Mr. Darcy's Daughters (2 page)

Letitia had known Tom Busby from childhood, and the engagement had pleased both families, although Camilla had had her doubts about Tom’s enthusiasm for the match. “I must, I suppose,” he’d said to her one rainy afternoon as they played cards in the yellow saloon at Pemberley. “My parents expect it, and I’ve known Letty for ever, and I always thought we’d probably marry some day or another—I am fond of her, you know, very fond. Only she’s such a one for driving a man on. She’s barely seventeen, too, it’s very young to be married. It would have been better to wait for a year or two, perhaps—however, she is very set on it.”

Letitia’s grief at the news of Tom’s death at Waterloo had been deep and lasting. Camilla, too, had been truly saddened by his death and missed his company, but she felt it was no justification for her sister’s adopting a kind of perpetual maiden widowhood. In the Middle Ages, Letitia might have taken her woe and faithfulness into the convent; in 1818, Camilla felt that time should be allowed to heal her sister’s sorrows and that reason—not to mention those redhaired children—should remind Letty that Tom was a man and not a saint.

“I hope we may enjoy the company of many new acquaintances, Fanny,” she said, “but I by no means wish to find a husband, thank you. I have noticed that husbands have a way of restricting a young woman’s friendships and flirts, and are prone to carry their wives off to rusticate in the country.”

Fanny shook her head at this and said that Camilla was only funning, but Letitia was so shocked by these remarks that it took her a minute or two to gather her wits for a suitable rebuke, and she was forestalled by the entry of Alethea, with Miss Griffin in tow.

Alethea, black eyes aglow, her curls in their usual disarray, bade her cousin a civil good morning, cast a knowing eye at Letitia and asked cheerfully what had put her on her high horse now, and, tucking her arm into Camilla’s, began a passionate plea to be allowed to have singing lessons with one Signor Silvestrini.

“Camilla, you love music as much as I do. You must see that I have to learn with him. Why, there is no teacher to match him in all London, in Europe!”

Camilla unwound her sister’s arm. “I never heard of this person; he is an Italian master, I suppose.”

“I thought you were to take lessons with Mrs. Deane,” said Letty.

“Who will want me to sing sweet ballads and simper as I do so,” said Alethea impatiently. “Only you would think of her for a moment, Letty. Now, Signor Silvestrini is a real musician.”

Letitia’s eyes gleamed as she saw an opportunity to preach. “Alethea,” she cried. “Listen to the passion in your voice; that alone is enough to warn us that your music must be watched and the time you devote to it controlled and curtailed.”

Alethea rarely paid any attention to her eldest sister, especially on the subject of music. Camilla saw that her eagerness was going to provoke her into some hot outburst that might alarm Fanny and would embroil them all in one of Letty’s tedious homilies on behaviour, emotion and the degree of artistic indulgence suitable for a young lady—that is, none at all, Letty’s approved accomplishments comprising no more than pale and innocuous water-colours, dull pieces learned painstakingly for performance on the pianoforte and a little exquisite embroidery.

This attitude wasn’t shared, she knew perfectly well, by their parents, who were pleased by Camilla’s own performance on the pianoforte and rejoiced in their youngest daughter’s much greater and very real love of music, which was combined with considerable talent and application.

Letty was being tiresome. Their parents had been gone for a mere three days, and already she was inflicting her own narrow way of thinking on them. Angry at not being left in charge of Pemberley and the family, she was nonetheless determined to take control of her sisters.

Would Fanny stand up to her? Camilla doubted it. Letty was quite as strong-minded as any of the Darcys, which was to say strong-minded indeed; it was unfortunate that her inclinations tended so very strongly to restriction and repression and a numbing belief in propriety and restrained behaviour.

Miss Griffin, a tall, gaunt woman with clever eyes, intervened. “I did mention the matter of Signor Silvestrini to Mr. Darcy before his departure,” she said in her deep voice. “He felt that we should approach him on the matter of lessons, and that, if he would consent to teach Alethea, for he takes very few new pupils, then it should be arranged.”

Alethea let out a yip of delight, Letty frowned, Fanny—who hated dissension and, as an only child, felt uneasy when the sisters argued—brightened. “That’s quite settled then. Only tell me when you would like the carriage, Miss Griffin; I shall leave it all to you.”

