsome Inigo Jones gate into the Strand. There the traffic was as busy as ever and the clamour of London rang in her ears: horses’ hooves ringing on the cobbled way, the screeching sound of wagon wheels, the rattle and clatter of carriages, and all around her, voices raised in laughter or argument, peddlers and street men selling their wares, a woman shrieking loudly at a disobedient child, small boys squealing amongst themselves as they played with the stone that they sent skittering across the cobbles trying to bring down a passing horse.

There were shops all along the Strand, their bay windows full of enticing goods. None of these caught Cassandra’s attention. In fact, after the first impact of the scene with all its movement and life, she hardly noticed what was going on around her nor where her steps were leading to. She was considering Mr. Darcy’s parting words to
her, his warning that even a young lady such as herself, well-born and carefully raised, could, by setting her will against the wishes of her family, easily find herself come upon the town.

And Cassandra knew precisely what the phrase meant. Despite the apparent strictness of her upbringing under her stepfather’s rigid control—and Mr. Partington was a man very strong on morality—she was no prude. An innocent abroad she might be; ignorant, she was not. Many years of friendship with Emily Croscombe, a lively young woman of just Cassandra’s age, had made sure of that, for Emily had an unusual mother, an educated woman, positively a blue-stocking, who believed modern girls should not be kept in a state of passive ignorance, and what Emily knew, so did her friend and confidante, Cassandra.

There had been a case in the village, when the attorney’s daughter had, at the age of fifteen, run off with a member of the militia; Emily had told Cassandra that the girl, abandoned by her lover, had come upon the town to make her living and she also told her that Sarah was enjoying her new life, much to the outrage of the village.

Mrs. Croscombe pointed out to the girls, in a matter-of-fact rather than a moralising way, that while Sarah was young and pretty and had her health, she might find her life in London not disagreeable. But those years soon passed, and a girl lost her bloom, and then with no family, no means of support and nothing of youth and beauty left, the prospects for a single woman in that situation were nothing if not bleak.

Cassandra came out of her reverie to find herself outside a shop which did catch her attention, for as the door opened to let out a customer, a poignantly familiar smell wafted out. This was a colourist’s shop, and the smell was an unmistakable mixture of linseed oil and pigment that carried her at once back to her attic studio at Rosings, where so many hours of her girlhood and early womanhood had been spent in the absorbed happiness of working at her easel or her drawing table.

Rosings! An image of her home came before her eyes, an artist’s image of the façade painted in early spring, with green flecking the
trees and the family posed for the picture. Rosings wasn’t one of the great houses of England, it was not a house to compare with a Chatsworth or a Wilton, but it was still a fine, imposing house—and, for Cassandra, the place where she had spent the previous nineteen years of her life, until she had driven away from it, with scarcely a backward glance, only a few weeks since.

What a difference those few short weeks had made, what a complete change in her circumstances had been wrought in that time. She looked with unseeing eyes at the little piles of colour set out in trays behind the tiny panes of the shop window, wondering if there were a time or place she could pinpoint that marked the turning point; a day, an incident, which had propelled her on the course that had so changed her life?

It had been a morning at the beginning of April when Cassandra rode over to Croscombe House from Rosings with some exciting news. Croscombe House was two miles distant from the village of Hunsford, where Rosings was situated, and Cassandra could have found her way there blindfold, so much time had she spent there over the years in Emily’s company.

It was the fashion for owners of large and elegant houses to have them painted: house, park and, generally, the family lined up in front of the building. Mr. Partington, never one to be outdone by his neighbours, had, through the good offices of Herr Winter, a painter who lived in Hunsford, engaged an up-and-coming young artist to come down to Rosings and paint the house and family.

“Imagine,” Cassandra told Emily. “He is only four-and-twenty, but already, Herr Winter says, he is making a reputation for himself in London as an artist.”

“Is he English?”

“No, he is a fellow countryman of Herr Winter, who knew his father when he lived in Germany. But he speaks excellent English, Mr. Partington was insistent on that point, of course, he would be, for otherwise how could he tell him what to do, and how to paint the picture? Oh, I can’t wait for him to arrive, it is a great opportunity for me, to see such an artist at work.”

“You won’t be able to see much,” Emily observed. “Not when you’re sitting still, looking like a well-bred young lady for hours on end, under the portico.”

“That is what I feared, but all is well, it is to be a portrait of the Partington family, and of course I am a Darcy.”

