The Darcy Connection (6 page)

And before Eliza could protest, Annie had hurried out of the room, a muslin gown that Eliza had never liked clasped in her hands.

Eliza sipped the thick, delicious chocolate, a luxury unheard of at the Palace, and thought about her wardrobe. Annie's reaction was extreme, there must be plenty of simply dressed young women in London.

Then she looked around the room and, with a sinking heart, knew that Annie was right. In London, yes. In the quiet suburb she had stayed in as a child, her gowns might pass muster. In these surroundings she was going to appear ridiculous.

Well, that was how it would be. There was nothing she could do about it. Her mother had been insistent on that point. Her going to London was not in the nature of a treat. She had behaved badly, had been all too forward with a young man, and must be aware that in her father's eyes she had disgraced herself.

Disgraced, because she loved Anthony?

In particular, she must be a good girl, her mother had continued, and not expect the same treatment as would be granted to Charlotte. “It was never my aunt's intention that you should do a season in London, and you must accustom yourself to not leading quite the same life as Charlotte will. Of course, you will go to some parties and so on, I am sure, but you will not be invited to the dances and balls and assemblies that Lady Grandpoint will take Charlotte to.”

“Don't you think people will find it strange, my sitting at home in the cinders?” Eliza had said. “At twenty, it will be hard to pretend I am still in the schoolroom, and not yet out.”

“Cinders, indeed! You will find that the Grandpoints treat you very well, it is simply that we all have expectations for Charlotte, so beautiful as she is. And if she were to make a good match, then that must have advantages for you as well, remember that. She is lucky to have such a generous godmother.”

“It is a shame my godmother has so many children of her own, in that case,” said Eliza, laughing, for she far preferred her own sparkling godmother to Lady Grandpoint.

“There, now, you take everything as a cause for amusement. I warn you to watch your tongue, for these manners and habits of yours will not do in London at all!”

“It will not matter if they do or don't do, if I'm to live such a confined life as you suggest.”

Well, shabby gowns or no shabby gowns, Eliza was determined she was going to make the most of what London had to offer. She hoped Annie was a walker, since she suspected she wouldn't be allowed out unaccompanied. She intended to explore the city and see all the marvels that she had only read about or heard described at second hand. The river, the Tower of London, the monuments, and pictures and famous buildings. Then there would be all the books she could possibly want to read. She was determined to pay for a subscription to one of London's famous circulating libraries.

Annie was back, the gown held high. Eliza blinked. What had the girl done to it? It was hard to tell exactly; the sleeves had been altered, the neckline was different, and, when she put it on, it fitted much better than before.

“You are a marvel with your needle, I find,” she said.

Annie blushed. “I should be, Miss, for my mother is a seamstress, and she taught me well.”

“Yet you work as a maid, wouldn't you rather be a seamstress?”

“Oh, no. It is hard work, you know, and I love living in this part of London and being in a household like this. I have two sisters, and they are going into the trade with my mother. She doesn't need any more help, and so I chose to go into service.”

Annie tweaked the gown into place. “I understand that M. Gaspard, the dressmaker, is coming round today, perhaps you could ask her ladyship if she can make for you as well as for Miss Collins.”

Eliza shook her head. “I doubt it. No, I must make do with what I have. Lady Grandpoint has said that she will buy me a new bonnet, and perhaps a shawl to make me more elegant.”

“A bonnet? A shawl? Why, Miss—”

“That will do, Annie.”

“Thank you for sending a maid to me, so that Hislop can look after Charlotte,” Eliza said when she was downstairs with her aunt.

“It seems best. Apart from this tiresome headache—and I do hope your sister isn't going to be falling ill all the time, London is so strenuous—Charlotte's clothes and toilette will need a lot of attention if she is to appear at her best.”

“As to that, Charlotte always looks her best.”

“I dare say, but in London a young woman on the lookout for a husband needs polish. She cannot afford to look countrified, that would never do.”

“Countrified is what we are, I suppose. Annie is very scathing about my clothes.”

“Who is Annie? Oh, the maid. It is hardly her place to pass personal comments.”

“I fear she is right.”

“Well, it is of no matter. I know she has some skill with her needle, she can smarten you up, I am sure. Have you a pattern gown? Yes? Then you may buy some muslin and so on, and she can make you one or two gowns, in a more fashionable style than you have brought with you from Yorkshire. Your father gave you a sum of money, did he not?”

“No. He was too angry with me.”

Eliza had no intention of telling Lady Grandpoint that she had some money of her own, apart from the two guineas that her mother had pressed into her hand as she stepped into the carriage in Ripon. Her great-aunt would want to know how she had such a sum set by, and the source of the money must certainly remain a secret.

Lady Grandpoint made a clicking noise with her tongue. “How like a man. Well, I shall give you a few guineas, and you must do the best you can with it, and let your maid look over such gowns as you brought with you.”

“Thank you, ma'am, but in truth I do not need to dress any finer than I do already.”

“It is a great pity you do not share your sister's beauty, for two of you would be even more striking. I speak bluntly, do you mind? Do you envy your sister her extraordinary degree of beauty?”

