Mr. Darcy's Daughters (16 page)

“If ever my brother marries, then we hope he will choose to spend more time in Kent, and my duties there may lessen,” she said, her eyes flickering for an instant in Camilla’s direction. “A wife and children may do more than we can to bring him regularly into the country. Do you care for the country, Miss Camilla? Your father’s property in Derbyshire is famous, of course, for its beauty and for the grandeur of its setting. Have you often been in town? Do you plan to fix in London?”

“This is my first visit, if you except the time I spent in a seminary. I like town life, I confess, or what I have seen of it so far. It is easy to fall into the mopes in the country, and when the weather is bad and visits impossible, one cannot help but be dull. In London, there is always something to do, such a bustle and business about the place, such liveliness.”

“I should rather say it is a crowded and noisy city, always in a tumult. And now, with Mr. Nash’s works under construction, one might as well live on a building site. I prefer the tranquillity and peace of the countryside.”

“That is because you prefer the domestic life,” observed her brother, as they went from the supper room to take tea before the fire in the main apartment. “For men, London is the only place, except when sport is the purpose of one’s day.”

“Are you not a sportsman, Sir Sidney?” Camilla asked.

Mrs. Rowan handed her tea in an exquisite porcelain cup of red and gold. Camilla took it and turned back to Sir Sidney. “I apologise; it was an impertinent question, do not feel obliged to answer.”

“I am sure you meant no impertinence, and my answer is that I am not much of a sportsman,” he said, accepting a cup of his own. “I prefer to exist amid the beautiful, and there is not much of that on the hunting field or when one is out with a gun, shooting down birds that are lovely on the wing and poor, desolate objects when brought to earth.”

“I warrant you find loveliness in them once more when your chef serves them up to you in a dish,” said Mrs. Rowan, a twinkle in her eye.

He laughed at this, and agreed that food, too, was one of the joys of life. “Anything that pleases the senses must meet with my approval.”

Camilla smiled, liking a man who could laugh at himself as Sir Sidney could, and feeling a particular warmth towards him for being ready to admit that painting and music and books were of more importance to him than foxhunting or shooting.

“I am no dandy, mind you,” continued Sir Sidney. “I have a mind beyond neck cloths and the cut of a coat. I enjoy a prizefight, if I may speak of such things in female company, and am considered to have a good eye for a horse. And I am not one of your namby-pamby townees, out of sorts if out of town. I delight in a stay—a short stay—in the country as much as any man.”

“Provided there is good company and handsome furnishings and fine paintings and a comfortable chamber for you to sleep in,” Camilla finished for him.

“Ah, you have quite fathomed my character,” he said, smiling into her eyes in a way that made her heart beat fast. “And you do not condemn me, you do not believe that a man is a very contemptible fellow if he is not riding with hounds five days a week and coming home splashed with mud to drink and doze in an exhausted state before a roaring fire.”

“I certainly do not. I like a man to talk, and I have frequently noticed that hunting men talk of nothing but foxes and points and runs, and how their horse went better than anyone else’s, all so tedious and tiresome that it makes my head ache to listen to it.”

“My dear, guard your tongue,” said Mrs. Rowan, amused. “Nine out of ten Englishmen are sporting mad; you will earn yourself an ill name among them if you show you despise the chase and the race and the fight. The only thing most of them like better than sport is thumping the French, and of course that particular activity is denied them now.”

For a man who professed to despise sport, Sir Sidney had a firm and muscular figure, Camilla found herself thinking. A well-fitting coat, skintight breeches and silk stockings was a costume all too apt to show up any deficiencies of form. Sir Sidney had none that she could discern; she could not but approve his lean and elegant appearance with its underlying strength.

She wrenched herself away from admiration of Sir Sidney’s well-set shoulders and handsome legs, to find Mrs. Rowan’s ironic gaze upon her, just as though she had been able to read her thoughts.

