The Second Mrs Darcy (13 page)

“Of course you will marry,” said Octavia. “There can be no if about it.”

“I am not so sure,” said Penelope, suddenly serious. “Suppose one never fell in love—or did so, but could not marry the object of one's affections. I would prefer to stay single all my life, rather than be forced to marry a man I did not care tuppence for!”

Octavia had suspected as much. Penelope had undoubtedly lost her heart to an unsuitable man, or thought she had. Octavia hoped that this would be no more than a youthful fancy, for she couldn't imagine Theodosia, or indeed Mr. Henry Cartland, agreeing to a love match that was not also a good match in their sense of the word, meaning, a man who was of their world, wealthy, and well born.

But this was Penelope's first season, and she was very young, and she might be one of those girls whose fancies were volatile, for whom the young man who was everything to her this week would be dismissed the next with a toss of her pretty head and a shrug of her white shoulders, and an “Oh, him, I care nothing for him.”

Penelope might be as heartless in her own way as her mother was, although Octavia felt this would not be so. There was a strength to her niece that didn't bode well for her future, at least, not if it were a different future from the one laid down for her by her mother.

With Alice's assistance, Octavia likewise managed to smuggle in the parcels from the bootmaker and shoemaker, and she herself came home in a hackney cab with two hatboxes from Millicent's. She was a milliner Theodosia had never heard of, no, she had no wish to see the
hats, she was just on the point of going out, where was Penelope, why was that girl never there when you wanted her?

“Here, Mama,” said Penelope, eyeing the hatboxes and whispering to Octavia as she went past that she was sure they were monstrous smart hats, and she would want to see them when she came in.

Unfortunately, it was a different story with the riding habits. The man from Fenniman's arrived with the first of Octavia's habits in the middle of a windy afternoon, when Theodosia was attending to her correspondence in her private sitting room.

She heard the footman say to Octavia, “This has come from Fenniman's,” and was at the door of her room in a trice, looking out and catching Octavia just as she was about to go up the stairs to her own room.

“Fenniman! Did I hear Fenniman? What has come home from Fenniman's, I should like to know?”

“It is for me,” Octavia said.

“For you? And what, pray, can you have ordered from Fenniman?”

“It's madam's riding habit,” said Icken with a sniff.

Theodosia looked at the box, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed in disapproval. “A riding habit! You ordered a riding habit from Fenniman? Whatever can you be thinking of, do you have any idea of his prices? And what need have you of ordering a riding habit from anyone? When are you going to ride? For do not be expecting that Henry will be lending you a mount, no, nor Arthur neither. And to go to Fenniman's, whose prices are the highest in London, you cannot possibly afford half what it will cost.”

“I am aware of the cost, Theodosia, and I have the money put by. I like to ride, and—”

“Like to ride! Well, there are many things we all like to do, but it does not mean that it is possible to do so.”

“Please do not distress yourself so,” she said with considerable dignity. “I have no intention of asking either Mr. Cartland or Arthur to provide me with a horse.” And she whisked herself into her
room, her heart thumping in a very uncontrolled way. She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks, and found she was trembling. It was all so unnecessary, she had only to tell Theodosia—but no, she would not do so. Not yet, not until the moment was right, until she had made her plans and knew she could carry them out. Tomorrow she would go to the lawyer, and put in train the finding of a house for herself.

As for a horse—there she was at a stand. Single women did not buy horses, she would hardly know where to begin. She would have to have a man's help with that. But who? Even when the news was out, she would hardly trust Arthur to find her a suitable horse, nor Mr. Cartland.

That would have to wait for the moment. Meanwhile, she would sit down and take several deep breaths and regain her composure. Then she would try on the new riding habit, midnight blue with extravagant froggings à la Hussar. Fenniman had sent a sample of the velvet for her to take to Millicent's for a hat to complete the outfit; how dashing it was.

Habit, hat, boots. She must make a visit to the glove maker for riding gloves as well as evening gloves and gloves to go with all her other ensembles—then all she would lack was a horse.

Which thought kept her amused through a difficult dinner, with Penelope unusually subdued, Mr. Cartland glancing anxiously at his wife, who was clearly not in a good mood; Theodosia still much annoyed with Octavia over the riding habit.

“Tomorrow you may come with us to the Barchesters' soirée, and this time I will accept no excuses,” she said to Octavia, as she rose from the table. “It is time for you to be seen about, there may be some people there you know from when you were previously in London, but in any case it is an opportunity—there are some people Arthur would like you to meet.”

Potential husbands, Octavia said to herself. Sound Tories, men of a certain age, men who might not be too particular as to height and fortune. She was sure Arthur would present her to at least one middle-aged widower who was looking out for a suitable wife.

Yet she found herself looking forward to the soirée. Penelope had whispered to her that the Barchesters were very smart, not at all stuffy, and although there would be dull people there, there were sure to be others who were not. Octavia came to the conclusion that she had a frivolous nature; after her time in the country, she was more than happy to plunge into a livelier social scene.

