The Second Mrs Darcy (2 page)

Octavia had gone overland to Calcutta, where a distant cousin had agreed to look after her and launch her into such society as existed in that crowded, noisy, lively city. He and his wife had turned out to be pleasant enough people, and, to Octavia's joy, Harriet Thurloe was a keen horsewoman, with whom she could go out riding every morning on the Maidan, before the scorching heat made any outdoor activity impossible.

And then a Royal Navy frigate had called at Calcutta, on an unscheduled visit for urgent repairs: spars broken, a mast sprung in a gale. A dance had swiftly been arranged for the naval officers, and Octavia had found herself partnered in the quadrille by a handsome man in his early forties, a Captain Darcy, who wasn't in command of the
Wentworth
moored at Howrah, but on his way out to his own commission.

They were eye to eye in height, and he was a grave man, but with a sense of humour that Octavia appreciated. A week after they had met, and a week before he was due to sail, he had proposed, and Octavia, liking him, if not swept off her feet, had accepted.

It had been the talk of the town: all the young ladies and their mothers or aunts or cousins had had their eye on Captain Darcy.

“He is very well connected,” Harriet had said. “Of an excellent family. The Darcys are very rich; his cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy, is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, you know.”

“Christopher Darcy has a neat estate in Wiltshire,” Mr. Thurloe added.

“He is a widower,” Harriet told Octavia. “His first wife was a great beauty, and the granddaughter of an earl. He was heartbroken when she died. It was an accident of some kind, I seem to remember, her horse bolted, and she was thrown. Or did her carriage overturn? I can't exactly remember. That was five years or so ago, and people said he was so grief-stricken he would never marry again. However, once a man has had a wife, I find he likes to have another, so I'm not surprised that he wishes to marry again. Although …”

She didn't finish the sentence, but Octavia knew what she was thinking. Why should a well-bred, well-off man, formerly married to the descendant of earls, pick Octavia for his second wife?

Captain Darcy told her why. “You laugh a lot,” he said, after giving her an affectionate kiss. “You have a smile on your lips, and your eyes dance. We naval men have a hard time of it at sea, and it will be a joy to come home to a warm smile and laughter.”

In the brief time they had together, it had been a happy marriage. He wanted a son, he made no bones about that, but he was kind and considerate when she lost a child early on, more concerned for her than for the loss of his hopes. “It's difficult in this climate,” he said, having decided to leave her in Calcutta with Harriet while he was on his commission. “Plenty of time yet.”

Only he hadn't had time. A keen botanist, he had taken the opportunity on his next visit to Calcutta to go up country with a naval friend. There, he had been bitten by an insect, a poisonous insect, and had, so the stricken lieutenant reported on his return to Calcutta, died soon afterwards.

Lady Brierley rose to take her leave. “You must take care of yourself, my dear, and if there is anything we can do—the Admiral was an old friend of Captain Darcy, as you know; they served together in the war on several occasions, and we in the service do not forget the families of our fellow officers.”

Octavia was touched by her kindness, and indeed by the kindness of her cousins, the Thurloes, who had taken her back into their household and were concerned for her future.

“It is all round Calcutta,” Harriet exclaimed, when she came in from a drive out to Tollygunge.

“What is?” said Octavia, helping her cousin with the ribbons of her straw hat. “You have just missed Lady Brierley.”

“No doubt calling to find out if it is true that you are penniless, thanks to that dreadful entail! To think of George Warren inheriting!”

“Not quite penniless.”

“As good as.”

The Thurloes returned to the subject of Octavia's fortune that
evening at dinner. Octavia, feeling hot in her black dress, although it was made of muslin, fanned herself vigorously. She wished that the
punkah wallah
, sitting peacefully in his corner and working the overhead fan by means of a string attached at one end to his big toe and at the other, via some pulleys, to the centre of the revolving wings, were more energetic in his task.

Although why should he be? It was one of the unexpected pleasures of India, she had found: the contrast between the cool mornings, the time for brisk exercise, for riding and for clear thinking, and the languorous heat of the day, giving way to the ease of the evening.