Mrs. Croscombe was so shocked she could hardly speak. “Do you mean that you are not to be painted with your mother and sisters and brother?”

“Half sisters and half brother, as Mr. Partington is always so quick to point out. No, and don’t look so horrified, for I don’t give a button for being painted. I should very much prefer to be on the other side of the process, I do assure you.”

Emily could see that her mother had a great deal more to say on the subject, so she intervened: “What is this painter’s name? When is he to come?”

“He is called Henry Lisser, and he will arrive on Thursday se’ennight. By which time we will have another visitor, I forgot to mention that, because Mr. Lisser is so much more exciting.”

“Not another clergyman?” said Emily.

“No, not at all. It is my cousin Belle, Isabel Darcy. I have no recollection of her, although I know we met as children, when I visited Pemberley.”

“So she is one of your cousin Mr. Darcy’s daughters,” said Mrs. Croscombe. “He has five, has he not? Isabel will be one of the younger ones, I think, for I am sure the older two are married.”

“Yes, and her twin sister Georgina is lately married and gone to live in Paris. And, in the strictest confidence, although Mama won’t say anything, and Mr. Partington just tut-tuts and looks grave, I have a notion that she has been in some kind of a scrape, and that she is coming to Rosings to be out of the way and kept out of mischief.”

“I would have thought Pemberley would keep her out of mischief.”

“Oh, I believe her parents are abroad or some such thing, but do not want her to stay in London for the summer.”

“She will be company for you, is she about your age?”

“She is eighteen.”

“What is she like?” Emily asked. “Is she pretty?”

“I have no idea, but you may see for yourself, for she arrives tomorrow, so unless she is to be kept strictly within bounds, or cannot ride a horse, I shall bring her over to make your acquaintance.”

Belle was no horsewoman, but the visit was paid nonetheless, Cassandra being allowed to take her cousin with her in the carriage. “Which,” she said to Emily as she jumped down outside the steps of Croscombe House, “shows you how rich and important Belle’s papa is, for you know how Mr. Partington hates to have the horses put to the carriage on my behalf.”

Belle, angelically fair, with striking violet eyes, had a discontented expression on her pretty face as she stepped down from the carriage. She made no bones about telling Emily and Cassandra why she had been posted off to Rosings. “It is because I am in love with the most handsome, dashing man, my dearest Ferdie, only my family consider I am too young and too volatile in my affections to enter into an engagement.”

Mrs. Croscombe had, through an intricate network of friends and acquaintances, found out more than this. When Emily told her at breakfast the next morning what Belle had said, and expressed her indignation at any family being so gothic as to stand between a girl and the object of her affections—“For he is a perfectly respectable parti, an eldest son, and very well-connected”—her mother thought it only right to say that this was the third young man within a year that Belle, “who is but eighteen, my dear,” had fallen in love with and wished to marry.

Emily was much struck with this, and passed the information on to Cassandra, warning her not to reveal to Belle how much Mrs. Croscombe, who had a wide correspondence, and kept up with all the gossip of town, knew about her. Cassandra thought it a very good joke. “Perhaps she will next fall in love with one of Mr. Partington’s clerical protégés, or with one of your rejected beaux.”

“I do not mind whom she falls in love with, so long as it is not my Charles,” said Emily.

There was no danger of that. Charles Egerton, while appreciating Belle’s undoubted prettiness—although he was wise enough not to comment on that to Emily—had no time for such a flighty piece of perfection. “She is very silly,” he said disapprovingly. “She would drive any man of sense to distraction. Her father and mother are very right to remove her from London, for it will be much better for her to grow up and become more sensible before she marries any of her lovers.”

Nor did any other of the young men of the district seem to take her fancy. “In fact,” Belle confided to Cassandra, with a prodigious yawn, “I do wish they had let me visit my sister in Paris. I have never been so bored in all my life. This is even worse than Pemberley, how do you stand it?”

“I have plenty to occupy myself. You could do some sketching, if you choose, or there is the pianoforte, in tune, and very willing to be used.”

“Oh, I never play the piano if I can help it. I leave all that to my younger sister, Alethea, who is a prodigiously fine musician. I play the harp, and my sister Georgina was used to sing with me, but now she is in Paris, and I have not brought my harp with me, and besides, what is the point of playing, if there are no young men to listen and applaud? And as for sketching, I have no talent in that direction, none at all.”

“You could read. The library here is very good.”

