Mr. Darcy's Daughters (29 page)

Camilla tried to disengage herself from Selina’s tight grip on her arm. “Excuse me, but I am not going into supper yet.”

“No, for you were engaged to go down with Snipe Woodhead, only he is nowhere to be seen, and I heard him say that he did not care to be seen with a girl who would behave in such a manner and try to cut out her own cousin, and one who had been a friend since childhood. If I might have spoken to him, which I could not, of course, I would have said to him that he entirely misjudged you, that close as you are to the Gardiners, you would never serve them such an ill turn as to take Wytton away from Sophie.”

Now, finally, Camilla did manage to draw away from Selina. Her eyes were too bright, she knew, and her heart was thumping so that everyone must hear its wild beats.

“I do not know what you are talking about. Excuse me, I see someone who—” She fled, almost falling into the arms of a disturbed-looking Barleigh Barcombe, who was standing at the head of the stairs.

“Mr. Barcombe, do you know—have you seen any of my sisters?”

His face softened as he saw her distress. “I do not know where Miss Darcy may be. Miss Georgina is with your aunt, and Miss Belle—” He paused, his mouth tight. “She is in a little chamber off the ballroom, surrounded as usual by numerous advisers. When I left, she was informing her attendants that the last man in the world she could love, let alone marry, would be a clergyman. Clergymen are stuffy, unfashionable, tedious men, always preaching morality and criticising women.”

Even in her agitated state, Camilla was touched by the pain in his voice. “Pray, Mr. Barcombe, do not take Belle’s words too much to heart; she is young and thoughtless and means very little by these kinds of dramatic outbursts and proclamations.”

“You are very kind, but I believe she meant what she said. It is not the first time she has attacked me as a man of the cloth. I did hope that it was my profession rather than my person that offended her so, but tonight I see that any warmer feelings have only been on my side. I am nothing but a black-coated bore in her eyes.”

Camilla took his hand and pressed it. “I am so very sorry. She would never have done for you, you must believe me when I say so. She is not good enough for you.”

“You are a rationalist, Miss Camilla, and I admire you for it. But reason cannot dictate to our hearts, however much we wish that it could.”

They stood for a moment, hands clasped, and then she gently detached herself. “You should not be with me, Mr. Barcombe; you will not wish to be seen in my company.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why not, pray? Is my rejection by your sister any reason why we should not be friends?”

“Oh, friends. I do not think that I or my sisters have a friend left in the world.”

Except for Wytton, whose actions this evening had gone far beyond what could be expected of any friend, and whose name she had now, through no fault of hers or his, dragged in the mud.

Mr. Barcombe gave an elegant bow. “I trust I shall always have the honour to be numbered among your friends.”

“My dear sir, have you not heard what they are saying about me? And you yourself have seen the—misfortune is the kindest word I can think of—that has befallen all of my sisters this evening. It has been a disastrous time for us, and no one mindful of their place in society will want to do anything but be away from our presence as soon as may be.”

“I seldom believe what I hear in the way of rumours, although I understand your alarm. I have never subscribed to that weak nostrum of sticks and stones. As a clergyman, I have to hold by the power of the word, and that goes for the word of foolish men and women as well as the word of God. Now, I see your cousin Fitzwilliam approaching, a very terrible and warlike aspect to his brow. I only trust he is not going to call me out for accosting you.”

For the first time in what seemed an age, this wrung a laugh from her; a laugh quickly suppressed as her cousin began without preamble: “Where, may I ask, is Letty? For she left the ballroom some while ago, and now Valpy is nowhere to be seen, and Fanny is all of a flutter as to where they may be.”

“Lost, I dare say,” said Barcombe at once. “Mersham’s house is a labyrinth, you know. Let us see if we can find her. And do not worry about Valpy, he is too cautious and wary a man to commit any social solecism on such an occasion and in such a place as this.”

Camilla would never forget that nightmare traipse through those same marbled rooms, with her cousin ruthlessly opening and closing doors and drawing aside sheltering curtains, revealing any number of couples engaged in more or less innocent conversation or dalliance. Fitzwilliam’s face was red with rage. “In my day, we never behaved in such a way at a ball. I never saw such improper behaviour in my life before.”

