The Darcy Connection (5 page)

“You sent for me, Mama?” said Eliza. What were they up to, her mother and Lady Grandpoint? Were they going to try to talk her out of her feelings for Anthony? Or break the news that she was to go to Pemberley? Up went her chin, she would fight them every inch of the way.

“We have decided, your mama and I, that it will be best for you to accompany Charlotte to London.”

Eliza couldn't believe her ears. London? What were they up to now? She dropped a curtsy. “Thank you, ma'am, for the invitation, but I do not want to go to London.”

It was all in vain. She knew it, from the first, and despite her insistence that, no, she did not wish to go to London, that she would not go, she knew how it would end. Yet even as she argued, the idea came into her mind that if she had to be sent away, might not London be better than Derbyshire? Surely Anthony could find reasons to go to London. Of course, the squire would try to keep him at home, but a young man had friends, visits to be made, he could not rusticate in Yorkshire for ever.

And then Papa came home, to be told the news, and to be soothed and flattered by Mrs. Collins, and instructed as to common sense by her ladyship.

“It is all very well, but I do not know how it can be contrived. Here is a note brought from Sir Roger, hinting in the strongest terms that Eliza must be sent off directly, and you”—bowing—“my dear Lady Grandpoint, are going to stay with us some days longer.”

“It is quite unnecessary. Charlotte will have to bestir herself, and it may be for the best. For we shall need some time in London to see to dressmakers and so on, if Charlotte is to be rigged out in a style to do her credit. Let all her clothes be packed up, and then, once I am home, we may go through her wardrobe at leisure and decide what is needed. It can as well be done there as here.”

And there was Charlotte, obedient as ever, and only, when Eliza was still within earshot, confiding to her mama that she wished Eliza weren't coming, for it would be a grave responsibility, attempting to make sure her sister went on as she should, in a way that would raise no eyebrows, cause no comment which might come to Lady Grandpoint's ears.

“My love, I am sure in London that Eliza will restrain herself, and behave just as she ought. She will know better than to continue with her free and easy ways, and besides, my aunt will be there to give her a proper direction. You are not to distress yourself, you are to enjoy your time there, and make the most of this opportunity. I am sorry it has turned out like this, however, there are reasons why it is imperative that Eliza goes with you. I think you should know…”

And Charlotte listened gravely, shaking her head over what her sister had been up to. “It is wrong of her, Mama, very wrong. Not that Anthony is not also at fault, but in such cases, the female ought always to display more caution, inasmuch as the blame will fall more upon her than the man.”

Maria sprang up as Eliza came through the door of her room.

“Well? Am I not right?”

“You are right, as to my being sent away, but wrong as to the destination. I am not to go to Pemberley, but to London.”

“London! Oh, how lucky you are. London, why—oh, you do not look as thrilled as I would be, but of course, London is nothing when the price is being torn asunder from your beloved.”

“Maria, do not talk in that absurd way.”

“You could make a scene,” suggested Maria, “throw a tantrum, drum your heels on the floor. That would give your aunt such a disgust of you that she might refuse to take you after all.”

“And the consequence would be, after she had thrown a vase of water over me, that I should find myself at Pemberley after all. No, I thank you. What time is it?”

“After two.”

“I am supposed to be looking out my clothes for London. Hislop is with Charlotte now, we are to be off first thing in the morning.”

“What clothes? You will need everything new for London, not even your green dress, the one with the flounces, is half smart enough for London.”

“Maybe not, but it will have to do. Besides, I only care for Anthony's opinion, and he likes me well enough in that dress.”

Maria had a strong streak of sense beneath her romantic fancies. “That's what you say now, but when you are at a smart party, and wearing a gown at least three years behind the fashion, you will find you do mind.”

“Then I shall have to mind, for I do not expect to have any new clothes.”

“And Charlotte?”

“Hers is a different case.” Eliza laughed as she caught sight of her gloomy expression in the mirror. “Charlotte goes to triumph, I go in disgrace. Now quick, help me sort out what I shall take, and then we shall have to slip out.”

“Perhaps Anthony will know how to get you out of this fix,” said Maria, following Eliza from the room. “He is very resourceful.”