“No,” said Eliza, and she spoke the truth. Charlotte's beauty had come as much as a surprise to her as it had to everyone else, for as a child, there had been nothing remarkable about her sister's looks. She had been inclined to chubbiness, with a bad skin, and her eyes, now so lustrous, had often been afflicted with the red eye, so that they were nearly always sore and inflamed. Then, over the space of a year or so, her complexion had cleared, her face fined down, revealing a rare perfection of feature, the infections to her eyes had gone away, her figure had grown pretty and graceful, and her formerly lank hair had become thick and lustrous.

“Such a beauty can benefit her entire family,” said Lady Grandpoint. “It is a blessing that her temperament is a calm one, there is nothing impetuous about her, she is unlikely to let her feelings run away with her, I would judge.”

Eliza smiled at this. “Charlotte has a very equable, tranquil nature.”

Cold, it might be called, but it would be disloyal to say so. Whereas she, Eliza, was all too impetuous, tumbling into love with Anthony. Just to think his name was to cause a wave of happiness to flow through her.

“What are you thinking of, to look like that?” her great-aunt said sharply. “It is that young man, Anthony Diggory, I'll be bound. Well, I was young once, and inclined to imagine myself in love, and so I can tell you, that kind of fancy soon passes, quick to come, quick to go. Here in London you will meet a great many men, and I assure you, this Anthony will soon appear to you quite ordinary in comparison.”

How could a woman have lived so long, and know so little?

“I am glad to see that you are not resentful of your sister's looks and prospects. This one mistake you have made will soon be forgotten, and I am sure you will make the most of your time in London to improve yourself. Shed your hoydenish ways, and learn to control your impulses, and you will grow into a much more contented person.”

Contented, said Eliza inwardly. Like those cows in the pond at Hampstead. No, thank you.

Lady Grandpoint held up a card. “You see, here is an invitation from Lady Bellasby. I sent a note to her as soon as we arrived, to tell her that I had brought my goddaughter to London. She is giving a small dance, will be happy for me to bring Charlotte. You do not mind that you are not included in the invitation?”

“Not in the least,” said Eliza, with perfect truth.

Lady Grandpoint rose, tapping the card against the palm of her hand. “You are a good-natured young woman, indeed. Now, I must leave you, I have a lot to attend to after my absence in Yorkshire. I am heartily glad to be back, the waters at Harrogate did not suit me at all, and I find the provinces bore me more and more. Country houses are one thing, but provincial life has nothing to recommend it.”

The taller of the two fencers parried the thrust from his opponent, then found the tip of the other's sword held against his chest. He laughed, and held up his hand to acknowledge the hit.

“Enough, Bart,” he said, putting his arm round the other's shoulders and walking with him across the
salle,
to where Henry Angelo had been watching them critically.

“Lord Rosely,” Angelo said to the tall man, “you lay yourself open, you move quickly with the tierce, and then are too slow in the riposte.” He bowed to Bartholomew Bruton. “I am pleased to welcome you back to these shores, Mr. Bruton. You took lessons in Paris from Manit, I believe?”

“I did indeed. How are you, Angelo? Any new tricks up your sleeve?”

“We shall have a bout the next time you come, and you may see for yourself,” said the fencing master.

As the two men left the fencing salon and walked out in Haymarket, Freddie Rosely kept up a flow of inconsequential talk, which made Bartholomew smile. “I am very glad to see you again, Freddie,” he said, when his companion finally paused for breath.

The best of friends as well as being cousins, the two men were quite unalike. Freddie was tall and fair, Bartholomew dark and half a head shorter with a proud nose and a keen-eyed, expressive face. Their mothers were sisters, they had known each other from the cradle, and although they had grown up in rather different worlds, they had gone to Eton together and then on to Oxford, Freddie to Christ Church and Bartholomew to Magdalen.

“It is so good to see you, Moneybags,” Freddie said, clapping a hand on Bartholomew's shoulder. The nickname had no malice in it, not from Freddie, although at school it had been flung at Bartholomew as a term of abuse and contempt. The scion of one of England's great banking families might be going to inherit a fortune beyond the dreams of most men, and have a Lady Sarah for a mother, but to the sprigs of the aristocracy at Eton, he was tainted with trade.

Freddie had come to his cousin's rescue the first time he had flung himself at his taunter, but he soon realised that Bartholomew was well able to fight his own corner. Pretty soon, both his contemporaries and older boys took care what they said to him, for he fought without quarter and was so quick on his feet and so swift to sense and make use of a weakness that it was generally considered best not to annoy or argue with him.

Bartholomew knew the remarks and abuse still went on behind his back, they always would, and the idiots couldn't see that he was far more proud of his Huguenot goldsmith and banking ancestors than they could ever be of their dull forebears, whose titles had, as often as not, been earned in highly dubious ways.

“Do any shooting practise while you were away?” Freddie enquired as they walked down Bond Street.

Bartholomew laughed. A brilliant swordsman, and a tough man with his fists, he was a hopeless shot. He called his long-sightedness “farsightedness” and pointed out that the time he saved not going in pursuit of various forms of game could well be spent on more interesting pursuits.