It was lucky that she, in her turn, had not been able to read Mrs. Rowan’s thoughts, for they would have angered her exceedingly. The ironic gaze hid a sense of alarm, of realisation of her new friend’s feelings for Sir Sidney and the inward, silent knowledge that it would not do, it would not do at all. How would a young woman—even one of character, such as Camilla Darcy—who was very much in love, probably for the first time, cope with the fix in which she would inevitably find herself?

Camilla awoke the next morning filled with happiness. She felt at one with all the world, overflowing with goodwill and desire that everyone might be as happy as she was. Poor Letty, had her sister been as much in love with Tom as she now was with Sir Sidney? If so, no wonder she had felt his loss so acutely, no wonder she still missed him after all this time, and what anguish must she not be experiencing knowing that her lover was, after all, still on this earth, but denied to her?

Even this new understanding of her sister’s heart and the sympathy it aroused in her was not enough to dampen her sense of well-being. The world outside responded by presenting a brilliant spring day, a sparkling day, with a warm and generous sun, a freshness to the air, even in the centre of town, a promise of greenness about the trees and a liveliness to the chirruping and songs of the birds. Swiftly up, and swiftly out of the house, charged with a restlessness that urged her to be active, she walked across the square, Sackree hurrying to match her eager steps.

“Lawks, Miss, wherever are you going at such a pace? I can’t keep up with you; look at you, flying along like you’d got wings.”

“Today, Sackree, I do believe I have wings.”

“Some man, that’s what it is,” Sackree muttered to herself as she hurried to keep up with her. “There’s nothing else would account for such a flow of spirits, and if it’s that identical fine gentleman as has been sniffing round like a fussy pet dog toying with its supper, then we’re in for squalls and no mistake. For he won’t do, and that’s a fact, and I don’t care how much Mr. Fitzwilliam and Lady Fanny smile upon him. He may be good for them, but he’s no good for her. Lordy, I do wish Mr. and Mrs. Darcy weren’t so far away; they’ve a deal too much sense not to know what’s going on.”

For naturally, Sackree had all the gossip of the servants’ hall at her fingertips, and they knew rather more about the situation and the nature and temperament of the principals involved than either the Darcys or the Fitzwillliams would have believed possible.

“He’s a good catch, I give you that,” Fell had pronounced. “Inasmuch as fortune and estate make a man what’s wanted. But there’s more to that in a happy marriage, and Miss Camilla is the sort who won’t put up with any nonsense from a man. He’d have to take a whip to her before she’d agree to what kind of life he’s got in mind, and the gentry don’t go in for whipping. Or if they do, it’s for pleasure, not for chastisement and keeping a woman in order.”

“Whipping indeed! No one is going to set about a Miss Darcy with a whip,” said Sackree, outraged at the very suggestion.

“I don’t know as how Miss Camilla’s gentleman is any worse than that slippery parson fellow set on fixing his interest with Miss Darcy,” said Dawson. “There’s a man with a phizz I don’t trust.”

“I’d never trust a parson of any kind,” said a footman darkly. “He’s none too free with his shillings, that one, neither, though he expects answers to his nosy questions. ‘When is Miss Darcy walking in the park, is the carriage ordered for that afternoon, what callers came to the house this morning?’ ”

“And never a civil word when he comes and goes. Mr. Portal’s always there with a smile and a pleasant enquiry as to how you do,” said the butler. “And liberal with his blunt, too.”

“They say he’s as rich as Christmas.”

“Why should he be as rich as Christmas?”

“I don’t know, it’s what folk say, isn’t it?”

“It’s that man in olden times, only it ain’t Christmas. Something like, but not Christmas.”

“Made a fortune in India, did Mr. Portal. Two fortunes. Chests and chests of gold sitting in the bank, they say. And caskets of rubies and emeralds and I don’t know what.”

“He’s the sort of man to make a woman a good husband.”

