The Darcy Connection (18 page)

Eliza knew little of the work of this interesting architect, and if Montblaine were an example of his style, considered that she was happy to remain in a state of ignorance as to his other buildings, and made some polite remarks about turrets and views.

“Do you not care for the country?” he asked.

“I do, indeed. I live in Yorkshire, as you know, and the scenery of that part of the world, with our moors and hills, is considered very picturesque and dramatic.”

“It rains in Yorkshire. All the time. I do not know how anyone can abide to live there.”

“You prefer town, I find.”

“I do,” he said shortly.

What was the matter with him? She supposed he thought himself above his company, that he was annoyed to find himself seated next to her. She smiled.

“You find something amusing?” he said.

“Only in sympathy with you for having to sit here, obliged to talk to a rustic who can have nothing interesting to say.”

“I am sure you have plenty to say, were you so inclined. Or to write, although that is an occupation you no doubt reserve for the privacy of your room.” His lips twitched. “Have you gathered good material for your pen this evening?”

Eliza was so shocked, she couldn't say a word. She flushed a deep scarlet and found herself the object of a gibe from his other side, as Miss Chetwynd observed the colour flying into her cheeks and remarked that Mr. Bruton's conversation must be too hot for her. She finished this comment with a knowing look and a loud whoop of laughter.

“Vulgar woman,” Eliza said under her breath; she was wild to ask Mr. Bruton what he meant, did he know about her writing? His comment was so specific, but the look that had accompanied it had been hard to fathom. She had a suspicion there was amusement there; could it be that he was laughing at her?

Lady Warren was on her feet, and nodding at Eliza, who was the only person left seated. She jumped up, and followed the rest of the ladies out of the room, casting a last look of desperate appeal back at Bartholomew Bruton as she left the dining room.

Bartholomew smiled as he sat down again and leaned back in his chair to allow the footman to pour him a glass of wine. Liberated from Miss Chetwynd, he moved away from the clerical gentleman to sit next to Pagoda Portal. Mr. Portal had banked with Bruton's for years and had known Bartholomew since he was in his cradle.

“You're up to some mischief,” Pagoda said with a nod. “I can always tell. You were seated next to Miss Eliza, she has a witty way with her, was she making you smile?”

“She was, but I heard nothing of her witty tongue. I'm afraid I offended her the first time we met, and she has not forgiven me. And I was guilty of teasing her, I regret to say.”

“Ah, it was what you said that caused her cheeks to be ablaze, was it?” Pagoda said jovially. “You should not tease her, I have a great liking for her. Her sister may be the toast of the town, and I will acknowledge her beauty, a ravishing woman, but for myself, I find Miss Eliza a great deal more taking.”

Taking! It was a good thing Pagoda Portal could not see into his heart or his loins. What was it about Miss Eliza Collins that so stirred his blood? In a way that Jane Grainger never had done and never would. And Eliza's sister left him as cold as she was herself, he was unmoved by her beauty and couldn't understand Freddie's reckless and flamboyant pursuit of her.

“We'll have young Rosely riding over, no doubt,” said Pagoda. “Perhaps he and Warren can fight a duel over Miss Collins's lustrous eyes. That would be a rare entertainment, quite out of the usual order of the day here at Montblaine. Have you been here before?”

“No,” said Bruton.

“And you don't like it?”

“It would be impolite to express an opinion,” said Bartholomew, with a swift glance at his host, who was, however, deep in conversation with Lord Langham, a lugubrious individual who lived, Pagoda told Bartholomew, in a house even more turreted and crenulated than Montblaine.

“Is that possible?”

“You prefer the classical style, I find.”

“I prefer town. The country has its merits in the summer, fine views, open aspects, greenery, and so on, but that quickly palls, and in winter, with deep, muddy lanes and mist rising from the river and draughts from every window and opening…” Bartholomew shuddered. “Give me London or Paris, there a man can live life to the full, unoppressed by great belching fires, freezing passageways, and cows gazing at one from the other side of the ha-ha.”

The ladies had retreated to the Crimson Drawing Room, and never had Eliza more eagerly waited the return of the gentlemen from the dining room to join them. Would they sit over their port and masculine conversations for ever?

Music was to be the entertainment for the evening, music and cards. Miss Chetwynd had brought her harp, the instrument had arrived in her mother's large travelling chaise and had been trundled into the room. Now she sat tuning it, interminable clinks and plonks, what an unappealing sound the harp made, would she never be done? There, she had finished, now she could be quiet and wait for the audience.

Miss Chetwynd seated herself more prettily, holding her arms in the approved manner, a smile pinned to her lips.