It was worse than she had expected, far, far worse. Only the knowledge that she was elegantly dressed, indeed a great deal more elegantly dressed than most of the women there, gave her any cause for feeling pleased.

It was a squeeze, a fashionable squeeze, and a political squeeze. Arthur was a Tory since his circle of friends tended to be of the same political persuasion. The Tories had just won the recent general election, Lord Liverpool was still in office as Prime Minister—and he was there, his eye twitching, his rather bland countenance displaying no emotion at his success. He looked dull, Octavia decided, not that she was given any opportunity to discover if this were the case, for she was far too unimportant to be honoured with the acquaintance of a Lord Liverpool. Instead, she was introduced to a large man in corsets, with an opulent air and breeches straining over wide thighs. Not a stupid man, but a deeply unpleasant one, a roué by the hot look in his eyes, and a rich one, or Arthur would not have been so obsequious when he made the introduction.

And then, when Octavia would have smiled and edged away, Arthur manoeuvred her into a corner, her escape blocked by the large man, and her brother hissed in her ear that she was to mind her manners, that this was Sir Willoughby Granston, a man of influence in the Party, a widower. “And rich,” he said, before moving away, leaving her marooned and angry.

Sir Willoughby knew that she had been in India, he had interests in India, about which he was preparing to bore her. Annoyed, she raised her voice, and asked him what was his opinion of the subsidies to the maharajahs.

Ha, that silenced him, although it earned her several curious glances and not a few turned heads. “For some of them most supported by the government are of a tyrannical disposition,” she continued.

His eyes grew cold. “You set yourself up to have an opinion on matters about which you know nothing.” And then, mercifully, he edged away, saying in an audible voice that he deplored a clever woman, a woman who expressed her views on subjects about which she knew nothing, less than nothing.

Across the room, Snipe Woodhead was watching Octavia. Not that he found her interesting in herself, but she was a newcomer, and he was a gossip to his fingertips, a man who had to know everything that was going on.

“Who is that woman?” he said to his neighbour. “The tall one, who has just offended Willoughby?”

“Who do you mean? Oh, the lanky female in blue. That will be Mrs. Darcy, the second Mrs. Darcy, Christopher Darcy's wife. She was a Melbury before she married, been in India for years.”

That was enough for Snipe. “Arthur Melbury's half sister. No fortune when she married Darcy, and no fortune now he's gone, the estate went to Warren, of course. Wonder what she's doing in London?”

“Oh, on the lookout for another husband, no doubt about it.”

“What possessed Darcy to marry her? When you think what the first Mrs. Darcy was, bit of a comedown, ain't she? A Melbury's all very well, but isn't to compare with an earl's granddaughter.”

“No, and I have heard that her grandfather was a haberdasher or a grocer or some such thing. On her mother's side; Sir Clement made a shocking misalliance there.”

“Doesn't look as though she's overwhelmed Sir Willoughby with her charms,” said Snipe with a mirthless laugh.

“No, she's missed her chance there, he likes big women, although she's probably too thin for him.”

“Do the Darcys acknowledge her?”

“Haven't a clue, dear boy. Shouldn't think so, the relationship wasn't a close one, and she's no more than a distant connection. No, Melbury will have his work cut out if he's going to get rid of her. A country clergyman would be about the extent of her hopes, I should say.”

Some extra sense told Octavia that the two fashionably dressed men were talking about her, and she held her chin a little higher as she edged her way through the throng, hating the braying voices, the smell of overheated bodies, the watchful eyes, the scent of ambition in the air. This was a gathering of men on the make, men hungry for advancement and a taste of power.

Would Arthur rise high in his Party, and in office? She doubted it. He was a shrewd man, but not a cunning one, and his eagerness to please and defer might flatter, but it surely couldn't help him up the political ladder, more than that must be needed.

Except, looking about her, perhaps it wasn't.

Arthur was displeased with her, and told Theodosia so, which meant that Octavia was lectured all the way home. Mr. Cartland was silent, in the carriage and when they were back in Lothian Street, only casting her an occasional swift glance of sympathy when he thought his wife wouldn't notice.

“That any sister of mine could be so rude to such a charming and influential man!” Theodosia was saying yet again. “If you behave in such a boorish way, you will never find yourself another husband.”

Octavia sighed. “Theodosia, he may be influential, but he is not charming. He is also twice my age, and Arthur is losing his wits if he imagines that we could be in any way suited.”

“It is for Sir Willoughby to decide what might or might not suit him, it is not up to you.”

Octavia went upstairs, melancholy threatening to overwhelm her as she looked back on a most disagreeable evening. In the morning, she decided she would put an end to this charade, she would tell Theodosia and Arthur—

There was a knock at the door, and Penelope's head came round it. “Oh, good, you are still up.” She advanced into the room. “Do you have the headache? You look as though you do. Shall I ring for your maid, would you like a tisane, or there are pastilles Mama burns when she has the headache? Did you not have a good time?”

“It was a dreadful party,” said Octavia. “Where were you this evening?”