“Only he’s after that widow woman, Mrs. Rowan, and she won’t have him.”

They shook their heads over such wilfulness.

“Where are you going, Miss?” cried a panting Sackree. “At least tell me that.”

“Why, I don’t know.”

“Then let’s go back, for I’ve plenty to do if you haven’t.”

Camilla agreed, perfectly willing to fall in with anyone’s wishes, and they returned to the house, only for her to be told that Sir Sidney had called in her absence. Her face fell; clouds gathered across the beauty of the day.

“He was wishful to wait upon Mr. Fitzwilliam, and he did so, was with him upwards of half an hour, left without enquiring after the ladies.”

Her disappointment was acute. Why should he come, to this very house, without at least spending even five minutes in her company? He must have his reasons, a matter of business, some parliamentary matter, no doubt, but even so—Surely he must want to see her; his manner last night had been so marked, so very attentive. Inexperienced she might be, but she could not be mistaken in this.

“Camilla, come in here a moment, if you please.”

It was her cousin, standing at the entrance to the library, looking remarkably pleased with himself.

“May I just step upstairs to take off my pelisse and hat, sir?”

“No, no, you do very well as you are. I have to be off in a minute or two.”

He held the door for her as she went through, and then closed it behind her before crossing to the fireplace and taking up a stance with his arm on the mantel and his foot on the fender.

This room was called the library, and it was indeed lined with leather-bound books. However, it was really far too small to be graced with such a name and was fitted up more as a study for her cousin. There was a handsome desk, a comfortable leather chair set beside the fire, a globe set on an elegant stand, a half-clock made by Tompion and a variety of military prints in the spaces on the walls between the shelves of books.

It was a masculine room, and Camilla mused for a moment on how much of the house was used by Fanny, for herself, her children and her guests; how much of it was therefore a female domain. This library—study, whatever you might call it—was the master’s only clearly defined area in the house, and, she told herself, it was quite adequate for him. He needed no more, since, for him, the outside and larger world was where his territory and stalking grounds lay. His clubs and Parliament and bachelor friends’ houses or lodgings were all his to visit as he wished, as were coffee-houses, taverns and inns, boxing parlours, the fencing
salle
and Tattersall’s, that most masculine of venues, where men looked over and bought and sold horses and exchanged news and gossip about the turf and horses, riders and owners.

So here in the house, he had merely this room to himself, but out of doors he had no boundaries. Why had this never occurred to her before? How constrained were Fanny and her sisters and herself, with their tiny, enclosed, domestic world, set around by doors and windows within and by the rectangle of genteel London without.

“Pray attend to what I have to say, Camilla,” said her cousin, frowning. “It is of the very greatest importance. You may be aware that Sir Sidney did me the honour of waiting upon me here this morning.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but went straight on. “It gives me the greatest satisfaction to tell you the purpose of his visit—or perhaps you can tell me, for young ladies are always beforehand with this kind of news.”

She was startled, and somewhat puzzled. Sir Sidney had said nothing to her about any business he might have with Mr. Fitzwilliam, and she would not have expected it. “Indeed, sir, I have no notion why he called here today.”

“He came to ask me, as your closest male relative and one under whose protection you presently reside, for permission to pay his addresses to you.”

“Pay his addresses?”

“You are to be congratulated, for he intends to ask for your hand in marriage.”

Nothing had prepared Camilla for this, and she was utterly astonished. So astonished that she could say nothing, but simply stared at Fitzwilliam.

How could this be? Sir Sidney had said nothing to her; certainly she felt a powerful attraction to him, was actually in love with him, she must admit it to herself, if to no one else—but she was still unsure of his sentiments. Why approach her cousin in this formal way? How correct, but how old-fashioned, how lacking in romance or feeling! Not to speak to her first—it was wrong of him, very wrong.

