The Second Mrs Darcy (22 page)

The last, lingering shadows of the day were fading into twilight. Sholto Rutherford, driving back to London in his curricle after a day spent in Oxford, decided to make a stop at the Crown, to take some coffee. In half an hour or so, the full moon would be rising, and he could finish his journey by moonlight; he was a fast but not a reckless driver, and the semi-darkness of dusk was just the time when you could hurtle into who knew what obstacle, or miss the road in the dim light and cause an accident.

He had been in Oxford to visit the dean of his old college, a man rich in years and experience, an influential man in the Church. He had hoped to interest him in Poyntz, and persuade him to use some of his influence in that direction. He had dined in hall; the dons did themselves well at his ancient and rich college, very well indeed, and their cellars were famous for the port. Coffee would clear his head.

The Venerable Francis Wilbraham, who knew Poyntz from his college days, had listened to what Sholto had to say. He pursed his lips, joined the tips of his thin fingers together—the man was exactly like a spider, Rutherford thought, sitting there behind his desk, weaving webs, watching; an inhuman man, although one he liked, respected, and had, in earlier days, feared.

“Marry, eh?” said Wilbraham. “I am not a marrying man myself, but there are those who speak well of the state. Henry Poyntz wishes
to marry, you say, and therefore seeks advancement. He is the kind of man who can advance on his own merits, I believe. An able scholar, a likeable man, popular among his peers, I recollect.”

“I can give him the living at Meryton in due course, but a country parish …”

“Ah. For a man like Poyntz, there needs to be more than emoluments. Does he know you are paying me this visit?”

“No,” said Rutherford.

“Would he object?”

Rutherford shrugged. “He might, but if he wants to marry—”

“Marry, yes, marry,” Wilbraham repeated. “Time you thought of marrying, Rutherford. Poyntz will marry and produce a brood of clergyman's children, all to be provided for, a sore trial to any man; a celibate clergyman has a much easier time of it. But you, with an ancient title, large estates, a position in the world; you have to marry. You need a wife, a successful politician needs a wife.”

Rutherford raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Ah, you will say I sound like your mother, or your sister, or your aunts. The women are always pressing a single man to find him a wife.”

“My mother is not concerned as to my matrimonial status,” said Rutherford.

“Lady Rutherford … is an original. And your sister, Lady Sophronia, she is not married, either. Or is she? Living so out of the world, I don't keep up with all the
on dits
and gossip of town, as you Londoners do.”

Another raised eyebrow, this time accompanied by a wry smile. Living out of the world indeed; if ever there were a man in the thick of things, it was the dean.

“Sophronia is hard to please.”

“She'll die an old maid if she don't look out.”

“She is exactly my age, being my twin, as you know. She would consider herself well past the age of marrying; it is different for a woman.”

“Perhaps if you marry, then so will she. Or does she consider it her duty to spend her life looking after Lady Rutherford?”

“Hardly. But there are worse fates than spinsterhood. Such as being married to a disagreeable man, or a stupid one, or a bore—Sophronia would find all of those hard to bear.”

“Then she is a deal too fussy, since you describe the main part of the masculine sex.”

“It is, however, Poyntz's situation that I have come to Oxford to discuss with you.”

A wave of the dean's long, lanky arm and hand. “Oh, that, dear boy. I'll do what I can. It's no hardship. Is he as handsome as ever?”

“Most women would call him a fine-looking man, I believe.”

“Ah,” said the dean with a long sigh. And then, “Find yourself a wife, Rutherford. And soon. You will be the happier for it, there comes a time when a man needs more than a mistress, however desirable and beautiful. Of course, the wife does not preclude the mistress, no wife of a man in your position, no woman of breeding, that is, would do other than turn a blind eye to a mistress or two, it is the natural order of things. But you need a wife, and to be setting up your nursery.”

What an immoral old devil Wilbraham was. Sholto jumped down from the curricle, handing the reins to the groom who had come running out to attend to him.

“You have dined, my lord?” said Mr. Sandham, the landlord of the Crown, an old acquaintance of Rutherford's. “A glass of wine, port, brandy, I have a fine French brandy.”

“Smuggled, I dare say,” said Rutherford. “Coffee will do. Hot and strong.”

“Go into the little parlour, my lord, and I will bring it to you directly. There is no one in there, you will have it to yourself, I will see that you are not disturbed.”