The weather was cooler now, in September, with the hot season and the rains over; the monsoon had come late that year, meaning that the baking sultry days of the early summer months had seemed to go on for ever, finally breaking in a stupendous thunderstorm which sent sheets of water on to the dusty streets, transformed in a flash into foaming streams and even rivers, causing many of the inhabitants to be virtual prisoners in their houses until the floods subsided, leaving a muddy, stinking detritus beneath still-brooding skies.

Octavia loved the drama of the weather, she loved the energy and vitality of a city thronged with people, mostly desperately impoverished, but still loud with talk and colour and life. How dull distant England seemed, although she knew that the Thurloes were endlessly homesick for green fields and hedges, for villages with church spires, for the mists of autumn mornings when the huntsman's horn rang out over the fields.

“Or London, how much I envy you returning to London!” said Harriet. “And you will be pleased to see your brothers and sisters again,” she added, without conviction, having a very good notion of just how pleased they would be to have Octavia turning up on their doorstep again.

“It is such a pity that Darcy's heir should turn out to be George Warren,” Robert Thurloe said, not for the first time, as he ate a mango and then dipped his fingers into the water bowl. “No one, except his mother and the Prince Regent, with whom he is on very good terms, one understands, has a good word to say for the fellow.
My advice, Octavia, if you decide to return to England, is to write to Mr. Darcy, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire. He is not a close connection of your late husband's, but he is a man of considerable wealth and influence. He has a fine estate, and has done very well out of mineral rights, I understand. He may be able to advise you as to the best course with regard to approaching George Warren.”

Octavia had no intention of contacting any of her Darcy connections, however rich and influential. She suspected that their reaction to the arrival of an impecunious widow, even one bearing their name, would be much the same as that of her own family. They would compare her unfavourably with that paragon of breeding and beauty, the rich, aristocratic first Mrs. Darcy, whose memory had haunted her marriage. And from all she had heard of George Warren, the chances of his providing for her in any way seemed remote; he was not that kind of a man.

The lawyer in Calcutta who had laid out for her just how Captain Darcy's affairs were arranged had expressed his own doubts about Mr. Warren in no uncertain terms. Mr. Dyer was a small man with round, red cheeks, which he blew out in a disparaging way when the subject of George Warren came up. “Mr. Warren has a reputation for doing nothing which is not of immediate benefit to himself. You must make the attempt, of course, I would not advise otherwise, but you should not hang any great hopes on a favourable outcome.”

Well, she, Octavia, wasn't going to go cap in hand to any George Warren. She would ask Christopher's lawyers in London to write to him, and if, as she expected, the answer was a flat refusal, then she would take it no further.

“Have you made up your mind when you will return to London?” Harriet enquired, as she and Octavia left the table and went to sit on the verandah.

Octavia listened to the sounds of an Indian night, the yelps and yowls of the pi dogs, the unearthly howls of the hyenas, a baby in a neighbouring house crying, then being hushed, the hoot of an owl, that harbinger of doom, according to the Indian servants, although Octavia liked those big birds of the night, with their huge, unblinking
eyes and feathered wings. She didn't care so much for the bats, visible against the last trails of yellow left from the abrupt tropical sunset, squeaking and flitting to and fro. And the frogs had started up in their steady nighttime chorus.

How she would miss it all; how would she cope with life in Cheltenham or Bath, or whatever genteel town her tiny income would take her to?

“The
Sir John Rokesby
sails on the twenty-fifth, and I dare say you could get a cabin. Oh, how I envy you, how I wish we were going back to England.”

Harriet's plump face looked quite distressed, and Octavia leant over to pat her hand. “Well, you will be returning in two years, will you not?”

“Two years! Two more years of this, I do not know how I will bear it.”

“You could return sooner.”

“And leave Robert on his own? That would be unkind, unchristian, unwifely. And besides,” she added wisely, “it is never a good idea to leave one's husband on his own in such a place, there are temptations, and I have seen it all too often, the handkerchief waved at a departing wife, and within hours the desolate husband has found comfort in a pair of willing arms. For the women here are uncommonly beautiful, and Robert is no different from any other man in that. No, I must serve my time out, but you—I cannot imagine why you hesitate. Time has passed, you know, I dare say you will find yourself on better terms with your family than you imagine; it is different, being a married woman—that is to say, a widow, but it is not the same as when you were a girl.”

