The Darcy Connection (26 page)

Lady Grandpoint's housekeeper had excelled herself in the matter of snowy linen, acres of which seemed spread over the vast table, which tonight was extended to its fullest length, with all its leaves in place.

Charlotte was seated next to Montblaine. Eliza, ignoring the uninteresting conversation of Mr. Pyke, was watching her sister and her husband-to-be with close attention. The marquis, like Charlotte, was not a man to show any emotion, and yet there was a tender gleam in his eyes when they rested on Charlotte, and a softening of his implacable mouth as he watched her talk to her neighbour on the other side.

How much her father would have revelled in the company, Eliza thought with a pang. She didn't get on with her father, and yet she felt sorry for him, excluded as he was from this crowning moment when his eldest daughter was established in her alliance with a nobleman like Lord Montblaine. It was deliberate, she supposed; Lady Grandpoint would not have wanted to have the bishop in London on this occasion. Time enough for Montblaine to make the acquaintance of his new father-in-law once the engagement was formally announced, when there could be no drawing back.

Charlotte to be a marchioness! To be chatelaine of Montblaine House, of his numerous acres in Scotland, of his great London house. Mistress of dozens, no, hundreds of servants.

Mr. Pyke had his mouth unpleasantly close to her ear as he gave her to understand that he was to assist in the marriage ceremony. “Of course, your esteemed father, the bishop, will conduct the service, that goes without question. However, as his lordship's cousin, and, of course, being a man of the cloth, it is his earnest wish that I be present in an official capacity during the celebration of the nuptials.”

He made the word sound like a caress, and a shiver of repulsion went up Eliza's spine.

“I hope that some day soon, I may be present at another marriage ceremony, only this time on the other side of the altar, ha ha.”

He had an unpleasant laugh, and Eliza tried to lean further back in her chair to put more distance between them. He moved his chair closer to hers, and she felt his leg pressing against hers. That was too much, and jerking her leg away, she gave him a look so ferocious that he was stopped in mid-flow and his self-satisfied countenance took on a look of astonishment.

It didn't last; back came the smirk. “Do you not wish to know with whom I shall be joined in that holiest of unions, Miss Eliza?”

“Not in the slightest. That is your business, I have no interest in your affairs, Mr. Pyke.”

Her neighbour just then turning towards her, she took the opportunity to talk to him; even a long and extremely boring conversation about a horse the man had just bought was preferable to any more of Mr. Pyke.

The evening was interminable. The betrothal was announced to the assembled company, none of whom was surprised. Congratulations and champagne flowed, and Eliza smiled and received her part of the well-wishing with outward good manners and pleasure which in no way echoed the fury she felt inside.

She found herself addressed by Lord Montblaine. Looking down from his great height, his face unreadable, he suggested they might withdraw for a moment. Eliza had no wish for any private conversation with his lordship, but he was resolute, and in a moment they were in the morning parlour. “You are to be my sister, you know,” he said with a thin smile. “It is perfectly proper for us to have a private conversation.”

Eliza nodded and waited, on her guard. What was this about?

“You do not like the engagement. Do not trouble to deny it. I am not a fool, Miss Eliza. I want to assure you that my feelings for your sister are such—” He gave a dry cough, and Eliza saw with astonishment that he was embarrassed. He was not accustomed to talking of feelings, anyone's feelings, let alone his own. She had to admit to a reluctant admiration for him; perhaps he was not quite such a cold fish as at first appeared.

“I shall do my utmost to make your sister happy.”

“I hope so,” Eliza said.

“And it is our dearest wish that you, too, should find a husband with whom you may live a happy and useful life. I believe you are acquainted with Mr. Pyke. He is my cousin, and admires you greatly, and I may tell you that it would give me great satisfaction to see you joined in matrimony.”

All the good-will she had felt for Lord Montblaine evaporated. “I thank you, but I do not care for Mr. Pyke, nor could ever consider marrying him.”

A frown crossed his lordship's brow. “You are too vehement. My dearest Charlotte said that it would be so, that you are often impulsive and headstrong in your likes and dislikes.”

“I consider my dislike of Mr. Pyke to be neither impulsive nor headstrong, but perfectly rational. No sensible woman could want him for a husband.”

“Your family would welcome such a match, do you not care for their opinion? They have your best interests at heart, as do I.”

“I thank you again, however, I know best what kind of a man would suit me, and it is not Mr. Pyke! Now, if you will excuse me, I should like to return to the company.” She gave him a very direct look. “I wish you and my sister every joy, Lord Montblaine, but I beg you will not try to interfere in my life.”

Eliza felt sure that she wouldn't sleep a wink that night. Charlotte had vanished into her bedchamber with a firm goodnight, clearly with no intention of there being any sisterly confidences or discussion.