Rutherford wasn't bothered about being disturbed, he didn't care whether he brushed shoulders with his fellow men or not. But he went into the little parlour and flung himself down on one of the stiffly upholstered chairs, feeling a vague sense of dissatisfaction.

The dissatisfaction was caused, as he knew, by old Wilbraham.
Damn him for harping on about wives; he was losing his touch, it was a very sentimental view for so cynical and worldly a man.

The parlour was empty, but through the partition which separated the room from another small parlour, a less-favoured room, came the clear sound of voices.

Who the devil was it? He knew that voice. Warren, George Warren. What was he doing out here at this time of night? Not his usual patch; he was a man for the more seedy side of London life, unless he had ventured out of town for a prize-fight, but there was nothing of the kind taking place, not that Sholto had heard of.

Rutherford was far from being any kind of an eavesdropper, and having identified one of the speakers—the other was unfamiliar, he did not recognise the voice at all—he dismissed Warren and his companion from his mind.

Coffee was brought, hot, strong coffee. As he began to drink it, the voices next door grew louder, and he heard a name that made him put his coffee down and listen. Mrs. Darcy, he had definitely heard Mrs. Darcy mentioned. There were several Mrs. Darcys, and Rutherford knew that Warren had little love for any of them. He listened more attentively.

They were talking now about India, the navy, a journey up country. In that case, the Mrs. Darcy under discussion was the rich widow, Christopher Darcy's second wife. Rutherford considered. Warren had been Christopher Darcy's heir, an inheritance that had left Mrs. Darcy almost penniless, and Warren, in his usual graceless way, had refused to make any restitution, no annuity, no capital sum. And now, so he had heard, Warren had discovered that the estate he had inherited was grossly encumbered, that Dalcombe needed money spent on it rather than his being able to draw a comfortable income from it as he had hoped. That was due to the recklessness of the first Mrs. Darcy's gambling.

That was what a wife could do to you.

And then the second Mrs. Darcy had inherited a nabob's fortune, from her mother's family, merchants or shopkeepers; he hadn't paid a great deal of attention as rumours and counter-rumours had flown
around London, finally settling down to the indisputable fact that there was a great Indian fortune, made even more handsome by the addition of jewels and an estate in Yorkshire.

Lord Rutherford had taken a sardonic pleasure in seeing the attitude of London society change overnight towards the formerly ignored and despised widow, whose outlook had been so bleak: another marriage, if she were lucky; very lucky, for she was not precisely a cosy armful. In Sholto's opinion, anyone who took on the second Mrs. Darcy would need to have his wits about him, a marriage to such a woman would keep any man on his toes, no bed of roses there. Not even the large fortune would make her an easy helpmeet, although that much money must make a quick tongue and more independence of mind than was right for a woman rather more palatable.

It irked him, this brief contact with Warren. Warren was a man he disliked and mistrusted, a Tory, but a Tory without integrity, the worst kind of a Tory. He would be interested to know who the other man was, and hearing the men open their door, he strolled out of the parlour, not calling yet for his carriage, but moving with quiet speed to observe without being noticed himself. He kept to the shadows and caught a glimpse of the man's face as a stable hand held a torch aloft. A fair young man, no one he knew; there was a look of nervousness about him. Warren was up to something, no question about it.

It was no affair of his, he told himself; neither Warren nor Mrs. Darcy were any part of his life. He climbed into the driver's seat of his curricle, took up the reins, felt his horses' mouths, told the groom to stand clear, and was briskly away, back on the London road.

Octavia's days were full. She was making new friends, finding herself happiest among the numerous circle of Henrietta Rowan and Mr. Portal's friends; clever men and women who led interesting lives and talked about books and paintings and music and travel, as well as politics, a circle far removed from the generally stuffy set of her sisters and brother, which was all the people she had formerly known in London.

Her life was hardly a round of pleasure, though. She had to spend a great deal of time managing her affairs, and she began to despair of ever mastering the details of her inheritance. “My great-aunt must have been a remarkable woman,” she said to Lady Susan as she sat at her desk, surrounded by papers and figures. “I find I am woefully ignorant about tea. I have never seen a tea plant, I can barely distinguish between one tea and another when I drink it, let alone make any sense of it in its original state.” She took up a sheet of paper. “I am constantly asked to make decisions, to sign this or that, and yet Mr. Portal and Mr. Wilkinson are both definite that I must sign nothing unless I understand it.”