Better terms? Well, she could hope so, but she had a strong suspicion that none of her family would be pleased to see her. Had she been a rich widow, the case might be different, but she knew they would be annoyed by her circumstances.

“A caller, at this hour?” said Harriet.

She and Octavia had just returned from their morning ride, and were still in their riding habits.

“Tell him to return later,” Harriet said to the bearer.

The bearer looked grave. “It is a lawyer sahib, for Mrs. Darcy. Upon an urgent matter.”

“Oh, well, in that case.”

“Mr. Dyer?” said Octavia. “What can he want that is urgent? Ask him to come in, Chunilal.”

But it was not Mr. Dyer who came into the room. This was a stranger, a perspiring, red-haired, red-faced young man, freckled and hot.

“Beg pardon, ma'am, for calling so unconscionably early in the day,” he said. “However, this news has just reached us, it came overland, you know, and London never sends overland unless it's urgent. I thought you might be out later on, so I took the liberty of calling early. If it is inconvenient, I shall return later, at any hour you care to name; however, I believe you will wish to hear what I have to say.”

Octavia was intrigued. Overland from London? “I assume it is to do with the estate of my late husband, Captain Darcy.”

“Late husband …? Captain Darcy? Oh, no, not at all, nothing to do with Captain Darcy.”

“Are you not a colleague of Mr. Dyer, who handled my husband's affairs here in Calcutta?”

“No, not at all, nothing to do with Mr. Dyer, I know him, of course, it is a small world, but this is an entirely separate matter.”

“Well, then,” said Octavia, gesturing to the harassed-looking young man to take a seat. “What has it to do with, Mr….?”

“Oh, Lord, I never introduced myself, and I do not think your servant caught my name. I am Mr. Gurney, Josiah Gurney.”

Mr. Gurney had a sheaf of papers with him, and he began to sort through them in a hasty way. “Yes,” he said. “Now, your mother was Susannah Worthington before her marriage, is that correct?”

“My mother?” Octavia was nonplussed. Her mother, the woman she had never known, who had died when she was born? What had she to do with anything, let alone urgent missives from London?

“Daughter of the late Mr. Digby Worthington, of Yorkshire? Who was your grandfather?”

“Yes, he was my grandfather.”

“And you have papers to prove it, I suppose.”

“I have some papers—but what is all this, Mr. Gurney? You are nothing short of mystifying, and I do not see what my mother's family nor my grandfather can have to do with anything here in Calcutta.”

“Ah, what it has to do with is you, Mrs. Darcy. You were the only child of the late Lady Melbury, she was the second Mrs. Melbury, I think?”

“Yes.”

“And she was an only child, she had no brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

“Exactly so. That is exactly the case as stated here.”

Octavia didn't know whether to laugh at this absurd parade of paper shuffling and the air of suppressed importance evident in Mr. Gurney's freckled face, or whether to ring the bell for the bearer to escort him out. She decided on a compromise. “It is growing warmer and you have had a hot journey, I think. Allow me to call for refreshments.”

The bearer arrived with tall glasses of
nimbu pani
, a refreshing drink made with fresh limes and sugar. Mr. Gurney mopped his brow with a large spotted handkerchief.

“I am afraid I am not making myself clear, but I am obliged to ascertain the facts, to make sure that everything is as is stated in these papers from London. It has all taken a deal of time, but with her passing away in India and her lawyers in London, it doesn't make for easy communication.”

“What are these papers you mention? Who has passed away?”

Mr. Gurney looked surprised. “Did I not say? I refer to the estate of the late Mrs. Anne Worthington, who died, I regret to say, some months ago. In Darjeeling. She lived in England, had done so since she became a widow, but she had made the trip to India to visit her tea plantations.” His cheerful face assumed a look of sudden gravity, then he brightened. “She was, however, a very old lady, well into her eighties, a remarkable age, you will agree.”

