The Second Mrs Darcy (20 page)

Octavia wondered about this; she had found that when people said they were certain you would like such-and-such a person, you usually found it was no such thing. So she set off for the Wyttons' house on the following Tuesday in a doubtful mood, quite ready to find Lady Susan not at all the kind of person she could live with. She had formed an idea of what Lady Susan Threlford would be like. A dramatic kind of a woman, she supposed, perhaps something of a tragedy queen, a Hamlet's mother, with a ringing voice and affected manners.

So nothing had prepared her for a rather plain woman with a humorous mouth, expressive dark eyes, and a beautiful speaking voice. Far from being dramatic, she struck Octavia as being a restful person, although not in the least dull. She had a droll turn of wit, and, Octavia judged, a kind nature.

Camilla had invited Mr. Portal and Mrs. Rowan, and the numbers were made up by her brother-in-law, Mr. Barcombe, in London on business, who was staying with the Wyttons. He had heard, in Yorkshire, about her bestowal of the parliamentary seat upon Mr. Forsyte. “He will make a first-rate MP,” he said. “I am glad you defied the Party powerfuls, and insisted on your own candidate.”

“It has caused a good deal of talk,” said Mr. Wytton, helping Lady Susan to some beef and peas. “Lord Rutherford is reported to be very much annoyed.”

“What, did you defy Sholto?” said Lady Susan. “You brave creature, but I am glad to hear it, for of course he is used to having everything his own way, and it is very bad for him.”

“He is a cousin of yours, is he not?” said Mr. Barcombe.

“Oh, yes; everyone is a cousin of ours,” said Lady Susan. “But of course he is a London man, and wrapped up in the House and political intrigues; they say he is becoming quite a statesman, so none of
my family ever see anything of him, buried in Shropshire as they are. Besides, the Threlfords are Tories, they always have been, so they disapprove of Rutherford; you should hear my father's view on Metternich and the treaty!”

It was Lady Susan who broached the subject of her coming to live in Octavia's house, which she did in the easiest way. “Pray, do not feel under any obligation, because it is Camilla who made the plan. I shan't take the least offence if you feel it would not do.”

Octavia had already made up her mind. “If you would care to, I think it would be a very good arrangement,” she said.

Mr. Wytton raised his glass. “I drink to you, Mrs. Darcy. I like a woman to be decisive. I think you two will get on famously, and I dare say you will form a salon to which the whole of London will flock.”

“I do hope not,” said Octavia. “Only think of the bores who would be filling the drawing room.”

“No danger of that,” said Lady Susan. “My name is my protection, but the dullest part of London finds my life so far to be nothing short of scandalous, so we shall be spared their company, thank goodness.”

The next few weeks were as busy as any Octavia had ever known, and she wondered how she would have managed without Lady Susan, who stayed on in London, and went with her to warehouses, drapers, furniture makers, examining and choosing; a delight to Octavia, who revelled in being able to buy what she wanted, instead of what she could afford.

Theodosia was scathing, she had been in a huff ever since she realised that it was indeed Octavia's intention to move into her own house.

“You will set all London by the ears, although I do not suppose you care about that, you take a positive pleasure in going against the wishes of all those concerned for your well-being.”

Octavia might have retorted that she was not sure who such people might be, but was sure they did not include her sisters Theodosia or Augusta, nor her brother Arthur.

There was another reason for Theodosia's ill nature. Her sister Augusta was in triumph; her daughter Louisa had received a very eligible offer from a young viscount, everything perfect about him: breeding, fortune, appearance. It was aggravating for Theodosia that Penelope, “who has far more charm than Louisa, you must agree,” she said peevishly to Octavia, “has not had the hint of an offer.”

That was, Octavia suspected, because her niece cold-shouldered any young man who chose to make her the object of his attentions;
she had eyes for no one but Henry Poyntz. Theodosia could not see it; the young couple were circumspect in her presence, and careful at public functions, Penelope never dancing more than one dance with him, and having the good sense and self-control not to let her eyes wander in his direction or linger on his handsome person.

Octavia admired her for it, but felt sorry for her; it was bound to end in tears.

“Penelope is still very young,” she said to Theodosia, “barely eighteen, while Louisa is a good year her senior.”

“It was a mistake to bring Penelope out this year, I knew it would be. When the old King died in January, I knew it would not be a good season.”

Octavia dutifully attended her niece's betrothal party and found Louisa's affianced to be an ordinary young man, small and pale and colourless, looking diminished as he stood next to the buxom glowing beauty of Louisa Adderley. It was easy to see who would wear the breeches in that household, Octavia said to herself, although she was annoyed to hear that odious Snipe Woodhead utter much the same sentiments to a friend a few minutes later.