Anthony had no ideas at all. Dismayed by Maria's somewhat garbled note, and fatigued by the long ride, he was not in a good temper when he reached the woods. He dismounted and frowned at his sister. “You here as well? The devil with you, Maria, all those governesses, and you write a note so ill spelt, and with sentences so ill constructed, that I can hardly make sense of it. Sweetheart,” he said to Eliza, sweeping her into his arms. “You can tell me what this is all about.”

Eliza, trying to keep her voice level, unfolded the story, restraining Maria with fierce looks from her attempts to embellish the stark facts. “There. I have no hold on you, Anthony, you know that. Your parents are distressed that you should have any feelings for me…”

“Feelings? Is that what you call it when I am deeply in love? Shame on you.”

“I do not wish to say uncharitable things about your parents, nor to criticise mine. They are doing what they think is in our best interests.”

“My best interests, not yours,” he shot back. “I know my parents too well. Listen, my dearest Eliza, I will go and talk to my mother. I am sure I can win her round. She only wishes for my happiness, and she must be made to see that without you, I can never be happy.”

“You're deceiving yourself,” Maria broke in. “She is convinced she knows what will make you happy, and it isn't Eliza. Try, it will make no difference.”

“I fear that Maria is right,” said Eliza. “I have been tried and found guilty, sentence has been pronounced, and I am to go.” Her voice was unsteady. “And perhaps, dear heart, you will find they are right, that when I am gone—oh, that it will prove to have been a green love, a spring idyll, an insubstantial—”

He stopped her mouth with a kiss, breaking away to bid his sister take herself off. “Here, go and walk your mare, I want to speak to Eliza privately.”

When she had removed herself to the other side of the path—“Further off, if you please; I know you and your long ears”—he turned back to Eliza, and then, in a swift movement, dropped to one knee and took her hand. “Eliza, I offer you my heart. Will you marry me?”

Eliza was overwhelmed. Her love for Anthony had been intoxicating, and she knew that there could be no greater happiness for her than to marry him. But how could they marry, with their families so set against it?

“If the worst comes to the worst, we shall have to make a bolt for the border,” he said.

“No, not that. Listen, Anthony, let us be secretly engaged. I know it is wrong, very wrong, but in eleven months I shall be twenty-one, and will no longer need my father's permission. By then, your parents will have to accept that our affection is not a fleeting dalliance.”

“Yes, they'll have to give in eventually.” His eyes danced. Then he grew sombre. “I want there to be a solemn bond between us, Eliza. I don't want you to go away a free woman, and I don't want you to think I'm not bound to you by my word. Damn it, I have no ring…this is not how I want to ask you to be my wife.”

Maria was beside them. “I hear someone coming this way,” she said breathlessly. “I heard what you plan, it is wonderful. And I shall do everything I can to help you.”

“You can help us by keeping out of this,” said Anthony at once.

“Pooh, don't you be so high-and-mighty. How can you write to Eliza, or she to you, except through me?”

“Write! What is this about writing?”

“Yes, brother dear, write; you will have to take up your pen and write to Eliza. How else can you keep in touch with her, or she with you? She will write to you, and address the letter to me. And I shall send your letters back as though they came from me.”

“If you think I want you to read what I and Eliza have to say to each other—”

“Don't you trust me? You may on this, upon my honour. Quick, or you will be discovered together. By the snorting sound I fear it is Papa, you know how that old hack of his makes a noise.”

A last swift embrace, and Anthony swung into the saddle, wheeling his horse round to plunge into one of the byways of the forest that he knew so well. Almost at the same moment, Maria and Eliza vanished into the greenery, hiding themselves behind one of the huge oaks that abounded in this part of the forest.

“We could climb the tree,” Maria whispered into Eliza's ear. “Like Charles the Second when he was escaping after the battle at Worcester. Oh, heavens, Father has that wretched dog with him, listen to her bark, she knows we are here, the silly creature.”

The squire's voice could be heard chastising the dog, calling her a damned bitch, and then the hound was distracted by a bird starting up from the undergrowth, and Sir Roger was past, cantering on towards the village.

Eliza wrapped her cloak around her. “Where is your groom?” she said to Maria.