“I’ve looked, and it’s all fusty stuff. Nothing modern, does not your mama buy any novels?”

“My stepfather does not approve of novels.”

Belle stared. “You mean you do not read novels?”

“I do, only without his permission. Emily lends me what I want, she and her mother are both great readers.”

“Mrs. Croscombe is very learned, is not she? The books she reads must be very dull.”

“Some of them are, but she enjoys novels as much as Emily does. When we next go over there, ask to borrow one.”

Another yawn from Belle. “Why don’t you take my portrait?” she suggested, brightening up at the thought. “I would like to have my
portrait painted, of me on my own, because whenever anyone has drawn or painted me, it has always been with my sister. If you take my likeness, I can smuggle it out to send to my dearest Ferdie, would not that be a very good plan?”

Cassandra was always happy to have a new model, and Belle went off to change into her prettiest dress and a smart new bonnet, while Cassandra rang for Petifer and went up to her studio, which she had set up in one of the attics, as far away as possible from both the public rooms and the family rooms.

Petifer had been detailed to look after Miss Darcy, once she reached an age to have her own maid, and she was kind, fierce, and devoted to Cassandra. Taking her side against Mr. Partington, whom she despised, Petifer aided and abetted Cassandra in her painting, even though she thought it a strange occupation for a lady, and she had become very handy with the paints and canvases. She also did Cassandra a further service, which her mistress knew nothing about, by keeping the servants from gossiping too much about the hours Miss Darcy spent up in her attic with all those odorous paints.

Cassandra had never had a more chatty subject, for Belle wouldn’t stop talking.

“My sister Camilla is lately married, to a very agreeable man, and he had her portrait painted, it is considered a very good likeness. She is wearing yellow, which is her favourite colour, and it makes her look almost pretty. She is the least handsome of us, but Wytton, that is her husband, does not seem to mind. Or perhaps he has not noticed, his mind is taken up with antiquities and ancient Egypt and that kind of thing. Did not you say that Mr. Partington has engaged an artist to paint you all? Perhaps he might draw me as well. When does he arrive? At least it will be more company, or will he be consigned to the servants’ quarters?”

“He is to stay with Herr Winter, who is an old friend of his family. But I believe the habit of treating artists as tradesmen has quite gone out. Mr. Lawrence dines with the king, you know, and a fashionable painter, such as I believe this Mr. Lisser to be, is received in all the best houses.” Cassandra didn’t add, as she might have done, that
it had taken considerable persuasion and an extremely large fee to entice Mr. Lisser away from London and down to Rosings. Anyone who could command so much money was unlikely to find himself dining among the servants.

Henry Lisser posted down from London, and word of his arrival at Herr Winter’s house flew around Hunsford. The next day he came to Rosings, and stepped out of the carriage sent for him by Mr. Partington, followed by his servant, a thin, undernourished young man, who unloaded a surprising number of boxes and cases and several canvases under Mr. Lisser’s directions.

Mr. Partington sailed out to greet the young artist with more than his usual condescension. He was taken aback, Cassandra saw, to find Henry Lisser seemingly quite unimpressed by his surroundings and company; here was no bowing and scraping young man, overwhelmed by the grandeur of Rosings. The young artist cast a quick glance around, looked Mr. Partington up and down, and, Cassandra felt sure, took his measure in those few seconds, and held out his hand.

Belle was watching from an upstairs window. “Do not you think him a remarkably handsome young man?” she said as soon as Cassandra joined her.

“I didn’t notice,” Cassandra said. “He seems pleasant enough. I shall know more about him if I am allowed to watch him while he works. Some artists won’t allow it, you know, but Herr Winter promised to put in a word for me.”

“Oh, you will be more interested in his palette and paintbrushes and how he mixes his paints than in his countenance,” Belle said with a toss of her head. “I shall ask if I may watch, too.”

That rather alarmed Cassandra; while she knew she could tuck herself in a corner and not be noticed, Belle was never happy unless she was conspicuous.

“It will be very tedious to watch, you know, unless you happened to be interested in technique as I am. Besides, you will catch Sally’s eye and give her the giggles, you know you will, and that will put Mr. Partington into a temper, and get Sally a scolding.”

“He is not so very tall, and I like a man to be tall, but he has a good figure. And those eyes, they are very fine, his eyes. Do you not think he would look well upon a horse?”

“I think you had much better return to your novel, you said it was most exciting; I dare say much more exciting than any painter.”