Octavia did not go about much in the circles favoured by her family, to Theodosia's further dismay. She had accompanied her sister, under pressure, to another political gathering, and had a taste of how it would be, now that the news of her fortune had got around. Theodosia played it down; uncertain of just what Octavia had inherited, she turned it off with talk of modest sums, a few jewels, Indian property not worth tuppence an acre.

Which meant she was considerably annoyed when Octavia chose to wear some of her great-aunt's jewels, nothing ostentatious, but they were diamonds of the finest water, which added a glow to her complexion; demanding stones for a young woman, but her height made her able to carry them off; that and a most elegant gown from Madame Lilly.

Lady Susan had been loud in her praise of this dressmaker, and wholly concurred with Octavia's plan to set her up in her own business in Old Bond Street.

“She will do very well, but mind you arrange to have the most advantageous terms from her for all your future gowns,” said Lady Susan.

Lady Susan had a good eye for clothes. She insisted that Octavia should buy hats from Mrs. Bell's establishment as well as Millicent's, and told her that her gloves must come from Paris, but parasols were best bought from English makers. “You will need several for the summer,” Lady Susan pronounced. “You cannot walk or drive out without you are carrying a parasol.”

At the reception, which was being given for a visiting dignitary, with Arthur much in evidence, Octavia found her situation was very different from that of her first London party a few weeks earlier. Now she had the great men of the moment brought up for an introduction, including Lord Liverpool, who gazed at her dispassionately, and Lord Castlereagh, with his soft mouth and long nose. It was a varied gathering, Whigs as much as Tories in evidence, and Octavia saw Lord Rutherford, in the company of a very beautiful woman with a decidedly fashionable air, deep in discussion with a portly gentleman with sleek black hair.

“The Russian ambassador,” a passing acquaintance whispered in her ear.

“And who is the woman with the animated countenance and the magnificent sapphires?”

“Oh, my dear, that is Lady Langton, Lord Rutherford's constant companion.”

“She is extremely handsome,” Octavia said, striving to conceal the instant dislike she had taken to Lady Langton.

That brought a sniff. “Handsome is as handsome does. Still, one has to admit that Lord Rutherford is as well able to look after himself as any man in London.”

Arthur was at her shoulder, frowning, drawing her away to make yet another introduction. “For it does not do for you to be standing around like this, you must mingle, you must not look as though you would rather be anywhere than here.”

There was a gallantry about many of the men, they were eyeing her
up, deliberating over exactly what she might be worth, and she was mortified to find herself looked over and summed up exactly as a prize racehorse might be. She had been used to that, when she did her season, although then she was far from being the centre of attention, or considered in any way a prize, but she liked it no more now, when she was considered a great catch, than she had then. Men flocked to be introduced, their mamas and sisters set out to make themselves agreeable; there was a predatory air to many of them, and Octavia was glad when her carriage was called, and she could make her escape.

“It was bound to happen,” said Lady Susan. “I shall write a poem about it, on the vanity of men, the resemblance of these gatherings to a raree-show, all display and gossip. I enjoy it, for my part, because I may stand aloof. No one suspects me of being on the lookout for a husband, and they are quite right, I am not.”

“Nor am I,” said Octavia. “What, hand over my fortune to one of those men who were ogling me this evening?”

“You are twenty-five, I am two and thirty, that is the difference. I am supposed to be at my last prayers, besides having a doubtful past. My name carries it off, but I rank very low in the matrimonial stakes. You, however, are now floating very high.”

“Well, I care little for the season. I find these parties dull, I shall accept no further invitations, except to private parties where I know I will be among friends.”

“Oh, friends may turn out to be the most dangerous of people,” said Lady Susan.

Octavia was longing to move into her own house at once, but it was not possible, would not be possible for some time. Plasterers and decorators had to finish their work, hangings and carpets and everything to fit out a house from top to bottom had to be made and delivered and put up or arranged. Mrs. Rowan had engaged a housekeeper, a bony woman with a long neck, a genteel but practical widow, relict of a poor curate, who was glad of the position. She at once took over much of the detailed work to be done on the house, and said that she would attend to the engaging of the rest of the female staff.

Theodosia, unwilling to oblige Octavia in anything, reluctantly agreed to release Alice, saying that she was a lazy girl that she'd been intending to turn off in any case; Octavia was welcome to her; it was all of a piece, stealing her servants from under her very nose; Octavia would soon find herself with a house full of idle servants, not attending to their duties and eating her out of house and home.

The weather was warm, and London was emptying of company as the season drew to a close. The Wyttons went down to their house in Shillingford. They invited Octavia to stay with them at Shillingford Abbey, but she declined. “I do not greatly care for country life, as Camilla knows. I may perhaps go to the seaside, I should enjoy that.”

So, with Mrs. Reeves in full command in Firth Street, Octavia and Lady Susan set off for the four-hour drive to Brighton, where Lady Susan's contacts had procured for them a pretty little house to lodge in, not on the Steyne, but a little way further along the front.