“He'll be waiting for me in the clearing by the old charcoal burner's place. No, there's no need to come with me, it is barely a hundred yards. You had better get back to your packing, before you are missed, and everyone is calling out as to where you may be.”

Which they were, but Eliza had the good sense not to run, not to arrive back at the Palace hot and bothered. Instead, with the basket which she had had the foresight to bring with her on her arm, she said meekly that she had merely gone down to the herb garden, to gather some fresh lavender to lay in her trunks.

“You were not in the herb garden,” Charlotte said. “I looked for you there.” She was holding a velvet pelisse over her arm, and stroking it with her long, white fingers as she spoke. Eliza knew that Charlotte loved the sensuous feel of silken fabrics; no doubt she was looking forward to indulging this taste, since she was to have so many new clothes in London.

“Then how came I to have this lavender?” said Eliza, brandishing a sprig that she had snatched up on her way to meet Anthony. She broke away from her sister and ran up the steps, calling out to her mother that she was here, and, yes, she had sorted out her clothes, what was the fuss about.

Eliza climbed into the carriage with a dull, aching sadness in her heart. Charlotte, as always, was calm, seemingly not at all excited by the adventure that lay ahead of her. The bishop fussed and fretted, wanting to check the harness of Lady Grandpoint's horses, which irritated Eliza, since her father knew nothing about horses. Lady Grandpoint, used to travelling, was making sure that her maid had packed everything properly and that what she needed for the journey: a wrap, a footstool, a book, were all to hand.

Charlotte and Lady Grandpoint travelled forward; Eliza sat opposite, with her back to the horses. Charlotte had said she would sit the other way at the first stop to change horses, but Eliza knew that she wouldn't, and indeed, it was better if she didn't, for Charlotte was prone to motion sickness, while travel in a swaying coach never affected Eliza in the least.

Since they were making the journey in Lady Grandpoint's travelling chaise, they were extremely comfortable. It was not an ostentatious vehicle, but had come from one of London's best coach builders, and was well-sprung and well-upholstered. The Grandpoint arms were emblazoned on the door, which gave Bishop Collins considerable satisfaction. He hoped people in the town would notice his daughters travelling in such an equipage as the carriage passed through the streets at the start of the long journey south.

They were to spend a mere two nights on the road. Lady Grandpoint, as vigorous as many women half her age, didn't care to spend a moment more in inns than she had to. Charlotte was alarmed at the pace and was apprehensive at how tired they would be at the end of the day. Eliza didn't care if they drove all night. Every yard took her further away from Anthony, so what did it matter if the ground were covered quickly or slowly?

Her spirits rose despite herself as the coach turned on to the main highway. It was the last day of April, and after a mild winter and an early spring, the countryside had the lush greenery of freshly opened leaves and new growth. As they travelled through the towns and villages, they could see people busy with preparations for May Day and sense the expectation of holiday in the air.

They slept that night at Stamford, at a well-appointed inn, used to supplying the wants of such demanding travellers as Lady Grandpoint. Eliza fell wearily into bed, grateful for the sense of physical tiredness that sent her at once into a profound slumber, rather than leaving her awake and restless and thinking of how much she hated being separated from Anthony.

The next day she could not help but feel more cheerful, as with the sun beaming from a cloudless sky, they saw morris dancers capering on village greens, maidens weaving ribbons round the maypoles, and, when the day drew to its end, couples stealing into the shadows for kisses and love.

“Rustics,” said Lady Grandpoint, who was not a talkative companion. In fact, most of the journey passed in silence, Lady Grandpoint absorbed in her book, only raising her eyes from the page and holding her place with a long finger to announce that they were passing some place of historic interest, here the site of a battle, there a large house inhabited by a distant relation of the Grandpoints.

She seemed to have a great many connections, Eliza thought to herself. That was what a good marriage did for you. She compared Lady Grandpoint's numerous relations with her own connections. They amounted to, on her mother's side, her late grandfather, knighted for some obscure success in trade, and Lady Grandpoint herself. On her father's side, the grandest of her connections were the Darcy family, and the relationship could hardly be called a close one.