Her cousin was looking at her expectantly. “Well, have you nothing to say? In these cases, the lady usually has some foreknowledge of what is to be said; you cannot have been ignorant of his desire to fix his interest with you. Have you no expressions of gratitude, of pleasure in your conquest—and in having made such a notable conquest? A title—only a baronetcy, to be sure, but none of your very new creations; his title is an old and honourable one. A handsome fortune, a house in the best part of town, a very pretty little estate in Kent. Cousin, I congratulate you, I do indeed!”

There was a long silence before she could find her voice. Then she could only bring herself to say, “It is so strange!”

“Strange?” His voice was sharp. “What is strange about it? A man comes to a time of life when he wants to be looking around for a wife, to get him an heir; there is a younger brother in the case, I understand, and entails and so forth. It is a very proper thing for him to be doing, and you are a fortunate woman to be the one his fancy has lit upon. You will be excellently established, your friends will all envy you such a match, and your family will say you have done very well for yourself.”

Her mind was in a whirl. To speak to her cousin without saying a word to her, what casual presumption of her willingness it showed. Had her affections been so very transparent? No, for matters between them had not reached a stage where such a proposal was possible. She knew full well the strength of her own sentiments, but of his, she was still unsure—although she had been ready to feel, after last night, that Mrs. de Witt meant nothing to him, and that she herself might in time come to mean a great deal. The point was that he had never made love to her, never by word or gesture given a hint that he was planning for this greatest of all intimacies.

“It is a connection to please everyone,” her cousin was saying. “It will bring him closer to our particular group in the House, and since there are some issues on which we need every vote we can get, it will make a difference to know that we may rely on his support. A family alliance is the best assurance of loyalty, you know, for it can’t change from day to day. I wish you joy, Camilla, I do so with all my heart; it is a capital thing for you. Letty will not be best pleased”—here he gave a hearty chuckle—“no elder sister likes to have a younger one married first; her nose will be quite out of joint.”

“But sir, my father—nothing can be agreed or done before my father returns. He must be told, consulted—”

“No, no, a daughter’s marriage is not of the same importance as a son’s, you know. Sir Sidney is a rich man, a man of sense and breeding, of good reputation and a thoroughgoing Tory. What more could he ask? What more could any man ask for his daughter, eh? No, no, it will do very well, at least as far as a betrothal, we may venture upon a betrothal, and so I told Sir Sidney. We are to dine with him tonight. I took it upon myself to accept his invitation. Fanny has no engagements, she has refused all engagements while Charlotte is ill, but the child is better today, and I shall ask her to accompany us. Sir Sidney’s sister—you have met her, I think?”

She nodded, speechless once more.

“She acts as hostess, so it is perfectly proper for us to dine at his house. He asked her up from the country for this very purpose; a man needs family at such a time. There now, do not look so fraught. Are not you pleased? I would not have given him my consent to address you had I not been sure—aye, and Fanny, too, she will agree with me—that you had a decided
tendre
for Sir Sidney.”

“I hope—I would not in any way have wished for my feelings to be evident. To you, or to anyone. It is a private matter.”

“Well, so you may think, but it is not so. Marriage is not between two people alone; there are many, many other considerations besides. Sir Sidney’s man of business will call on me presently, for it is a business arrangement when there is such a fortune involved. Now, I must be off. You will find Fanny in her room, I believe; tell her the good news, and pass the message about dinner on my behalf, with my love and compliments, if you please. I shall be late if I do not leave this very instant.”

The Gardiners had also been invited to dine with Sir Sidney—which was only right and proper, said Fitzwilliam, as he entered the fine drawing room with Fanny, Letitia, and Camilla. The twins had been left at home, oddly unresisting at not being included. Suspiciously so, Camilla had thought for a moment, as she and her sister climbed into the carriage, but she had too occupied a mind and too excited a heart to think any more about it.

“It is, after all, a family occasion,” Fitzwilliam said, bowing to Mr. Wytton, who had accompanied the Gardiners. “An occasion for present and future members of the family to be together.”