“He must have had Cupid’s blindfold on in his dancing days,” Barcombe whispered to her. “From what I know and hear, people were a great deal more reckless of the proprieties formerly than young men and women are today.”

“That is all very well, but surely he does not expect to find my sister closeted away with Mr. Valpy? It would not be at all the thing, and no one is more mindful of what is and is not proper than Letty.”

Whatever Fitzwilliam had expected, what met their eyes as they entered Lord Mersham’s splendid orangery was Letty, cowering in the corner of a wrought-iron bench and distractedly flapping her hands to shoo away Valpy. He was advancing upon her on his knees, his hands clasped together in supplication, the light of synthetic adoration shining from his eyes.

“Ha!” cried Fitzwilliam, darting forwards. Barcombe was there before him, grasping Valpy by the back of his collar and wrenching him to his feet.

The clergyman gave a squawk of protest. “Unhand me, sir, how dare you treat a fellow gentleman of the cloth in this unmannerly fashion?”

Camilla turned on him. “How dare a gentleman of the cloth behave in such a very unmannerly fashion,” she cried, as she went to the aid of her half-fainting sister. “Letty, it is all right, we are here. You must pull yourself together.”

“Oh, Camilla, you have no idea, such a dreadful thing, how could he ever have thought—” Her voice dissolved into an inelegant sob of distress. “He is so bold to behave in such a way. To me!”

“It is exactly what anyone might have known would happen with all the encouragement you have been giving the wretch.”

“I? Encouragement? Camilla, how could you say such a thing?”

“All those good works, all that time with pamphlets and causes, could you not see what the man was up to? Now, for heaven’s sake, Letty, do not have hysterics. You are not to start sobbing and wailing; we have all brought enough harm upon ourselves tonight without your attracting any more attention.” She beckoned to her cousin, who was hustling the unfortunate and incoherent Valpy to the doors that led from the orangery to the garden. “Please, order the carriages. I will stay with Letty.”

“If you will permit,” Mr. Barcombe said, stepping forward, “I will accompany your sister to where she may wait for her carriage. Does she have a shawl, a wrap of any kind? Do you collect her things, and pass the word to Mrs. Fitzwilliam to come with the others as soon as may be. It is early, but guests are already leaving; your departure will not be remarked upon.”

No, it would be expected, the Darcy girls slinking away in disgrace, she thought, as she sped away to find Fanny, hoping against hope that Georgina and Belle and Sophie would all be, for a miracle, where they should be, in the dance or in the supper room, so that they might all slip away with the least possible fuss.

It was not to be. Although her other sisters were indeed in the ballroom, Sophie had felt it incumbent upon herself, as Fanny gathered her little party together, to reproach Belle for being an outrageous flirt.

“Everyone saw, everyone noticed you up to your tricks with all those men. And Captain Allington, too, could you not leave him alone?”

“If Captain Allington chooses to show me some gallantry, what is it to you, Cousin?”

Sophie flushed. “It is improper and unbecoming.”

“When I want lessons in propriety from you, Miss, I’ll ask for them.”

Their voices were raised, heads turned to see what was going on. Was there to be no end to the evening’s misery?

They made their way to the entrance hall, where they waited for the carriages like so many figures upon a stage. The details were etched in Camilla’s mind with the utmost clarity: the blue feathers on Fanny’s head, the sparkle of Letty’s spangled shawl, the delicate silk rosettes on the flounce of Belle’s ball dress, Sophie’s ringlets lying against her white skin, the sheen on Mr. Barcombe’s reddish hair, the set of Wytton’s coat across his shoulders.

Wytton.

Wytton, who was watching her cousin Sophie, not saying a word, not moving a muscle, just watching his betrothed with a thoughtful look on his face.

Camilla stared at him, her mouth dry, her whole being transfixed as a terrible realisation came to her. This was not, could not, be happening; dear God, no.

Then the tableau broke up, the carriages were announced, all was bustle and urgent movement, she was up the steps, the door was shut behind her, the coachman clicked to his horse to come up—there, the wheels were in motion, they were rattling away, jolting over the cobbles.

