Mr. Darcy's Daughters (6 page)

True to her word, Fanny had produced a hussar, one Captain Allington, a dashing officer with a proud moustachio, who smiled and nodded when anyone looked in his direction, and was otherwise apparently quite content to stand as though on duty, looking handsome.

“He is a dolt, of course,” Fanny whispered to Camilla. “Only so handsome, all the girls are in love with him. Do you think Letty demands sense in a man? Was—is, I mean—her Tom a man of sense?”

“That is a question indeed, ma’am, especially in the light of what we have learned about him today.”

“I do not mean her to fall in love with Captain Allington, precisely, that would never do, but he might serve to give her thoughts a new direction.”

Sir Sidney was deep in conversation with Letty, who looked almost cheerful. “I believe Sir Sidney is doing his best as far as that is concerned,” Camilla said. “Has he never married?”

Fanny frowned. “No, although there was an attachment, an engagement, in fact, only the lady in question broke it off, a little before her wedding day. The day before, in fact. She was a Miss Harper, I believe. I do not know why she thought they would not suit. An excellent catch, I assure you, and with such an air, so very much a man of fashion. He is the very best of company; all the hostesses compete for his presence. I was delighted he accepted for this evening.”

Lord and Lady Warren had been announced hard on Allington’s heels. Camilla took an instant dislike to Lord Warren, a burly, heavy-browed man with grizzled hair, who merely touched her fingertips when he was introduced to her and then sauntered away to get a better look at the twins. Lady Warren was a thin, stylishly dressed woman, and she gave the twins a shrewish look before turning a sharp eye on Letitia and running her eyes over her face, figure and gown. Lady Warren was, Camilla knew, a connection through marriage on her mother’s side, although neither she nor her sisters had previously met her.

“A distant connection,” her ladyship said in condescending tones when Letitia mentioned it, although it was not so very distant, Camilla thought to herself: Lady Warren’s brother, Mr. Bingley, was married to their aunt Jane.

Just as though Letty were some encroaching upstart; well, if she did not care to make anything of the relationship, so much the better. Camilla did not, she decided, care for Lady Warren any more than for her husband, an opinion reinforced a few minutes afterwards when Lady Warren came over to ask barbed questions about her parents.

“Of course, I have seen so little of them these past few years, buried in the country as they all are, quite rustic, I always say. So Mr. Darcy is gone abroad? And your mother with him; I dare say she does not care to let him out of her sight. We know how gentlemen behave when they are on their own in other countries, they are such sad creatures.”

The bustle of another arrival gave Camilla a moment to think better of the retort she had been about to make. A balding, middle-aged man of medium height walked into the room, a younger woman, who must be his daughter, on his arm.

“Grandville,” cried Fitzwilliam, crossing the room with quick strides to greet him. “Here you are. And Mrs. Rowan, your servant, ma’am.”

Camilla looked at Mrs. Rowan, and then looked again, sure that her face was familiar. Mrs. Rowan smiled and moved over to her side. “I believe we know one another. We were both boarders at Mrs. Charlton’s school, only you were a mere girl, and I was a parlour boarder while my father was abroad.”

“Why, of course,” Camilla cried, pleased.

She had spent a year at this fashionable seminary in London, and although she hadn’t been exactly unhappy, she had been homesick, and had made few friends among the other young ladies. Henrietta Rowan, as she now was, had been an exception. Her intelligence, her vivacity and her sense of fun had greatly appealed to her.

Mrs. Rowan was also a woman of fashion, but it was her own fashion. She was by no means small, either in her person or personality, and she was adorned with a trailing Oriental scarf, a vivid silk sash and several bracelets. She had numerous ornaments dotted about her person, and wore more pearls round her neck than Camilla would have thought possible. She had large pearls in her ears and more in the silk turban on her head. The effect could have been ridiculous, but on her it was most striking.

“You are thinking how oddly I am dressed, and indeed it is so, for I dress to please myself. When I was married, for I am a widow, you know, I used to wear such correct clothes, so dull, so proper. After my husband’s death, I made up my mind to wear all the garments and ornaments I like best. I am no kind of a beauty, you see, and so it does me no harm to have a style of my own.”

Her almond eyes narrowed with laughter at the sight of Camilla’s face. “Are you shocked to hear me speaking with such lightness of my late husband?”