It was not in Eliza's nature to brood, and as the carriage approached London, with the towns and villages growing more numerous and populous, she leaned forward, eager to catch a first view of London. They approached the city by way of Hampstead, a charming village with its pond, where three cows stood up to their knees in water, idly chewing cud as they watched the carriage rattle by.

“The heath used to be a prime spot for highwaymen,” Lady Grandpoint observed. “However, we live in safer times, although I always travel with an armed man, as you have noticed, it would be folly to do otherwise. Grandpoint insists upon it, and he makes very sure that the guns carried by the postilion are in excellent order, there is no point in a gun that cannot hit its target, as he so rightly says.”

Eliza wondered what Lord Grandpoint would be like. She had never met him, and her mother had been vague: “My uncle is a formidable man, too clever for me, and a man of stern principles.”

Stern principles. What did that mean? Did he go to church twice on Sundays, and sit with a solemn face, intent on every word? Would he, a childless man, disapprove of any signs of levity or liveliness in his wife's great-niece? No doubt Lady Grandpoint would tell him about Anthony—how would he take to that? She pictured a grim-visaged man, with an obstinate jaw and an unsmiling countenance, and her heart sank. No doubt he would be delighted with Charlotte, as older men so often were, and would praise her beauty and calmness.

Older men tended to treat Eliza rather differently, slipping an arm around her waist and leaning too close. At least the stern principles might prevent a Lord Grandpoint from fondling and squeezing her in any such disagreeable way.

Aubrey Square, where the Grandpoints had their London residence, was in the best part of town, so Lady Grandpoint informed them. The houses were handsome, dating from the second half of the last century, their red brick façades broken by white-painted window surrounds and elegant wrought-iron balconies overlooking the centre of the square.

Lord Grandpoint came out of the house as the carriage drew up, and he descended the shallow steps to help his wife out of the coach. He had an austere look to him; clever, but humourless, was Eliza's immediate judgement. She told herself she must not be so quick to form an impression, it was a fault of hers, she knew. However, his greeting to his wife was kind and affectionate, and his welcome to his great-nieces hardly less so. Kindness must always be considered a virtue.

“You are fatigued by your journey. Lady Grandpoint does like to travel fast, which can be wearing for her companions.”

“Nonsense,” said Lady Grandpoint, accepting the salutations of the impressive butler with a nod and telling her maid to make sure the case with her bottles was taken inside directly. “Charlotte and Eliza have all the advantage of youth; a good night's sleep, and they will be quite recovered from the journey.”

An appetising supper was laid out for the travellers, although after a glass of wine and a wing of chicken, Eliza felt she would burst trying to restrain the yawns that threatened her, while Charlotte, whom Eliza knew was suffering from the headache, could barely swallow a mouthful.

“Tell your maid to make your sister a tisane for her head,” Lady Grandpoint told Eliza, when she realised how Charlotte was suffering. “Is she prone to headaches?”

“Sometimes, especially when she is tired and has been in a coach for a long while. They last for a day or two and can be very severe.”

“Then she shall have the bedchamber at the rear of the house. It is not so handsome as the other room, where I intended to put her, but you will not mind the noise, I dare say. Not that Aubrey Square is noisy, not at all, it is one of the quietest squares in London.”

If Aubrey Square was quiet, Eliza shuddered to think what a noisy street must be like. She slept soundly, the sleep of exhaustion, but woke early, wondering if there were an affray, a riot, some public disturbance. Voices, street criers, calling out for people to buy oranges, pies, muffins, the raucous sound of an organ-grinder, horses' hooves, and the steady, never-ceasing rumble of traffic on the main thoroughfare beyond the square.

After the ancient silence of the mediaeval Bishop's Palace at Ripon, the noise was shocking. How could one ever grow accustomed to it? Eliza had found Harrogate and York noisy enough, but they were nothing in comparison.

She found, lying there, that she liked the noise. Silence had its merits, but there was vitality in these sounds of a great city coming to life. She had been to London only once before, as a girl, and they had stayed far from the centre, in a genteel suburb with a clerical friend of her parents. She could remember little about it, except for a rather dark house and long, boring days, enlivened only by demure walks in the park.