“And a redoubtable woman, to be making the journey to India at that age. But there is some mistake,” said Octavia calmly. “I'm not related to this Mrs. Worthington. There is obviously some confusion because the name is the same as my mother's. My grandfather was Mr. Digby Worthington, as we have agreed, but his wife, my grandmother, was an Amelia Worthington, who died many, many years ago. I have no other Worthington relations; my grandfather was an only son.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Gurney. “Not so, Mrs. Darcy, not so. If you are unacquainted with the fact that your grandfather had a younger brother, then I can understand your confusion.”

“A younger brother?” said Octavia; this really did startle her. “You are mistaken, I would have known about it had such a person existed.”

“Would you? He was, perhaps, something of a black sheep, a ne'er-do-well, in the eyes of his family, and when he left the shores of England never to return … Such people often drop from memory, and I believe that your grandfather died before you were born. Exactly so. Your mother, sadly, died when you were born, and as you
yourself said, you have no other Worthington relatives, so how should you be aware of the existence of this other brother, who left England so many years ago?”

“I still find it impossible that there could be any such person.”

“Ah, you find it hard to believe, but I assure you, Mrs. Darcy, the papers are all in order, there is no question about it. I represent a firm of lawyers in London, Wilkinson and Winter, a firm of the very highest repute, anyone will vouch for them. If they say a thing is so, with regard, that is, to wills and ancestors and descendants and so forth—then you may take it that they are right. And since this is no mere trifling legacy at stake, they will have been most particularly careful to ascertain—in short, you can take it that you had such a great-uncle, that his widow was Mrs. Anne Worthington, of Leeds in Yorkshire, who recently left this mortal round.”

“Yes, very well, I believe you, but what has it to do with me? I never knew Mrs. Worthington; as I did not know of her existence, I scarcely could have known her. I am sorry to hear of her death, but it hardly seems an urgent matter. Has she no other living family? I assume there is some problem to do with her estate, and you seem to think that I may be able to assist you in some way, but you have come to the wrong person, I cannot help you at all.”

“No, no, I do not ask for your help, except in the matter, the pure formality, of my needing to see that you are indeed who you are. No, I have the honour of being the bearer of what I am sure you will find good tidings, for Mrs. Worthington names you in her will as her sole heir; you inherit everything she owns.”

“But I am no blood relation of hers! She never knew me, how can this be?”

“She had no family of her own, you are her husband's closest living relation, and since her fortune came to her from him, on his death, it is quite right and proper that it should come to you.”

Octavia's head was in a whirl. She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again. No, she wasn't dreaming. She was sitting here, with this strange young man, in Harriet Thurloe's large drawing room, with its double doors leading on to the verandah
beyond. There, outside, just whisking out of sight was Ferdie, the mongoose, encouraged to live in the garden as a deterrent to and scourge of snakes … She pulled herself together. “Precisely what, Mr. Gurney, do I inherit from this supposed great-aunt of mine?”

Mr. Gurney looked alarmed. “As to precisely, that is something I can't say. These are confidential matters, and the overland route, although swifter than the sea journey, is fraught with potential hazards. I merely have the information I have given you. However, I think I may say that it will be a substantial inheritance, Mrs. Worthington had property in India, and …”

“Tell me, how came she to have property in India?”

“Did I not explain? Mr. Worthington made his fortune in India, so I am informed. He was a nabob, as we say, and he never returned to England once he had quit the country of his birth, when he was a young man of twenty or so. He was sent out to India by his family. He met his wife here, and they lived in Darjeeling. After her husband's death, Mrs. Worthington returned to England. To the north of England; there is, I understand, a property in the north of England, in Yorkshire. Again, I have no details.”

Octavia could hardly believe her ears. A house? Yorkshire was the county where her third half sister Drusilla resided, but it was a large county, there was no likelihood of her having been a neighbour of the late Mrs. Worthington's. Not that, from the sound of it, her great-aunt would have been the kind of person that Drusilla would call upon.