Even in her own confused state, Camilla couldn’t help noticing the way Wytton was unable to take his eyes off Sophie. Sophie, however, was happy to let her attention roam, taking in the details of elegant furniture, splendid hangings and magnificent paintings before looking her cousins’ toilettes up and down and deciding that her own white muslin was much prettier than their gowns.

It was indeed the house of a connoisseur; Camilla had never seen so many exquisite objects in one place before, nor a single person’s possessions arranged with such nicety as to their position on a table, a wall, in a niche. Sir Sidney had a small gallery, designed for his father by Adam, where he kept his collection of Italian statuary, artfully displayed. He would be most happy to show it to them after dinner.

He had greeted her with a smiling countenance, and had made a most elegant leg before taking her hand and brushing it with his lips. An indifferent kind of a kiss for a lover, she thought for an uneasy moment; but then, they were in company, all eyes were upon them. So well-mannered and correct a gentleman as Sir Sidney would hardly attempt to embrace her before them, acknowledged suitor or not. Even so, when she had looked into his eyes she had seen, for a moment, not warmth or passion, but a coldness, a deadly coldness, that for a second sent a stab of apprehension through her. Then it vanished, and nothing was left but apparent admiration.

“You are in great beauty tonight,” he said, before attending to his other guests.

Such perfection! she said inwardly, as she gazed around the room. Even the servants were striking to look at. Generally, menservants who waited on guests were chosen for their upright physiques—with the hope of characters equally upright—and servants were most definitely expected to blend into the background. Sir Sidney’s servants did not blend; they did not seem intended to blend. One young man in particular caught her eye as he moved swiftly and gracefully about the room, an olive-skinned young man with huge black eyes, his dark skin set off by the powdered footman’s wig and the pale blue silk livery he wore.

“Well, Camilla, I hope you know what you are about,” Letty whispered to her. “I know nothing can be decided finally until Papa has sent word, there can be no formal announcement, but the news will fly around; you know how the polite world loves to gossip, and then, should you wish to withdraw, it will be very difficult for you.”

“I shan’t wish to withdraw,” Camilla said. “Can’t you be happy for me, Letty?”

Letitia’s face was closed. “I would wish you all the happiness in the world. It is only that—”

“That what?”

“Nothing. Sir Sidney is a very handsome man, and you must know what you are doing in accepting him.”

“Could you have cared for him?”

Letitia was startled by the question. “I? Oh, no, never.”

“Is it still Tom?”

“It is not. It has nothing to do with Tom, it is simply that Sir Sidney is not the kind of man I could have a fancy for. That is all.”

Dinner was served in the French style, which took a good deal of time, but the food was excellent. Camilla could scarcely swallow a morsel of it. The men did not linger long over their wine, and Mr. Wytton came out of the dining room ahead of his companions, eager to sit beside Sophie and make himself agreeable to her. She tossed her head and flirted with him, pleased to be the object of someone’s attention. Etiquette dictated that she must yield the centre stage to her cousin for the evening, but that she didn’t care to do so was quite obvious to Letitia and Camilla, and to her mother, who more than once found occasion to quell her with a lifted brow or a slight frown.

“It will be a relief to me when she is married,” Mrs. Gardiner confided to Camilla as they sat together on a sofa, waiting for the rest of the gentlemen to join the company. “Being engaged does not seem to suit her; she is restless and out of sorts. It is only natural, I dare say.”

“It is wonderful to see Mr. Wytton so much in love with her,” Camilla said, remembering the way Wytton’s hand had brushed Sophie’s, the way his eyes never left her face, the way his mouth softened when she turned and smiled at him.

“He has an ardent temperament,” Mrs. Gardiner said—an odd remark to make, even though her cousin was right in what she said. Wytton was an ardent man; Sophie was lucky to inspire so strong an attachment.