Camilla could see the light of battle in Letty’s eye and feared that a protesting letter would be off to Vienna by the next post, there to await her parents’ arrival.

“I think,” said Fanny, when presently she found herself alone in the room with Camilla, “that it would be very fortunate if we were to find a suitable young man for Letitia. To help her get over Tom’s loss, you know, and give her thoughts a new direction. Since he was a military man, I’m inclined to think I should look around among my acquaintance in the regiments; should she be likely to fancy a fine, well-set-up hussar, do you suppose?”

Letitia wasn’t at all pleased with her fashionable hat. “Look at it, only look at this wide forward brim! It resembles nothing so much as a coal scuttle.”

Dressed in new walking costumes that had been inspected and approved by Fanny, Letitia and Camilla were getting ready to go out and show themselves in public—and to pay a morning visit to their Gardiner cousins.

“A very pretty coal scuttle, and trimmed more fine than any coal bucket I ever saw,” said Camilla. “Be grateful for it; it will shelter your complexion from these bitter winds.”

“February in London is the most miserable thing imaginable. I cannot think why anyone who has the choice would spend the month in London,” Letitia complained.

The Fitzwilliams were among those who had chosen to remain in London. Mr. Fitzwilliam was a younger son and had no country house of his own, and besides, it was better for an ambitious politician not to be away from London when the House was sitting; a thin attendance might let dangerous Radical views slip past.

Camilla had no great opinion of February anywhere, and she could remember many a dull February day at Pemberley, watching the rain driving against the windows and listening to the plop, plink of raindrops falling from the water-laden branches of the trees outside. “If I could choose where to be, it would be in Constantinople, where I believe it hardly ever rains, and February may be as cheerful a month as any other.” She took the gloves that her maid was holding out to her. “Thank you, Sackree.”

“It’s going to come on to rain, Miss. You’d much better go in the carriage.”

“I know the sky is grey, but I think it’s content merely to threaten us with a downpour. I hope so; I feel the need of a walk and we aren’t to be requesting the carriage for every little outing.”

Camilla wanted to go first to Hookham’s circulating library in Bond Street. She loved reading and was happy in the knowledge that all the newest novels would be available in London. Meanwhile, Letty would undoubtedly borrow some worthy volumes of biography or a collection of the most tedious sermons, which might impress other borrowers but would not deceive her sister, who knew quite well that Letty dearly loved a novel.

“Choose a book for me,” Alethea had commanded. “Any new Minerva novel will do, a wild, romantic read, set in foreign parts with plenty of excitement and mysterious characters. I was recommended
The Demon of Sicily,
should you happen to see it, or I’ve heard that
The Spectre of the Druid
is particularly thrilling.” She had run back upstairs before Letitia had had time to take her to task for her frivolity; Alethea trusted Camilla to pick out the very thing.

They reached Hookham’s library without a drop of rain falling on their smart new bonnets. It was busy inside, with men and women exchanging books and gossip. Letitia duly selected a heavy-looking
Life;
Camilla found a novel by Peacock, which she had long wanted to read, and had then taken the most preposterous of the romances for Alethea. They waited their turn to have the titles written down, Letitia wishing that she knew anyone in the room, while Camilla flicked through the pages of her sister’s heavy tome.

She knew very well what the fate of the books would be. Letty, having struggled through some fifty pages of her dull work, would cast it aside, look into the Peacock, criticise the author for his nonsense and cruel jests, and finally, sighing and saying there was nothing to amuse her, take up the first volume of Alethea’s book—it would barely take a day for Alethea to read it—and settle down with ill-disguised zest to lose herself in its fantastical pages. Thus vexing Miss Griffin, a keen devourer of novels, who would have to possess her soul in patience until Letty, who was not a quick reader, had finished.

Sackree grumbled at the weight of the books she was asked to carry. “I wonder at you young ladies, I do really, filling your heads with all these words; it’s bad enough with you haunting the library at Pemberley without your wanting more books now you are come to London. I should have thought you’d read all the books that had ever been written.”

“That’s the trouble, Sackree,” Camilla replied, watching her step on the mucky paving stones and jumping nimbly over a puddle. “Authors go on writing books, and so we go on reading them. It is a sad state of affairs.”

“And Mrs. Darcy just the same, packing up a boxful of books to take with her all the way to that nasty Constantinople. Mind you, if they have books there, which is unlikely, they’ll all be written in a heathen tongue, and no use to any Christian born, but a box of books! All that way!”