Lady Warren was bearing down on Charlotte, her glinting smile much in evidence. “I have not had the pleasure of hearing you play or sing, Miss Collins, have you brought your music with you?”

“Charlotte plays the pianoforte and also sings,” said Lady Grandpoint. “I am sure she will be very happy to play for us.”

“And Miss Grainger is a most accomplished performer upon the instrument; what a wealth of talent we have. I do not suppose—that is, does Miss Eliza care to play?”

“She sings,” said Charlotte. “I shall accompany her.”

Eliza was trying to catch her sister's eye; she did not in the least want to sing. Charlotte ignored her and resumed her conversation with Lady Langham, who was boring on about one Valeria Collins, a dreary woman by the sound of her, with whom she had been at school.

Which must have been a hundred years ago, Eliza said to herself. Mrs. Rowan came over to sit beside her. “Are you so eager to play? You seem full of suppressed energy, are you a keen musician?”

Eliza looked down at her hands and saw she had them clenched tight. “Keen? Oh, no, I am an indifferent musician. Charlotte is a fine pianist, whereas I am lazy, I have never practised as I should. Although even if I did, I would not come near to equalling her performance, she has talent and I do not.”

“I can predict how the music will go,” said Mrs. Rowan. “Miss Chetwynd will delight us with a long and dull sonata, played perfectly and quite without any expression or taste. Then, before the gentlemen start to long for their cards, Miss Grainger will take her place at the piano, and she will play an equally long and tedious sonata. By then, quite half the room will be asleep, or at least their eyelids will be drooping. So that by the time Charlotte comes to play, she will be wished at the devil. Lady Warren is no fool.”

“In that case, Charlotte will wake everyone up again.” Eliza lowered her voice. “You would expect Charlotte to play without passion and perfectly correctly, would you not?”

“I am afraid that is exactly what I would expect.”

“And Lady Warren thinks just the same. It is not so. Charlotte's playing is quite out of the ordinary, she plays with vigour and real musicality. And she has excellent taste, she plays the most difficult pieces while making them sound effortless, so that even if one is not so musical, one is compelled to listen.” Speaking almost to herself, she added, “It is the one passionate release that Charlotte's restrained nature has. It alarmed my parents, they never encouraged her music, but she had a good teacher, and such real understanding of music, that she improves even without instruction.”

“Good heavens! Well, I look forward to that. And you will sing?”

“I may, or perhaps we will do a duet. My voice is not anything special, and it is not a drawing-room voice, it is too low.”

Inwardly, Eliza was calculating how long these sonatas—for she feared Mrs. Rowan was probably quite right as to the programme—would take, how long it would be before she could speak to Mr. Bruton, to make him tell her what he meant, to find out how he knew, had he told anyone. If he had found out, could she trust him not to broadcast the story far and wide?

The gentlemen drifted in, took their seats, and there was Mr. Bartholomew Bruton on the other side of the room, ruthlessly annexed by Mrs. Grainger, obliged to sit between the daughter and the mother. More plonks and squeals from the harp, and Miss Chetwynd launched into a long sonata, which, as Mrs. Rowan had predicted, she played with technical proficiency and entirely without feeling; Eliza's dislike of the harp increased tenfold.

When finally it was over and people coughed, began to talk, yawned, looked hopefully towards the card tables, Lady Warren quashed their hopes by ushering Miss Grainger to the pianoforte. More tedium, every note lasting, to Eliza's mind, twice as long as it ought.

The yawns were ill-concealed, there was Mr. Bruton, senior, sitting bolt upright in his chair, asleep, until his wife gave him a sharp poke in the ribs with her fan, and he woke up with a start and a grunting sound. He was not the only one. The marquis sat aloof, his face giving nothing away; only Mrs. Grainger listened attentively, all smiles and encouraging nods.

Miss Grainger finished at last, and Charlotte made her way to the instrument with her usual grace, beckoning to Eliza to sit beside her on the piano stool. “They are bored,” Charlotte said in her calm way. “I shall not play for long, and then we shall sing two duets, no more. Ballads, I think.”

She rested her hands for a moment on the keys, and then, playing from memory, dashed into a sparkling composition by the late Mr. Handel.

She looked quite lovely sitting there, but as the music danced and spun about the room, it was as though the magical sounds were emerging from a statue; only those who knew her best could have seen a gleam in her eye or noticed the tension in her body as she played.

A burst of applause, a voice saying audibly, “Thank God for a short piece, let us hope that is not the prelude to another sonata in all too many movements.”

The sisters sang, Eliza making herself concentrate on what she was about, she must not look at Bartholomew Bruton, she must relax her throat and breathe properly and sing as she had been taught.