“You are lucky that they are such capable, honest men. Of course, you could always eat humble pie, and ask for Mr. Melbury's help.”

Octavia sighed and returned to her figures.

“You could make an expedition to India,” suggested Lady Susan,
“to visit the tea plantations; were you to spend some time there, you would have a far firmer grasp of the business.”

Octavia had dreamed of going back to India, but now she found the idea of it held no charm for her. “At some time in the future, perhaps,” she said with a sigh. She didn't care to examine too deeply why she had no inclination to leave England at present, telling herself that she needed to get settled, there was still a lot to do in the house. Tomorrow she would go to Broadwood's and have a look at the instruments on sale, she had promised herself a pianoforte. Her mind drifted into a reverie, until Lady Susan told her sharply that if she did not attend to what she was doing, she would incur the wrath of her lawyer.

Lady Susan took Octavia to the House of Lords, to watch some of the proceedings against the Queen, which were still going on. There in the lofty red chamber, they saw the Queen dozing in her seat.

“She doesn't seem greatly concerned,” said Octavia.

“No, the trial will last for months, I dare say, there is no point in her getting het up. Did you hear Lord Holland's quip?

Octavia was still laughing at this when they put their heads into the House of Commons, which sat in St. Stephen's Chapel. She was amazed at how small it was. “They must be very cramped in here.”

“Oh, there is rarely a full house, only for an important debate. Members mostly stay in the country or are away at sea or serving abroad, if they are naval or military men. It smells dreadful when it is full, with the oil lamps, and so many men crammed in where there is not room for the half of them, and then there is a lot of animal excitement. The Lords are more stately, but there you do not find the same vehemence and savagery. Although Parliament is dull these days; my uncle, who has been an MP since he was nineteen, speaks longingly of the days of Pitt and Fox, and Lord Grey thundering in the upper House. But we were at war in those times, and the atmosphere was quite different, war lends an urgency to a nation's affairs.”

“Who is that woman in the elegant green dress?” Octavia asked as they walked through the lobby.

“That is Lady Framlingham. One of the great Whig ladies, her salon is the meeting place of all the important Whigs. I shall take you there one day, you will like it. Make no mistake,” she said, as they were in the carriage and on their way back to Firth Street, “the Tories may have the majority in the House, but the real work is done in the drawing rooms and dining rooms of London, and it is there that the Whigs rule supreme. They have brains and influence, and you can never underestimate the effect of those.”

They returned to Firth Street to receive happy news from Shillingford, announcing the birth of a child to the Wyttons; Camilla had been safely delivered of a daughter with whom the parents were duly besotted, so the new mama wrote in a joyful letter to her friends. The Wytton family returned to town soon afterwards, and Octavia was summoned to their house to admire the many virtues of the infant Hermione Elizabeth, a plump, rosy baby, of whom her doting father said gloomily that he already saw the gleam of authority in her infant eye.

November brought its customary fogs and damp, windy weather that made Lady Susan cough and declare how much she hated the English climate. “There is nowhere you can go,” she said. “The country is worse, far worse, than any town, everything drips, and chimneys smoke, and one is never, ever warm.”

“Well, at least you are warm here,” said Octavia, “with all the fires drawing well, and thick curtains to keep out the worst of the draughts, although we are not at all draughty. I must say that Mr. Dance has an eye for the details as well as the appearance of a house.”

Octavia was in her riding habit, and Lady Susan shook her head at her. “It isn't wise to go out on such a raw day.”

“I feel uncomfortable if I am indoors all day. I shall have a short ride, to get rid of the fidgets, and then I shall stay in and enjoy being so snug.”

“Mr. Dance is to build the new Chauntry, did you hear that?” said Lady Susan, taking up her embroidery frame, and then setting it aside. “I had it from Poyntz, it is all decided, the work clearing the old house is all finished, and the plans are being drawn even as we speak.”

“I hope Lord Rutherford is not going to erect a Gothic palace, but I am sure he has too much sense to do that.”

“And taste; he has a good eye, Sholto Rutherford, for a house, a picture, a horse. Not for a woman, though. I do wish he'd get rid of
that dreadful Kitty Langton, I can't bear the woman. She is grown even more careful of him, now that poor Philip Effingham is ailing.”