“Mama will need the consolation of books in such a strange and unfamiliar world,” said Letitia.

“If Mama has any sense, she’ll be out and about and not have a second to spare for reading. Oh, how I envy her, able to visit palaces and harems and St. Sophia, and to wander in the markets among the veiled women and camels! All the delights of
The Arabian Nights
laid out before her.”

“I have heard it is a very dirty, inconvenient city, with thieves and murderers lurking at every corner,” said Letitia immediately. “Poor Mama, to be taken into such danger. And Papa, so tall, so English, he will be the object of every crazed assassin in the city.”

Camilla let her sister’s pictures of woe flow over her. Her vivid imagination could easily conjure up an entrancing vision of fabled foreign places, and although her sense told her that her notions were likely to be as far from the truth as Letty’s ideas, they were still pleasing enough.

“Well, here we are at last,” declared Sackree, “and not a moment too soon, for it’s coming on to rain just as I said it was going to. Miss Sophie never walks out without she has her maid and a footman with her,” she added as she followed her mistress and Letitia up the wide stone steps to the door and gave several brisk raps on the large brass knocker. “Very particular, Mrs. Gardiner is.”

“Mrs. Gardiner takes a very proper care of her,” said Letitia, coming out of her ill humour at the thought of this concern for the proprieties.

And she might need to, Camilla said to herself, for even at fourteen, when they had last seen her, Sophie was a wilful, difficult girl, apart from being a remarkably pretty one. Camilla looked forward with interest to seeing how her cousin had turned out. What a change three years must have wrought; years that had taken Sophie from girlhood to the status of a betrothed young lady, and her father, Mr. Gardiner, from prosperity to great wealth and from Gracechurch Street to this considerable mansion in the best part of town.

The door was opened by an imposing butler, and they hurried into the Gardiners’ house just as the heavens opened and the rain came scudding down.

Mrs. Gardiner greeted them with real warmth and affection, exclaiming at their walking all that way. “You shall have the carriage to take you back, no, I insist upon it.” She bade them come nearer to the fire and get warm. “Sophie is wild to see you, she will be down directly.”

It was as Camilla had predicted: The three years since they had last seen Sophie had turned her into the most elegant, prettiest creature imaginable, a vision in a pale pink silk dress, her shining light brown hair fashionably dressed, her cheeks tinged with colour, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at seeing her cousins.

It was a pleasure increased for Sophie by the fact that, although she and Camilla were alike in looks, a single glance was enough to reassure her that the last three years had not, as she had feared, turned Camilla into any kind of a rival.

For her part, Camilla was perfectly well aware of what Sophie was thinking, and it made her want to laugh. Nothing could persuade Sophie that she didn’t envy her cousin her lovely features and figure, or wish that she had the same exquisite air of fragile femininity. She knew it for no more than an air; she had long ago taken Sophie’s measure. Beneath the soft exterior lurked a resolute and tougher being, and woe betide the cousin or anyone else who threatened to steal her thunder.

Compliments and congratulations were made, news given and received, and they were so absorbed in conversation that none of them heard the door open and a servant announce more visitors. Mrs. Gardiner looked vexed for a moment, and then her face cleared. “Why, it is Mr. Wytton, I am so glad to see you. And Mr. Layard, how do you do?”

Camilla was surprised by this tall man with a saturnine expression; whatever she had imagined Sophie’s future husband to be like, it wasn’t such a man. He looked intelligent and angry—what had he to be angry about? She was amused by the contrast between him and his short, round friend. On closer scrutiny she decided that she liked the look of Mr. Layard, and thought he had a merry eye. There was, however, nothing merry about Mr. Wytton, who gave her a look of cool appraisal before making his bow as introductions were made.

Mrs. Gardiner watched with complacency as Mr. Wytton kissed her daughter’s hand and then stood back, his eyes fixed on her with evident warmth and admiration. Sophie blushed and smiled, and accepted his present with little cries of delight. The cameo he had brought for her was exclaimed over and praised by everyone, and Sophie’s maid was sent running to find a ribbon for her to tie it round her pretty neck.

“A cornelian, I think, Mr. Wytton?” Mrs. Gardiner asked. “Such fine workmanship.”