“Charming, delightful, enchanting.” The praise flowed over and around them as the audience, glad, Eliza suspected, that the music was finally over, rose, moved around, broke into a hubbub of conversation, settled itself at card tables. There was Mr. Bartholomew Bruton, sitting himself down at the other side of the room, a glass on the table beside him, cutting and shuffling the cards with quick, deft hands.

There could be no further chance for conversation this evening, she guessed. Tea would be brought in later, but the keen cardplayers might play on until the early hours, Mrs. Rowan informed her. “It is not like a London party, where carriages are called or when there is a natural end. At a country house, once the ritual of dinner is over, the men may stay up as late as they like.”

“And tomorrow? I have never stayed in a house such as this. How do we go on?”

“Even at Montblaine, which keeps up some of the grandeur of former times, the daytime is less formal. Until the company meets again for dinner tomorrow, everyone can do as he or she chooses. The men may take out a gun, or go for walks, or sit in the library for a chat or to read a book or peruse the newspapers, which will have been sent down from town. For us ladies, the day is likewise our own. Breakfast will be served in the morning parlour, I expect, should you wish for refreshment, and there will no doubt be a nuncheon later on. There is a billiards room, a music room, several saloons and parlours, extensive grounds to stroll in, archery, you can go to the butts if you are keen on that sport.”

As Eliza took her candle and made her thanks and curtsies before retiring upstairs, she shot a glance at Bartholomew, a glance fraught with anxiety and an earnest appeal. If he read the message there, he showed no sign of it, merely giving her a polite smile.

He might be out all day tomorrow, and then they would meet only in company again in the evening, with once more no chance of a private word.

Henrietta Rowan was right in her predictions as to how the day at Montblaine would be spent by the guests. Informality was the order of the day, but how hard it was to be informal in such an overpowering house! The very rooms demanded a kind of behaviour that took away any semblance of freedom or relaxation.

Eliza had a light breakfast, choosing from the extraordinary array of dishes set out in the Crimson Breakfast Parlour, before setting off to find the library, where, Annie had told her, such of the gentlemen who would not be out walking, fishing, or shooting would be likely to spend the morning. The immense room stretched away into the gloom, its severe shelves filled with large tomes that looked as though they might have been there since the days of the original monastery. Busts of Roman-nosed classical worthies stared haughtily down at her from their lofty positions atop pillars set between the ranks of shelves.

There were chairs, but not of a kind to invite any comfortable reading or cosy chats. These were upright seats, covered in stiff leather, set in rigid positions against the tables or against those same pillars. Had any hapless reader, deep—Eliza peered at a nearby volume—in
The Confessions of St. Augustine,
ever been crushed by a piece of toppling statuary? A large sofa at the end of the room was the sole invitation to ease, but since that, too, was covered in solid leather, she had no desire to sit on it and lose herself in a book.

Moreover, since most of the tomes seemed to be written in one or other of the ancient tongues, there was in any case little possibility of her finding a book she could read. She suspected she would look in vain for any of her favourite novels, let alone any of the newest offerings from the Minerva Press.

As she walked through the library, she came upon Mr. Wytton, who was standing on some wooden steps and reaching up for a large, leatherbound volume. He took it down and laid it on the table with care before greeting her. Eliza liked Alexander Wytton, for his own sake, as well as because he was Camilla's husband, and she knew him for a kind and affectionate man. Nonetheless, she also respected his tongue; he didn't suffer fools gladly, and was often impatient with the ordinary tos-and-fros of conversation.

“This is a capital library,” he said. “I envy Montblaine. His father was a noted scholar, but I believe the present marquis has added extensively to the collection.” He opened the book. “I have ordered a copy of this for my own library, but I do not know when it will come.”

“Good heavens,” said Eliza, looking at the page of Egyptian hieroglyphs. “What are those?”

“It is the ancient Egyptian language, which we have not yet deciphered.”

“Do these represent letters or words?” Eliza asked, tracing the figure of an alert-looking owl and then the figure of a man, sideways on.

“It is, we believe, a symbolic language, so we cannot say, this is the letter
A
or the letter
B.
One day you must travel to Egypt, and see the beauties and marvels of that country for yourself. There are astonishing paintings, and many interesting inscriptions. It is a very old civilisation, dating many centuries before Christian times, and predating the Greeks as well.”

Travel to Egypt! What a wonderful idea, and of course, now that the war was over, quite possible; she knew that Camilla had accompanied Mr. Wytton there, and had, she said frankly, found it the most fascinating place on earth.