Then she pulled herself up. She would now be to Sir Sidney what Sophie was to Wytton. The thought sent a frisson shivering up and down her spine; she longed for him to come into the room, and then, when he did, at once making his way towards her, she wished she were anywhere but there. Mrs. Gardiner rose tactfully, and Sir Sidney begged to be allowed to sit beside Camilla. Welcomed by the glow in her eyes, he moved slightly further away from her, and said how happy, how very happy she had made him by accepting the offer of his hand.

She could not remember actually accepting him. Had she said as much to Mr. Fitzwilliam? Was paying your addresses the same as making an offer? There had, in fact, been no proposal. Sir Sidney must have taken Fitzwilliam’s permission as an implied acceptance; did she wish it otherwise? Of course not. She gave herself a little shake; she must not indulge in these absurd fancies.

There was an unreality to the evening, something of the dreamlike about it—perhaps something to do with not eating all day, or was it the almost suffocating correctness of her surroundings, the sense of nothing being so much as a fraction out of place and a sudden, terrible panic as to where, amid all this, would she fit? Would she not be a discordance, out of key, out of place, a jarring note?

Idle fancies, she told herself, her heart stirring as Sir Sidney shifted slightly, calling out something to Wytton, some jesting comment, and she was made suddenly, intensely aware of his physical presence and proximity. Of course she would be at home here. She would belong where he belonged; most young women on the brink of matrimony must wonder about their future lives, how it would be to be married, to be mistress of a strange house. They would travel, surely they would travel together to the places abroad she longed to visit. He would not be wanting a wife to sit at home, a domestic goddess; he did not seem at all that kind of a man.

What kind of a man was he, then, this creature she had fallen in love with? Did she know him at all?

Good heavens, why must she have all these provoking thoughts at a time when she should be entirely happy?

She came out of her reverie to see Mrs. Delamere standing beside her, an offer of tea on her lips.

“Thank you.”

“We are so pleased,” said Mrs. Delamere with her thin smile, her face at once so like her brother’s. “We look forward to welcoming you in Kent.”

This woman would be her sister, Kent her second home. “Too kind,” she murmured.

“Let it not be too long,” advised Mrs. Delamere. “Long engagements do no good, take my word for it.”

By the time the party was over and they were safely back in Aubrey Square, the ecstatic spirits with which Camilla had greeted the day had faded. The happiness was there in a muted form, but now a mere background to her more immediate feelings, which were, to her surprise, those of a certain resentment—at the day’s events, at the stiffness of the evening party, of the passion Wytton showed for Sophie—although why that should bother her, she did not care to think. She did not altogether like the businesslike way in which Mr. Fitzwilliam had received Sir Sidney’s proposals for her hand, and wished with all her heart that Constantinople were not so far away, or, alternatively, that she herself were in Constantinople. Or Prague, or Cairo, or indeed anywhere that was not London.

Then she scolded herself for her folly, and sipped at the hot milk sweetened with honey that Sackree considered the fitting end to an evening’s festivities, smart young London lady or no. It revived her, but did not chase away her thoughts and fears and questions, and she sat long by the fire, for once not chided into bed by Sackree, who came to the door and stole a look at her mistress more than once, and then tiptoed away.

The letter to her mother and father was hard to write. Camilla had nibbled away the end of her pen, and had crumpled up several sheets of Fanny’s elegant notepaper before she had a result that satisfied her.

“Finished, my love?” enquired Fanny, putting her head round the door. “It may go with Fitzwilliam’s letter.”

“No,” she said. “Not yet. My head is heavy, I am not thinking very clearly. I should like to read it over again before it is sealed and sent.” She yawned, and stretched her arms.

“You slept ill last night,” said Fanny, observing the dark rings beneath her eyes, and the paleness of her complexion. “It is an unsettling time for any girl.”

She wondered if Sir Sidney had lost a second’s sleep over her, wished he had, thought he probably had not, and then laughed at herself for being so silly.