She didn't understand Charlotte. Was there anything she could have done to remedy that? She prided herself on her insight into other human beings, yet her own sister remained an enigma.

She had said as much to Camilla, as they took tea at the end of the long evening, when her cousin had asked her if she thought Charlotte would be happy. And Camilla, to Eliza's surprise, had said that although there was a strong family bond between her and her four sisters, she had not truly felt close to any human being until she met and married Mr. Wytton.

“Letty, you know, is inclined to be censorious. The twins were, as I believe is often the case, so much a pair that they tended to exclude the rest of us. I suppose I am closest to Alethea, and yet her music set her apart in some way. Then she fell in love with a man who chose to marry another woman; that was a sad business. On the rebound from him, she married a man who—well, I still don't care to think about it. And all the while, she confided in no one. I still feel that I let her down, concerned as I was at that time with my own married life.”

“Even so,” said Eliza with a heavy sigh, “I wish it were otherwise between Charlotte and myself. And now that she is to be Lady Montblaine, I fear we shall see very little of one another, and move still further apart.”

This conversation was in her head as she blew the candle out, but instead of lying fretful and awake, she fell asleep at once and did not stir until the sun was slanting through the shutters and Annie was standing beside the bed with her dish of chocolate.

The house was still in an uproar, Annie told her, with the door knocker never still. “For the notice was in the papers this morning, and all the old cats in London are keen to be in Miss Collins's good books now she's to be such a grand milady. And her ladyship, Lady Grandpoint that is, says you're to dress fine, on account of all the callers. So I've put out the new muslin with the russet flounce.”

A good night's sleep had done much to restore Eliza's spirits, and left her with a more philosophical attitude to Charlotte's engagement. Hers wasn't a nature to dwell on might-have-beens. Charlotte had taken this step, knowingly and with her eyes wide-open. It was her decision, one that couldn't be undone, and so it was up to Eliza not to show by the least look or word that she was anything less than delighted by Charlotte's choice.

Hislop, with her face looking slightly less prunelike than usual, put her head round the door. “Her ladyship's compliments, and she wants Miss downstairs immediately. In the morning parlour, if you please.”

It only occurred to Eliza as she turned the handle of the morning room that it was an odd place for Lady Grandpoint to be receiving morning callers, especially on a day like this, when the drawing room would be more usual.

No great-aunt, no cluster of callers awaited her.

Instead, there was Mr. Pyke, sleek and self-satisfied, coming forward to greet her with a warmth that set her teeth on edge and, with hardly a pause, launching into an unctuous, unwelcome, untimely proposal of marriage.

His words flowed around her, protestations of undying affection which were so patently insincere that she almost wanted to laugh.

He spoke of love, but Eliza knew better what kind of passion he felt for her, and she didn't care for it one bit. It was one thing to welcome the embraces of Anthony, when she had truly cared for him, it was another to imagine herself in Mr. Bruton's arms, which she could not always prevent herself from doing, but the mere thought of being kissed by this man made her want to slap his face and run from the room.

He had manoeuvred himself so that he stood between her and the door. She began to edge round towards it, even as she tried to stop his dreadfully fluent speeches, carefully rehearsed, meaningless.

“Do not say another word. I thank you, but I do not want to marry you, and, no, I will not ever want to receive such a proposal from you. I have never given you the slightest reason to think that I would welcome any attention from you, so please desist.” A few more steps, and she would be able to escape.

He was not in the least disconcerted by her response, and stepped nimbly in her way, smiling down at her in a way that made her shudder. “Young women are not always at first aware of where their best interests lie.”

“It is not a matter of interests.”

“Oh, but I think it is. I have spoken of my ardent admiration and love for you, but if that does not reach your heart, then let me tell you that your family approve of my suit. I have obtained your father's consent; now what say you to that, do not pretend that such approval makes no difference?”

“My father's consent?” Now he was standing with his back to the door, quite blocking her way. Eliza retreated to stand behind an upright chair. Could she ring the bell, summon a servant, so that Mr. Pyke would be obliged to move away from the door? She could not believe her ears. This man had what, written to her father, asking permission to marry her, and her father, without consulting her, had given his consent? He must have taken leave of his senses, and besides, what of his permission for her to marry Anthony? Good heavens, what a tangle she was in.

“You see, it is the particular wish of my cousin Lord Montblaine that we should marry. He takes a keen interest in my career, and has expressed his conviction that as a married clergyman, I can expect a more rapid advancement in the Church. As it is, my position, as with a good parish, and my recent appointment as secretary to the archbishop—that is not yet widely known, so I must beg you, dearest Eliza, not to speak of it.”