Octavia frowned. Philip Effingham? Who was he? Ailing? And what had it to do with Rutherford and Lady Langton?

“Of course you wouldn't know,” said Lady Susan. She gave a prodigious yawn. “Oh, how dull I feel this morning. It is terrible being shut up indoors all day.”

“If you go out before the fog lifts, your cough will be twice as bad.”

“I know, but why doesn't anyone call on us?”

“They, too, want to avoid a cough. Tell me about this Philip Effingham.”

“It is an old scandal. Lord Rutherford was engaged to Eliza Hawtrey, this was years and years ago, in his salad days. He was head over heels in love with her, and she was quite exquisite. But a week before their wedding day, poor Sholto received a letter from her saying that she was ending the engagement, and was off to marry this Philip Effingham. Who was, incidentally, going to have been groomsman to Rutherford.”

“Good gracious,” said Octavia, feeling a quite unreasonable surge of dislike for the unknown Eliza Hawtrey. “Why?”

“It seemed that while Sholto was so much in love with her, she was all the time desperately in love with Philip. But Rutherford was by far the better match, no comparison; Philip has a comfortable income, but nothing more, it couldn't compare with the title and castle and all the rest of it. I think, deep down, Eliza was afraid of Sholto, and knew she wasn't up to his weight.”

“For heaven's sake, Susan, the woman isn't a horse!”

“If men chose their wives with as much care and attention as they do their horses, there would be fewer unhappy marriages. So, no wedding. Sholto was left looking the fool—which of course no man can bear, let alone a man like Rutherford, he is very proud, you know—and the Effinghams went off to the Peninsula.”

Octavia was puzzled for a moment, then realised what Susan was talking about. “The war, you mean; Mr. Effingham was a soldier.”

“Yes, but it didn't answer for Eliza, she hated being with the army; you have to be a particular kind of woman to accompany your husband on campaigns abroad, to follow the drum, and she liked her creature comforts too well. Within a few months she was bitterly regretting that she had made that fateful decision, and she came back to England, full of woe, and complaining to anyone who would listen what a bad husband Philip was.”

“Was he?”

“No. He was a good soldier, and a gallant one, and he had to have his mind on his job, he couldn't be dancing attention on a demanding Eliza day and night.”

“Of course not.”

“I have a suspicion that she tried to resume her friendship with Sholto Rutherford, her amorous friendship, that is; she wanted a divorce, so it was said, but she had picked the wrong man to jilt, and Sholto, who was still very hurt, I think, would have none of it. They wouldn't have suited at all, in my opinion, and Rutherford was well out of it, but then he never married, and so people said he was carrying a candle for her all these years.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Octavia, with a good deal of feeling, which made Lady Susan give her a swift, appraising glance.

“I have no patience with all these heartrending tales of lost love,” Octavia went on. “It is nothing but fancy.”

“She may have caused him to become rather cynical where the opposite sex are concerned.”

“I dare say his mother might have done that, should he look closer to home,” said Octavia.

“I like Lady Rutherford. She was the greatest beauty of her generation; my papa told me that all the men were in love with her when she was a girl. She was an heiress, impeccably well bred and carefully brought up; how could old Lord Rutherford have had any idea that his lovely, dutiful wife would turn into such a wily, eccentric person?”

“Surely the eccentricity only came with age.”

“Not a bit of it; the minute she was away from her oppressive parents, her true nature unfolded, and she became much what she is now.
I find her delightful, but I know she irritates and upsets most of her acquaintance. She is really very odd. She drives Rutherford to distraction, and yet I believe he is more fond of her than he shows. I think he is rather exasperated than irritated by her whimsical ways. They make life very difficult for him, and he is worried about Lady Sophronia, that she is dwindling into an old maid, dancing attendance on her mother, and perhaps becoming equally eccentric. It is a pity she never married, but she is hard to please, as hard as Rutherford is.”

Octavia went out into the grey cold world. She hadn't yet bought a horse; Mr. Wytton had had other calls on his attention, and though any of her male admirers would have leapt to her service, she had no wish to encourage them, nor would she have trusted most of them to find her the kind of horse she wanted.

Instead, she rode a horse from a livery stable, not one of the tired hacks they hired out, but one of a handful they kept for more favoured riders, who were mostly gentlemen up from the country and wanting a good horse while in London.