Camilla was too honest to deny it.

“He died only a year after we were married, of a fever he contracted while abroad, and I never really got to know him. He was much older than I, and although affectionate, he was not a memorable person. Why did I marry him? That is not a story for this company. Now, tell me all about yourself, have you been in London long? Why are you come here at this dismal time of year? That is your sister Letitia, is it not? Was she not at Mrs. Charlton’s with you? Who are the two dazzlers on the sofa? I am very sure I have never seen them before. One would most certainly remember them.”

“My younger sisters. They are twins, you know.”

“Good gracious, and so different in colouring, although one cannot help noticing those remarkable eyes. Are you all out?”

“Letty and I are; the twins are supposed still to be in the schoolroom.”

Henrietta Rowan looked surprised. “The schoolroom? You amaze me. Not for much longer, perhaps.”

“I fear not. I suspect they will lead us all a merry dance now we are in town and without my mother and father to keep them in check.”

“Your parents are abroad; I read of your father’s appointment in the
Gazette.
So you are left in Lady Fanny’s care, are you? She knows how to go on well enough and will keep a close eye on your sisters, you may be sure, if one is needed.”

No one mentioned the name of Busby at dinner, although Camilla felt sure it was on the tip of more than one tongue, and Fanny could hardly eat a mouthful for fear that something would occur to overset Letitia’s admirable poise; surely she was too serene, too well behaved, such a contrast to the scenes upstairs.

For Camilla’s part, she had no worries about Letty while she was in company. Her sister had a slightly tragic look about her, the air of one acquainted with suffering, but only when she was not being addressed, and she felt quite sure that her party manners would carry her through the evening—at least they would if everyone behaved as well as they had so far. For she was sure they all knew the story, and that they were all, overtly or covertly, eyeing Letty to see how she was bearing up.

Camille gave Fanny a reassuring smile and turned her attention back to Mr. Portal, who was being most entertaining about elephants. Dinner drew to a close, the covers were drawn, and finally the ladies left the men to their port and withdrew to the drawing room on the first floor of the house.

Fanny headed off Lady Warren, who had made a beeline for Letitia upon their entering the room. Mrs. Rowan took in the situation at a glance and moved over to join Letitia on the sofa. The twins headed for the pianoforte at the far end of the room and began to play duets in a careless way, quite uninterested in impressing such an exclusively female gathering.

With another sharp glance in Letitia’s direction, Lady Warren came across to Camilla, whose heart sank as her disagreeable companion resumed her interrupted interrogation. She felt that it would be almost impossible to stem the tide of impertinent questions and assertions from this clever, determined woman, with her pushing and forceful ways; impossible, that was, without replying to her in such a way as must horrify Fanny. Lady Warren was, after all, a guest in this house.

“Your father, of course, was quite one of my beaux in the old days. Your mother is related to the Gardiners, is she not?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “One may meet the Gardiners everywhere these days, or almost everywhere. I do not believe their daughter has vouchers for Almacks, although I may be mistaken; I do not recall ever having seen her there. She is engaged to Mr. Wytton, a good catch for her, I must say, an old and distinguished family, and there is the abbey, of course.”

For a moment, Camilla lost the thread of what Lady Warren was saying. Abbey? Gothic visions of hooded monks crowded into her mind, and then she pulled herself together. Was Mr. Wytton rich enough to buy an abbey, as the saying was, or did he possess one? She didn’t like to ask, but Lady Warren soon enlightened her. “In the family since the time of the Dissolution; of course, I wonder how Miss Sophie will go on in such a place, it is hardly what she has been used to.”

Vulgar woman! she thought, answering with no more than a polite smile.

Lady Warren didn’t care to see her arrows go astray. “They say Wytton’s mother is not happy with the match, not happy at all. There is no more to it than the money, so they say.”

“I believe Mr. Wytton to be very sincerely attached to my cousin,” she said coldly.

“Ninety thousand pounds is a consideration indeed. He is a rich man on his own account, but they say he neglects his estate to go on these jaunts abroad, and he mounts expeditions, you know. To out-of-the way places, and underground, too.”

“Underground, ma’am? Does he indeed go on expeditions underground?”