“In the circumstances,” said Mr. Gurney, frowning, “of course, I do not know what your plans are, but I would urge you to consider returning to England as soon as it can be arranged. There is a vessel, an East Indiaman, the
Sir John Rokesby
, which is due to sail; it might be difficult to obtain a passage at this late stage, but if it were possible, I most strongly advise you to make the voyage to England. You need to consult with our firm in London, that will be much the best thing for you to do.”

“My cousin, Mr. Thurloe, is with the Company. I think there would be no problem with obtaining a berth. I was contemplating going back to England in any case, it was only the expense—”

“Oh, Mrs. Darcy, expense is no consideration at all. I am empowered—directed, I should say—to make available to you whatever sums you might need to defray the expenses of the journey—of any expenses you might incur. You have only to name a sum; there is no problem with that, none at all.”

Octavia smiled, and Mr. Gurney blinked. The tall young woman suddenly looked years younger, not that she could be so very old, and there was a colour in her cheeks; he had thought she looked sad and pale when he arrived, but now she was transformed.

“May I take it that you will go to London?” he asked, after several minutes' silence.

“Yes. If I could have some money, that would be …” She hesitated, fearful of asking too much. “Perhaps fifty pounds.”

“Fifty? Let us say a hundred, or more if you wish it. I assure you, you can draw on us for a much larger sum than that.”

“No, no thank you, I shall need very little on the voyage, and I should not like to carry too large a sum on my person.”

“Very wise, very wise. I shall send a clerk round with it this afternoon.”

He rose, perspiring more than ever; however did he manage in the really hot weather?

“One thing, Mr. Gurney, I would request of you.”

He looked enquiringly at her.

“Pray, can you keep the news of this inheritance to yourself? Calcutta is a small place, and until I have the details—well, I would prefer that no one knows about it.”

“Of course, of course. No, I am as capable of discretion as the next man, more so, for in my profession one has to keep mumchance, you know. No danger of this getting out, I assure you.”

He bowed himself out, the door closing behind him as Harriet, looking cool and neat in a pale green dress, came in through the other door.

“Was that Mr. Dyer? What did he want?”

“It was a colleague of his, some papers that needed attending to.”

“Is it something that Robert can help with?”

“Oh, no, it is nothing, nothing at all.”

Why didn't she want to tell Harriet, to spill out the good news that she knew would delight her friend? Was it caution, for after all, she had only Mr. Gurney's word that there was any substantial inheritance? The house in Yorkshire might be a tumbledown cottage, and the fortune in the end a few hundred pounds. Or the will might be disputed, some natural child of her great-uncle might appear to make a claim on the estate; her great-uncle must have been a wild young man to be packed off to India in such a fashion.

“Did you ever hear of a Mr. Worthington, Harriet? He lived in India, in Darjeeling, but died some years ago. He was survived by his wife.”

Harriet shook her head. “We have only been here for six years, you know. I do remember someone talking of a Mrs. Worthington, perhaps that was his widow. I believe she was very rich, and went back to England. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, merely that Mr. Gurney wanted to know if I had been acquainted with either of the Worthingtons.”

“Her money came from tea, I seem to remember.”

Before Harriet could ask any more questions, Octavia told her that she had decided to go back to England on the
Sir John Rokesby
. “If Mr. Thurloe can arrange it for me.”

“My dear, of course he can. How I shall miss you! But it is for the best, I truly think so, you must go back before you lose your looks in this horrid climate, and then you may see if anything can be got out of Mr. Warren.” She paused. “I know you will accept nothing from us, but it did occur to Robert and me that perhaps the cost of your fare was a concern to you. We should be so happy if—”

“No, no, it is not a consideration, I have the money for that and a little more besides. Which reminds me, I shall need some clothes, some half-mourning for when I arrive back in England. Will you please send a servant to Madame Duhamel for me?”

Madame Duhamel was a Frenchwoman who had come to Calcutta with her husband, only to be left a widow when he was carried off by the cholera. She had set to making her own living, and
employed several local derseys to make up the fashionable clothes she designed. With good contacts in Paris, she had the fashion dolls and the plates only a few months behind the modistes in London; Octavia knew she would dress her in style.

“Madame Duhamel!” exclaimed Harriet. “She is wickedly expensive, you know.”