“At a dance,” said Penelope without enthusiasm. “It was crowded and no one interesting was there. I went with my Cousin Louisa and Aunt Augusta, that is why Mama could go with you this evening, they do not take me to political parties.” She let out a tremendous yawn. “I am so tired of dances and balls and parties and routs and all the rest of it.”

“You should enjoy your season, most girls do.”

“Do you think so? So do not I. There is such desperation to find a husband, the right husband, you know. The girls who are engaged may enjoy it, but I find it a very empty-headed way to pass the time.”

Octavia sympathised, but what else was there for a girl in Penelope's position except to be thrust into society and to marry as quickly as possible?

“The men are all so young, or they are old and ogle one, I do not know which is worse,” Penelope went on in tones of dissatisfaction.

Ah, so the man who had caught her fancy was older than her.

“And they have nothing to say which is of any interest, it is all insipid stuff, and gossip and the weather, you cannot have a proper conversation. If you try, they look at you as though you were an eccentric, and then Aunt Augusta comes zooming down on me, to tell me to mind what I am about. Of course Louisa is fascinated by whatever a man has to say, she listens, all agog, all attention, even if it is the
most arrant nonsense. If I were a man, it would annoy me, but they do not seem to mind it at all. She has the nastiest temper of any girl I know, but of course they are unaware of that, she takes good care that she appears sweetness itself.”

“Shall I pour you a bowl of milk?” said Octavia.

“You mean I am a cat,” said Penelope, with perfect good humour. “Where Louisa is concerned, yes, I am. I pity her future husband, whoever it is, for he will soon find out what she is like. Or perhaps not, he will take no notice of anything she says, and spend most of his time with his horses or at his club. That is what men do, they are so much luckier than we are, do not you think so?”

“I do indeed,” said Octavia, with a fervour that surprised her niece. “But not all your parties can be so very dull, you must enjoy some of them.”

Penelope sighed. “The ones I might enjoy, I am not permitted to go to. In three days time there is a dance given by the Wyttons, and I should dearly love to go. However, it is the same evening as Mama has accepted an invitation to Vauxhall. Do you like Vauxhall?”

“I never went there above once, and it rained.”

“It is all very well in its way, but it depends on the company, and … Well, I would rather go to the Wyttons', do you know them?”

“Mrs. Wytton is a cousin of my late husband; I met them in Hertfordshire, they seem a most agreeable couple.”

“Oh, they are, the nicest people in the world. Only Mama does not think so, and Mr. Wytton is a Whig, you know, and quite Radical in his views, which makes Uncle Arthur fret and fume, and my uncle Adderley goes quite red in the face whenever his name is mentioned.” She gave a wide yawn, and got up from the chair by the meagre fire. “Are you warm enough? I do wish Mama had put you in a nicer room.” Then, with another yawn, she bade Octavia good night and left for her own bedchamber.

The next morning came an invitation for Octavia, a note from Camilla Wytton, saying that she and Mr. Wytton were just returned to
town from Hertfordshire, that they were giving a small dance two nights from now, would Octavia forgive the short notice and informality of the invitation and honour them with her presence?

“What is that you have there, who is that from?” said Theodosia, who enacted a role as postmaster general in her house.

“Mama!” said Penelope in protest.

Octavia handed her the note.

“Not very civil, to ask you as an afterthought, I cannot see why they are asking you in any case—oh, I suppose your husband was related to them, that will be it. A duty invitation, a small affair, you may be sure that will be the beginning and end of the attention you will get from them, all as proud as can be, those Darcys, although I do not know why they hold themselves so grand, when you think what those girls got up to …”

Penelope was listening with keen interest. “What was that, Mama?” she said.

“Never you mind; you won't hear from me about how they ran off with this man and that man. And the eldest girl married to a clergyman, you'd think Mr. Darcy would look higher than that for his daughter! I suppose you must accept, Octavia, you will find note paper in the little parlour, you may use that, and Suky can take it round for you.”

“I've been invited, too,” said Penelope.

Theodosia raised her brows and gave her daughter a quelling look. “I cannot imagine why they sent an invitation, we do not move in their circle. And we are otherwise engaged.”

“It is a pity,” said Penelope innocently. “For some friends of mine will be there, and Lord Rutherford is invited. He is a cousin of Mr. Wytton's, you know.”

“Lord Rutherford? Well, well, it is indeed a pity—however, you cannot go.”

But luck was on Penelope's side. The hostess of the party arranged for Vauxhall sent a note, desolate to have to cancel, stricken with a sore throat, no voice, the doctor had forbidden her to set foot outside the house …

Theodosia reluctantly agreed that Penelope might go to the Wyttons' party. “Since Octavia can accompany you …”

Penelope danced up the stairs beside Octavia. “She means that if you take me, she can invite some cronies round for cards, which is what she likes best. She plays very high, you know, it annoys Papa dreadfully, but he cannot stop her. Oh, what fun. Shall you wear the dress you wore the other night?”

“No, I have a new one sent home, and I shall wear that.” And she had to laugh at herself, aware that she wanted to show Lord Rutherford that she could look as elegant as any female in London—he had, after all, only seen her with her hair awry, her gown dishevelled, and sooty marks on her face.