“It is, ma’am. From Italy. It represents the goddess Venus.”

“Oh, more of your old gods and goddesses,” said Sophie with an arch look.

“Mr. Wytton is by way of being an antiquarian,” Mrs. Gardiner said in an aside to Camilla. “He has travelled widely, and published articles upon Greek ruins of various kinds. He is held to be a fine scholar.”

“Is he, indeed?”

“You may talk about your travels and discoveries to Miss Camilla, Mr. Wytton, for she is very interested in such things.”

Camilla had to smile at the expression on Mr. Wytton’s face; it was clear that he would no more discuss his journeys and findings with her than he would talk them over with his mother’s poodle.

He felt obliged to reply to Mrs. Gardiner, however. “It is a pleasure to find a member of the fair sex who knows a Greek from a Roman. Have you been long in London, Miss Camilla? Have you visited the British Museum? I dare say you may see some things there to catch your interest.”

“I have been to the museum, yes, but not recently. We are only just arrived in London. I shall certainly go again, but we women have to ration our visits, you know, lest the excitement and learning tax our brains and affect our wits.”

He gave her a suspicious look, and she turned away, hiding a smile. Letty, always on the watch for signs of Camilla forgetting herself in company, hastily broke in with a compliment on Sophie’s looks and an enquiry about plans for the honeymoon.

“Brighton,” cried Sophie, her eyes shining.

“We go to Rome,” said Wytton.

It was as well for Camilla’s composure that she didn’t hear the conversation between the two men as they walked away from the house.

“They are fine young ladies, the Miss Darcys,” Layard began. “Although it must be hard for Miss Camilla, I believe.”

Wytton had been lost in thought, but his head came up at this remark. “Why?”

“Wytton, what a fellow you are! You had eyes only for your Sophie. I do not think you noticed them at all, Miss Darcy and her sister. They are not blessed with the same degree of looks.”

“Neither of them seemed remarkable to me.”

“The younger one has a satirical eye.”

“I hate a clever woman.”

“You are out of humour, Wytton, you are always out of humour these days. You should ask your physician for a powder.”

“Physic! No, no, I leave that to you hypochondriacs. No one ever needed physicking less than I. I am in the rudest health, as it happens.”

Not, however, in the rudest spirits, Mr. Layard thought, but did not say. It was a trying time for the most even-tempered man; an engagement often made men low, he had noticed. “We are to dine with the Gardiners this evening,” he went on. “I dare say Sophie’s cousins will be present. I understand they are worth fifty thousand apiece.”

“They are in London to find themselves husbands, I suppose.”

Mr. Layard was sorry to hear the acid tone in his friend’s voice. He hooked his arm into his. “Come, friend, you should be in better spirits, indeed you should. I never saw Miss Sophie in better looks; you are a lucky man, by God you are. All that and ninety thousand pounds.”

“You are a very vulgar fellow, Layard,” said Wytton.

Mrs. Gardiner was as good as her word, and sent Camilla and Letitia home in her carriage after inviting them to return later in the day to dine. “If Fanny can spare you, and I am sure she can; even such a giddy creature as she is can’t have fixed engagements for you every evening.”

“She certainly hasn’t today,” said Camilla. “She and Mr. Fitzwilliam are dining out this evening, a political gathering.”

Fanny was pleased to hear of their invitation, but bewailed the lack of an evening dress for Camilla. “Why, here is Letitia’s cream silk come home, and very pretty it is, too, but not a single one of your evening dresses, Camilla, which is most provoking. I shall lend you one of my gowns.”

Letitia was quick to protest. “It will not do. Camilla should not wear anything so fine as your dresses; what is suitable for a married woman is quite wrong for a single girl.”

Fanny took no notice. “Ring for Dawson this instant, Camilla, and we shall see what is to be done.”

“I can wear one of my own dresses, Fanny, they are not so very dowdy. You are shorter than me, you know, and while a dress may be pinned up, I never heard that it could be made longer.”

“To be sure, and I am plumper across the bosom than you.” At that moment, her maid came into the room. “Dawson,” she cried, “here is Miss Camilla asked to dine at Mr. Gardiner’s house, and none of her evening dresses ready. What is to be done? You must find her maid and look over the clothes she has brought from Derbyshire and see what can be contrived to give one of her dresses a more modish look. Hurry now, there is not a moment to lose.”