“Such as going to the opera,” he said to Freddie. “Do you care to come tomorrow? Angelini sings, I believe.”

Freddie pulled a face. “Is she the stout party who sings so high you'd think someone had trod on her foot?” Freddie wasn't musical. “No, I thank you, I'll pass on that.”

“Perhaps you're right. Last time I heard her sing, she was not in good voice.”

“Then, if you have no other engagements, you can come with me to Lady Grandpoint's soirée.”

“Good God, are you out of your mind?”

“I see your propensity to shun elegant social gatherings hasn't undergone a change while you've been making merry in Paris. Listen, Bart, you have to come. Well, the truth of it is that Lady Grandpoint has someone staying with her. My God, not just ‘someone,'” Freddie burst out, stopping in his enthusiasm, then grasping his friend by the arm to reinforce his point. “Bart, the most beautiful creature I've ever set eyes on. Such eyes, such a face, such grace.”

Bartholomew sighed. He knew Freddie's enthusiasms, which usually ran to ripe and luscious ladies of easy virtue. However, Lady Grandpoint would be most unlikely to have a woman of that sort staying with her.

“Who is this paragon?”

“Her name is Charlotte,” said Freddie, lingering on the syllables of the name. “Miss Collins. She's a bishop's daughter, from somewhere in the north, so don't look like that, she's utterly respectable.”

“And rich, by any chance?”

Freddie frowned. “What does that matter?”

“I can see trouble ahead if she isn't. Has your mother met this new beauty?”

“No, no, she hasn't, not yet. She'll be enchanted by Miss Collins, can't help but be.”

Bartholomew doubted that, unless the bishop turned out to be a rich and well-connected prelate.

“My mother will be there tomorrow,” said Freddie. “So she can meet Miss Collins.”

“I suppose that means my mama will be also be there,” said Bartholomew resignedly. “At least in company she can't ring another peal over me. I've been avoiding her ever since I got back.”

“Why, what have you done?”

“There was a girl in Paris, the prettiest, liveliest creature you ever saw. We spent a good deal of time together, and word got back to England about her. That's the trouble with having relations all over Europe, all of them with their spies and sending letters flying to and fro.”

“Bart, is this serious? Don't tell me you've lost your heart to a Frenchwoman? What about Jane Grainger?”

“You know me, coz. I've no intention of losing my heart to anyone.”

“There's always the latest heiress. She's a face like a lemon, but is the toast of the town—or was, until Miss Collins made her appearance. It's astonishing what money does to you, eh, Bartholomew?”

“That will be Celia Chetwynd, I expect,” said Bartholomew.

“It is, do you know her?”

“No, but I, too, have my spies. Perhaps they'll marry her off to Lord Montblaine.”

“What, the Marble Marquis? He never comes to London these days, and I'm sure he isn't hanging out for a wife.”

“That's not what I hear.” Bartholomew touched his hat yet again to an acquaintance who was bowing to him across the street.

“Let's dine at Pinks tonight,” Freddie said.

“Yes, I long for a slice of mutton; French food is all very well, but they don't know how to serve meat.”

They crossed Piccadilly and turned down St. James's Street to their club. Two whores, sitting at the window of Mother Elkins's establishment opposite the club, leant out over the street, calling down to the men. “More fun over here, dearie,” said one, and the other winked at Bartholomew. “I hear the money clinking in your pockets, darling, why not come and spend it on us?”

Freddie gave them a jovial wave and ran up the club steps after his friend, who was greeted by the doorman with a smile and a quiet “Good to have you back, sir.”

“I see Snipe,” Bartholomew hissed at Freddie, as he saw an all-too-familiar figure lurking within. “Quickly, into the dining room before he spots us.”

Too late. The dandified man had seen them and came strutting over. “My dear Bruton, what a pleasure.”

Snipe was a few years older than Bartholomew and had been one of his worst tormentors at Eton. Even had that not been the case, Bartholomew would never have liked him, and he resigned himself to a quarter of an hour of gossip as Snipe launched into enquiries as to the well-being of their families and expressed insincere pleasure at Bartholomew's return. “I am sure your father has missed you, busy days at the bank, I am sure, busy days.”

“Money is always hard work,” Bartholomew said, well aware that the courtesy accorded to him by Snipe these days was entirely due to the vast profits made by Bruton's bank over the last few years of the war and in the subsequent years of peace and all the opportunities that brought.

Snipe angled for news and dropped little bits of information of his own. He mostly talked about people who, although known to Bartholomew, were of no interest to him. Mercifully, Freddie, who was feeling peckish, cut the man off rather abruptly, saying they must get on or they would lose their table.

“Of course,” said Snipe, with his mirthless smile. “And I fancy I shall have the honour of seeing you later on, at Lady Grandpoint's.” He bowed and slid away to greet another member who had just come into the club.

“Good Lord, there's a reason for not going,” said Bartholomew. “Do we have a table?”

“No, but we shall have in about ten seconds. That corner one will do nicely. Waiter!”