This was quite, quite different, and as for Lady Grandpoint's house, Eliza was amazed at the taste and style of even this room, a mere guest bedchamber. A handsome rug was on the polished floor, cream with a pattern of flowers around its border. The curtains were heavy and patterned with more crimson flowers set on a pale background. There was a writing desk, elegant on spindly legs, and two chairs set beside the fireplace, itself much bigger than the tiny grates she was used to at home. No ancient discomfort here, no draughts whistling down stone-paved passages, no cramped windows of great historic interest but exceeding impracticality. And, she was sure, no vast stone fireplaces downstairs belching smoke into the room every time the wind blew from the north-east, and likewise the kitchens were probably modern, rather than the cavernous affairs of the Palace, unchanged, Eliza suspected, since the Middle Ages.

Eliza jumped out of bed and went to the window. Across the square, a servant was scrubbing steps; a few yards further down, a porter rattled his boxes along the pavement, whistling loudly. A maid stood by the basement railings of another house, exchanging saucy quips with a coal merchant, a husky young man who heaved the sacks on to his broad shoulders as though they were full of feathers, before tumbling the contents down the chute into the cellar below.

Hislop's voice startled her out of her reverie.

“Miss! Standing there at the window in your shift for all the world to see.”

“Nobody is looking at me. The world has better things to do.” Eliza took the wrap Hislop was holding out for her. “How is Charlotte this morning?”

“She has the headache very badly, poor soul. I knew how it would be, travelling at that dreadful speed. Her nerves are all to pieces, although of course she never complains.”

“Are you recovered from the journey?” Eliza asked, not wanting to hear Hislop on the subject of Charlotte's nerves. Hislop and Lady Grandpoint's maid had travelled with the luggage in a second chaise, not such a comfortable one. Nerves, indeed! Charlotte didn't have nerves, she merely had a headache, because the motion of the carriage didn't agree with her.

That earned her a sniff from the wiry, tireless woman. Eliza should have known better than to express interest or sympathy. In Hislop's eyes, Charlotte could do no wrong, and Eliza could do no right.

“Annie will come and help you dress,” said Hislop. “She's a young girl just joined the household, I understand, a flighty number, but I'll have my hands full attending to Miss Collins, so her ladyship said it was best for this Annie to look after you while you are here.”

Annie appeared at the door as soon as Hislop had left, a dark slip of a girl with a dimple and a merry look to her. “Good morning, Miss,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.

I just hope, Eliza said to herself, that Hislop's duties for Charlotte keep her completely occupied, since Annie looked to be a much more agreeable person. And a chatty one, too; as she helped Eliza to dress, she talked about the household, and Eliza was surprised to learn how large an establishment it was. All those servants, for a childless couple.

“His lordship likes to have everything just so,” Annie told her. “The house runs like clockwork, and if it doesn't, he has to know the reason why. Her ladyship is just the same, she has eyes in the back of her head, that one.”

Annie held up the dress Eliza had said she would wear, and, turning round from the mirror, Eliza saw the expression on the maid's face.

“Whatever is the matter?”

“Miss, you can't wear this!”

“Why ever not?”

“With these sleeves? And it's sprigged, and the neckline…”

“You're saying it's unfashionable,” Eliza said with a laugh. Of course the girl was right. The gowns Eliza wore at home were plain in cut and style. Her father declared that he liked simplicity in the clothes his womenfolk wore; she knew quite well that what he liked was to spend as little as possible on what he called the girls' finery. Their allowances were small, and Eliza, spending money on music and books, rarely had enough for more elegant clothes.

Charlotte was better off, since she was content with the music she had always played, never wanting anything different, and as she grew out of the awkward age and began to show signs of exceptional looks, her mother gave her extra money for her gowns—justifying this to Eliza by saying that Charlotte's beauty deserved to be shown off.

“Unfashionable? Downright dowdy, if you'll forgive me, Miss. Have you nothing else?”

A quick scurry through her clothes left Annie shaking her head, and Eliza feeling more unsure of herself than she would have believed possible.

“It is only a gown,” she found herself saying. “And this one”—she made a dive for a particular favourite, the dress she had been wearing when Anthony first kissed her—“what is wrong with this?”

Annie wrinkled her nose. “It's hard to say what's right with it.” She came to a decision. “Put on your wrap again, and have your chocolate in here, while I see what I can do with this one.”