Octavia had never been to Brighton, and she loved it from the first, relishing the sparkling sea, the salty air, the vast throng of fashionable people parading up and down, the sea bathing with the ladies in the careful hands of the dippers, leisurely hours spent in the libraries looking at new books and periodicals, drinking coffee, exchanging news with her growing acquaintance, some of whom, she felt, might actually like her for herself and not for the tens of of pounds she was known to have in the funds.

In the evening there were balls in the Assembly Rooms, much more easy-going than the kind of dances Theodosia had frequented in London. Octavia would never want for a partner, and since she loved to dance, she took the compliments and the more persistent advances of some of her suitors with a lightness of touch that amused her well-wishers.

“Lord, I do not know how you keep it up,” said Mrs. Rowan, who had taken a house in Brighton for the summer. She was yawning as they left the ballroom. “You danced every dance, are not your feet quite wore out?”

“I like the exercise,” said Octavia, and that was true, just as she liked her early morning rides out of Brighton when she went up on to
the downs to have a good gallop. The quiet strolls along the front, which were considered more than adequate exercise for young women, were not enough for her, and she found that she was being laughed at for taking vigorous strides instead of neat little steps, and for her habit of riding before the fashionables were up.

Unkind wags were heard to say that she and Lady Susan would make a fine couple, which made Lady Susan laugh. “When men are scared of a woman, they always accuse her of being mannish, pay no attention.”

Lady Susan had set up a flirt of her own, a dashing hussar with fine side whiskers, lively company. “He makes me laugh, and I like a strong arm to lean on when I go for a walk.”

Octavia did not envy Lady Susan's conquest; she hadn't met a man who could touch her heart, she told herself, and she had to confess, in the dark watches of the night, when the sound of the sea on the gravel beach should have shushed her to sleep, that fond as she had been of Christopher, it had really not been a love match, at least not on her part. She never had been in love; perhaps she was one of those people who was too level-headed ever to lose his or her heart.

People talked a lot about the first Mrs. Darcy; she was the great love of Christopher Darcy's life, they said, look how grief-stricken he was when she died, he could never care so deeply for any other woman after that.

Octavia found that these remarks bothered her more than they should. They brought back the feelings of inadequacy which she had hoped she had left behind her, the time when any mention of the dazzling first Mrs. Darcy carried a message that the second Mrs. Darcy was a second-best wife. A second-best daughter, a second-best wife, and therefore, by implication, a second-best person.

She envied Penelope her attachment to Henry Poyntz. Penelope had no doubts about herself or the place she held in Mr. Poyntz's affections. She had contrived to be in Brighton while her parents were gone to Melbury, staying as the guest of Lord and Lady Barchester, whose daughter Sarah was Penelope's age and her particular friend. Octavia had seen her niece and Mr. Poyntz on more than one
occasion, walking together in quiet parts of town, where they might not be noticed.

Penelope was not such an intrepid horsewoman as her aunt, but when she heard of Octavia's morning rides, she begged to be allowed to join her. The stables had a suitable hack; and Penelope's riding habit was sent down from London. “I shall have to face Mama when she returns from Melbury and learns I have been riding in Brighton,” said Penelope.

“Are not you allowed to ride? You ride sometimes in London.”

“Only a gentle outing in the park.”

“Your mama is concerned for your safety, she fears you may have a fall.”

“No, she considers that riding at more than an amble is too exhilarating to the spirits, and not appropriate for a young woman. When I am married, she says, I may ride out if I wish, although she also says that it will be at the discretion of my husband. Mama is Gothic and old-fashioned in some of her views,” she added dispiritedly, “and it is not as though Papa laid down the law for her, she never pays any attention to him; why should she suppose that my marriage will be any different?”

She saw the expression on Octavia's face. “Oh, you are thinking it is very wrong of me to criticise Mama, but she seems bent on making my life as difficult as possible. Besides, I do not want to have a husband that— Well, never mind. What time shall I be ready for our ride?”

She was prompt the next morning, running down the stairs of the Barchesters' house as soon as she heard the clip-clop of hooves outside the door. Octavia was mounted on the raking chestnut she always rode, and the groom was leading a pretty mare, the horse which Octavia, in consultation with the stables, had chosen as being the right ride for her niece.

The groom held his hands for Penelope to mount, and she bounced into the saddle, arranging her long skirts, and settling herself on the high pommel. They rode off, heading for the broad uplands behind the town where Octavia usually rode, although she
knew she would have to forego her gallop this morning. A canter would be all that she would allow Penelope. She was surprised at this sudden enthusiasm for a ride, and suspected a motive.

Half an hour later, as they made their way along a broad grassy track, the motive came into sight. Two horsemen were cantering towards them: Mr. Poyntz on a neat grey, and with him, Lord Rutherford astride a black horse—it must be one of his own, Octavia thought instantly; no livery stable ever provided a horse like that.