Would Anthony care to go to Egypt? No. There was no doubt in her mind as to that. Anthony had often told her that he had not the slightest desire to leave the country of his birth. A great-uncle of his had embarked in the last century on the grand tour, and had perished as a consequence in some foreign town. “Of some sudden illness?” Eliza had asked, but, no, his horse had bolted, taking fright when a bird flew up from under its hooves, causing Mr. Diggory to suffer a fall and a broken neck.

“That could have happened on the hunting field in England,” she pointed out.

“In England he would have known what he was about,” Sir Roger had said, frowning at Eliza's temerity in questioning the logic of this family legend.

“Egypt,” Eliza said with a sigh. “I doubt if I shall ever travel so far even as Paris, and I confess, I should love to visit that city.”

Mr. Wytton gave her a sardonic look. “One's life is not as fixed as one believes at the age of twenty. Surprises may lie in store for you, the unexpected often tends to happen, sometimes bringing in its train the most delightful change in one's life or circumstances.”

He bent his head over the book, and Eliza, knowing that he would rather attend to his hieroglyphs than to talk to her, moved away.

“It is not all Latin and hieroglyphs,” he called after her. “Upstairs you will find books in English.”

The ascent to the upper gallery, at least from inside the library, appeared to be by means of a wooden staircase spiralling around a barleycorn central column. Eliza wound her way up, and a more pleasing scene met her eye. The gallery was six or seven feet wide, again lined with shelves, but here the books looked more promising, more modern, and at once her attention was caught by some old favourites:
Tom Jones, Roderick Random,
and
Clarissa
—although she was not in the mood for Mr. Richardson's tales of seduction and rape. Nor for Mr. Lewis's
The Monk,
not in these surroundings.

Here the furniture was more comfortable, small sofas and chairs set about as though people might sit in them and read a novel or have a conversation with a friend. It was, however, deserted, and as she walked all the way round to the other side, where she stood looking down on Mr. Wytton, absorbed in his hieroglyphs, she found she was the only other creature present.

So Mr. Bartholomew Bruton was not in the library. The chances were he had gone out with the other gentlemen, and would not return until the afternoon, then he would retreat to his chamber to change his clothes and might not reappear until the company assembled once again for dinner, when, she felt sure, it would again be impossible for her to have a private word with him.

Still, she would search every room that was accessible, which might, she judged, take some time. If Mr. Bartholomew Bruton were inside the building, she would find him, and meanwhile, it was as good a way to pass the time as any other.

Her steps took her from the library along another long, vaulted corridor, where ancient escutcheons loomed down at her, and the mullioned windows let in only a pale grey light. Even when the sun was shining, it could not be other than a gloomy place, and she didn't linger, passing on until she came to a small octagonal room. This was the foot of a tower, she could look up and see the light far above her. Like being in the bottom of a well, she said to herself, wondering which of the four large wooden doors that led from the tower she should try first.

One led to a short passage, with beyond it a flight of steps leading downwards. No, definitely not. For all she knew, the original dungeons were still in place. Dungeons? Her fancy was running away with her; why should a quondam monastery and abbey have had dungeons? No, that would be the way down to the cellarage, no doubt lined with dusty bottles and crusty vintages. The cellars held no appeal for her.

The next door was no more promising, since it led into another tower, empty except for a prie-dieu set against one wall. A huge leather Bible lay open upon it, a gold ribbon marking a passage.

Eliza retreated once more. This was better, this door led into another passage, one containing a long line of pictures. Faces must be of interest, and these were, she soon saw, all portraits. Presumably of the Montblaine ancestors; good heavens, what a fusty, dusty-looking lot. Time and again, the long nose and thin lips of the present Lord Montblaine were to be seen, in faces that hardly changed from generation to generation. Only the trappings showed the passing ages, as the subjects moved from velvet hats to full-bottomed wigs to the neat curls and queues of the last century. Were none of them stouter or more jowly than their ancestors? Apparently not; there, repeated in each canvas, was the lean Montblaine visage.

The women were a more varied bunch, although for the most part expressionless as they gazed out from among their noble spouses and fathers. Until, right at the end, she came upon a charming scene of a different kind. It was a painting by Mr. Gainsborough, of a man in a tricorn hat standing beside a tree, a sporting gun under his arm. Sitting beneath the tree, wearing the wide pannier skirts of an earlier age, was a pretty woman, with a lively smile on her face; on her lap reposed an infant, and to her side a solemn child, dressed in a blue suit, stared out at the world. In the distance was a house.

Eliza approached to have a closer look. It resembled Montblaine House, in some respects, but was much plainer, without the turrets and towers and spires.

“That,” said a voice in her ear, “was Montblaine House before the late marquis had a rush of Gothic to the head.”