Lady Warren’s eyes were icy, her laugh tinkling. “I mean, he sets men to digging up old pots and relics. It is very costly, digging up such things.”

“But rewarding from the point of view of scholarship.”

“Oh, scholarship! Well, if you are to talk of scholarship—I know nothing of such matters. It is hardly a suitable subject for a woman.”

There was a long pause, and one of those coincidental silences fell over the room, as the twins left off playing to search for another piece of music, and Fanny’s conversation with Henrietta Rowan and Letitia reached a lull. Lady Warren’s voice held the stage.

“Are not you and your sisters particularly acquainted with Mr. Busby? It is so remarkable, this news of his return to the living, and of his marriage. It is all over town. They say he was engaged to an English young lady, that he preferred oblivion to such a marriage and that this talk of his losing his memory is all a ruse. People say he has all his wits, and knew quite well what he was about.”

Despite herself, Camilla turned to look at Letty, while Belle gave a whoop of laughter and Georgina exclaimed, “Oh! You must not say that, it is all quite untrue, for Tom Busby had no idea what he was about.”

Fanny had gone quite pale, and the colour had drained from Letty’s face, leaving only a flash of brightness on her cheeks. She had stiffened, but was still controlling herself admirably. Thank God, Camilla said inwardly; she could hear footsteps, masculine voices, laughter. Here were the men come to join them at last.

They entered the room, bringing energetic conversation and a waft of port with them. Mr. Fitzwilliam was deep in conversation with Mr. Grandville, while Mr. Portal’s shrewd eyes flickered to the sofa and the rigid figure of Letitia. Lord Warren exchanged knowing glances with his wife, and Captain Allington looked imposingly vacant.

Sir Sidney, with a quick look at Lady Warren and a mocking glance in the direction of the giggling twins, made his way to Letitia’s side, begged leave to sit beside her, and began to talk about the weather in Derbyshire.

This had only been an opening skirmish for Lady Warren, who was by no means done with the subject of Tom Busby.

“The young man we were just now speaking of came from your part of the world, I believe, Miss Camilla? Is he not from Derbyshire?”

“The Busbys are near neighbours of ours.”

“Why then,” cried Lady Warren with an affected laugh, “you are the very person to tell us more. My love,” she said, addressing herself to her husband, who was leaning on the pianoforte and ogling the twins, “we may now hear all about the Busbys. How I feel for Mrs. Busby! How distracted she must be, how delighted to have her son restored to her.”

“Devil of a shock,” said Lord Warren. “Especially when he comes tripping up to the door with a foreign wife on his arm; nobody seems to know who this count is, or what the girl’s fortune may be. If she has any fortune at all, which is doubtful, not after old Boney’s rampages across the Continent. Many an old family has suffered irretrievable losses.” He looked pleased at this notion. “Yes, there are many over there who do not hold their heads quite so high these days. Not that they ever did, not according to our way of things. A foreign title is not to be compared with an English one.”

“There’s no knowing what kind of a family this girl is from,” said Lady Warren with a flick of her eyes to where Letitia was still resolutely discussing how often the frost prevented hunting in her native county. “She may be anyone, a merchant’s daughter, some jumped-up cit who took a title during the Bonapartist confusion.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam had caught the sense of unease in the room. “Count de Broise’s title is an ancient one, Lady Warren, going back to the days of the Holy Roman Empire. No, no, the Busbys need not blush for such a match.”

Lady Warren would not contradict her host. “I most sincerely pity the young lady he left behind, however; so lowering to lose your future husband in the war and then have him return with a wife to his name!”

“Oh, as to that,” cried Fanny, “it was all long ago, quite three years and more. Nothing more tedious than old stories, don’t you agree? Pray, have you seen these new shawls in from Paris? I declare, I shall be positively mopish if my dear Fitzwilliam does not let me have one, although they are a shocking price. Camilla, my dear, ring the bell and ask Fell if Alethea and Miss Griffin are coming down.”

“Why, here they are, Fanny,” said her husband, as Miss Griffin stalked into the room behind Alethea, a picture of maidenly virtue in frothy white muslin and a pink sash. “My nieces, you must know, are notable musicians, and since we are only a family party, only family and friends here tonight, Alethea has ventured out of the schoolroom to join us.”