“Do not call me Eliza, and I am certainly not your dearest. I am hardly more than a stranger to Lord Montblaine. I know he is to become my brother, but I will thank him to keep out of my affairs, he has no right to interfere in my life.”

Now he was frowning. “You speak without considering your words. What, are you to ignore what Lord Montblaine wants? I think not, I think a young woman in your position had better listen to the advice, no, the wishes of her elders. Lady Grandpoint encourages my suit, as well, I confided in her, and she welcomes such a match.”

“It has no more to do with her than with the marquis.” Eliza's temper was rising, and her hands were clasping the back of the chair so tightly that her knuckles were white. She must keep control of herself or, better still, remove herself as swiftly as possible from the presence of this dreadful man. She let go of the chair and dipped a slight curtsy. “Thank you for your offer, we should not suit. Now, if you will excuse me…”

To her dismay, as she moved forward, he grasped hold of her arm, restraining her, despite her best efforts to shake herself free.

“You shall hear me out, Miss Eliza,” he said, the honey gone from his voice. “I am determined you will accept me. You have treated me discourteously, and I shall not forget that. Let me tell you why you will reconsider what you have said.”

“Release me. You have nothing to say that I want to hear.”

“Let us talk about those ‘Sketches from Clerical Life.' Those satiric pieces which have annoyed far more clergymen than they have amused. Weak writing, a poor attempt at wit, I wonder they were ever published. However, they were, and because of that, your fate is sealed. I know you wrote them, no, do not attempt to deny it.”

Eliza was aghast. How could he possibly know? The answer came to her in a flash. Charlotte! Charlotte, her own sister, must have betrayed her. How could she, how could she be so cruel? Had she talked to Montblaine about Mr. Pyke as a likely husband for Eliza? How could even Charlotte think for a single moment that Eliza could bear to marry a man like that? Bitterness welled up inside her, a rage at her sister's treachery swept over her. Charlotte was to live in the great house, and her sister was to be in the parsonage, safely and respectably married off, with no consideration as to how loathsome her prospective husband might be.

Good God, the man was still talking. Eliza, caught up in her angry thoughts, wasn't listening, but then, suddenly, she paid attention.

“So I made it my business to discover who was the author of those tawdry pieces, I had a notion that the information would be of use to me in some way. I paid a sum of money to a man at the office of the Leeds
Gazette,
who told me about the payments that were made to one Mrs. Palmer. I found she had been your nurse, and although the trail went cold there, for she was distinctly disobliging, it was of no matter, for I had better luck in London, where I was able to obtain a description of the woman who called in the office of the
London Magazine.
At that point the mystery was solved.”

Relief swept over Eliza, and she shut her eyes, overjoyed that it wasn't Charlotte who had told Mr. Pyke that she was the author of those articles.

Mr. Pyke wasn't finished. “Your father, the bishop, is at the moment a happy man. He wants a better bishopric, and, indeed, Salisbury is likely to become vacant in the near future. Lord Montblaine has promised his influence, and I, having the ear of the archbishop, am quite willing to add my good services. Provided, that is, that you will promise to be mine.”

Eliza didn't hesitate. “Then, unfortunately, my father will have to remain as Bishop of Ripon.”

“My dear Miss Eliza, you are perhaps thinking of your young neighbour, who has declared his affection for you to your father. I assure you, the bishop is quite prepared to agree that he should not have consented to Mr. Diggory's paying his addresses to you. Since there is no formal engagement, nothing need come of it, no obloquy will fall upon you with regard to that.”

“You have indeed been busy on my behalf!”

“You do not quite understand your position, my dearest Eliza. If you will not accept my hand and heart, then I fear I must reveal to the archbishop that these sketches were penned by you. I shall say you wrote them with the full knowledge of your father, and I think you will find that Mr. Collins will end up as Bishop of Nowhere. Now, what do you say to that? No, do not give me an answer now. I have learned from dear Lady Grandpoint that you have a temper. I do not dislike spirit in a woman, although its expression should be reserved for private moments, when the right place and time render it more than acceptable. So I shall take my leave of you now, and will return this afternoon for what I know will be a favourable reply, to learn that you will make me the happiest of men. It cannot be otherwise, once you have thought it over, and realised where your duty lies.”

“You threaten me, Mr. Pyke. There is an ugly word for what you are about, which is
blackmail.
”

He smiled. “That is a harsh word to fall from the lips of a lovely young woman. You will come to understand that my ardour is such that I will use any means to win your heart.”

He grasped her hand as he spoke, and raised it to his lips. Then he let it go, and for a long moment, his eyes rested on her neck and bosom. She glared at him, feeling as though he were stripping her naked. He smiled, and ran his tongue over his already moist mouth. Then he slid out of the door before she could say another word, leaving her infuriated and hurling opprobrious epithets at the closed door.