Camilla sank back into the seat, shutting her eyes, oblivious to her squabbling sisters, mindful only of Wytton, of what he might have seen in her eyes. Guilt swept over her.

She had given no cause for the rumours that had circulated so freely in the ballroom; she had made no set at Wytton, had never had the slightest intention of attempting to steal his affections from Sophie, of cutting her cousin out. Until this evening, she had thought of him only as Sophie’s betrothed, as someone sharp-witted, often sharp-tongued, and frequently amusing. Not as a man whom she might have any connection with or feelings for beyond those of the family tie.

Fool that she was.

Why had she not realised what was happening, and withdrawn before any harm was done? Innocence might be its own reward, but when it bordered on naivete, if not stupidity, it was unforgivable. What damage might not have been done to those that she loved and owed duty and affection?

She knew now that what she had felt for Sir Sidney had been mere attraction in comparison to this. Her feelings for Wytton had grown, unnoticed, into an intensity of quite another kind.

She had prided herself on having coped with being in love, and having got over the frenzy. She had deceived herself into thinking she was inoculated against any further onslaughts from Eros or Cupid, and in her folly, she had fallen into the oldest and deepest trap of all.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, to have to acknowledge that she was in love with a man forbidden to her by the rules of the world in which she lived. Wytton was in love with her cousin; he was going to marry Sophie.

She thought she had suffered over Sir Sidney? Good God, she would have that pain back twice over, and it would still not touch what she felt now.

“Home at last,” said Fanny in a bright, unnatural voice. “Letty, Camilla, I wish to speak to you as soon as you are risen in the morning.”

Two days after the fateful ball, the first pale yellow and turquoise signs of dawn were tinting the sky as the chaise turned into Aubrey Square and drew up on the south side. The clip-clop of four sets of hooves echoed for a moment around the square, then died away. The only sounds to be heard were the clink of the horses’ bits as they moved their heads up and down, snuffing the early scents of the morning, and, from the garden in the centre of the square, the tentative calls and chirrups of the birds nesting in the trees.

The black-painted carriage was shrouded in anonymity. Its lamps were not lit, and a cloth had been hung over the panels of the doors, obscuring the coats of arms emblazoned beneath. Inside, a man sat alone, relaxed but watchful, drawn back into a corner and barely visible from the street. The coachman was still and silent on the box, rubbing his fingers up and down the handle of his long whip.

From the house on the other side of the square came the wail of a fretful baby. A light shimmered in a window on the top floor. The cries turned to whimpers, then ceased.

Silence fell once more over the square. A door opened, a figure slipped through, closed it, ran down the steps and across to the waiting carriage. The man was out and down, into the road, holding open the carriage door. A bandbox and an ill-tied bundle were tossed inside, the figure climbed nimbly in, the steps were folded up by the man, who jumped in after her, the coachman gathered up his reins and flicked the whip lightly across the horses’ backs, the chaise started to move.

“Stand to your arms!”

The stentorian bellow awoke Camilla with a start. At the same moment she became aware of someone shaking her shoulders.

“Wake up, Miss, do! Here is your sister gone, stolen away in the night, and the master in such a state and everything in an uproar. You must wake up, you are wanted directly downstairs.”

Camilla opened her eyes, fuzzy with the sleep that had taken so long to come to her, focused them on Sackree’s urgent, worried face, and blinked.

“Sackree? What is this? What was that shout?”

“It’s Mr. Fitzwilliam, Miss, like he was back in the army, summoning us all to our duties, making us jump about with a ‘yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir.’ Here is your wrap; you have no time to dress, or he will be up here, threatening you with a court-martial, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“But Sackree, who—which of my sisters—what has happened? A kidnapping? An abduction?”

“Oh, Miss, I couldn’t say; she’s gone, that’s all. Best get yourself up as quick as ever you can.”

With that, Sackree was gone, leaving Camilla to tumble out of bed, searching with her feet for slippers, reaching out for the wrap her maid had left across the bed.

It was early, although well past dawn. The noises in the square were not those of full daytime; only the first calls of the street sellers, the cheery whistle of the road sweeper and the plodding hooves of a horse drawing a wagon broke into the stillness of the summer morning.