It wasn't far to the park. She and the attendant groom picked their way through the traffic, moving quite slowly on such a foggy day. When she got to the park, it was quiet and eerie, like riding through cobwebs. Perhaps Lady Susan was right, and she had better have stayed at home; however, her horse was fresh, and snatching at the bit to be off. A brisk canter soon improved her spirits and warmed her up.

The figure of another rider appeared in the distance and Octavia knew it at once for Lord Rutherford. He trotted up to her, sweeping off his hat and bowing over the pommel of his saddle.

“That is a very pretty mare you are riding,” she said, looking with admiration at the spirited chestnut with her dished nose, small, attentive ears, and elegant tail held high and to one side. “She is too small for you, however.”

“She is an Arabian, of my mother's breeding. I have brought her because she needs exercise and I wanted to try her. This is a most fortunate meeting, Mrs. Darcy, for I hear from Lady Susan that you are on the lookout for a horse.”

“Mr. Wytton is going to find me one.”

“He is a good judge of a horse, but I doubt if he will find you better than this one.”

“That one! Is she for sale?”

“In the ordinary way, no, for Lady Rutherford is attached to all her horses and will only let them go to people she approves of.”

“Why should she approve of me? She hardly knows me.”

“She has a kindness for you, for helping to rescue both books and chaplain when Chauntry caught fire. And she has seen you ride, I believe; she says you have light hands and are a natural horsewoman, which I can confirm.”

Octavia laughed. “As to the horsemanship, I cannot say, but I don't think you have a kindness for me on account of the night that Chauntry burnt. Interference, I think, was the word you used.”

“I was somewhat overwrought,” he said.

“As well you might be. Come, Lord Rutherford, I bear you no grudge. And I hear from Lady Susan that you are to employ Mr. Quintus Dance as your architect. He built the house I have taken, you know, I think you will be pleased with him.”

“He is a friend of yours?”

“He has become one, both Lady Susan and I take pleasure in his company.”

“I see.”

They rode on together in silence, and then Lord Rutherford, somewhat abruptly, said that he must go, was her most obliging servant, and would have the mare sent round for Octavia to try her paces.

With that, he was gone, leaving Octavia feeling that she had in some way offended him.

For some reason she hesitated to tell Lady Susan of her meeting in the park, but then there would be questions when the horse was brought round, so she mentioned, casually, that Lord Rutherford had been exercising one of his mother's horses in the park. “I think I said something to offend him, he turned and went off with hardly a word.”

“I expect he had some appointment; you would know if you had offended him, for Sholto is never one to hold his tongue.”

The knocker sounded below, and Lady Susan brightened. “A caller! Some kind creature has ventured out in the fog, come to raise our spirits with news of the world beyond the dismal grey one we look out upon.”

The caller, who was welcomed with real enthusiasm, turned out to be Lady Sophronia. “I am spending a few days in London,” she said. “What a charming house! How I envy you, such a neat little place and in the best part of town. No parrots nor monkeys, either, which makes a refreshing change.”

The bell was rung, a tray of fruit and sandwiches was brought in, and a cup of steaming peppermint for Lady Susan, who was talking so much that she had succumbed to a paroxysm of coughing.

Octavia sat slightly withdrawn as Sophronia and Susan, who had known one another since childhood, busily exchanged news and gossip about friends and family, people Octavia had perhaps heard of, but didn't know. Scandals, appointments, political activity, births, deaths, and marriages were presented, discussed, exclaimed at, laughed at, dismissed. Octavia felt a momentary stab of envy for the two women with their web of family and connections and acquaintances, the kind of relationships she had never known.

Lady Sophronia had moved into Netherfield House with her mother, in time for her mother to retire for the winter months. “Heavens, Sholto was so eager to see us go that I almost left a few birds behind, just to annoy him. Netherfield House is one of the reasons I have called upon you, apart from just wishing to see you again. I want to invite you both to Netherfield for Christmas, for the whole Christmas season. Now, do say you can come. I have carte blanche. Mama is hibernating, we shall probably not see her until March, or later if it is a severe winter, and Sholto, who comes to Hertfordshire for the festivities, only stipulates that I must ask Henry Poyntz, which I would do in any case, and Pagoda Portal and Henrietta Rowan, who would be welcome guests at any time.”

Octavia was pleased, and expressed her pleasure openly and
instantly. Lady Susan, who had been wavering as to whether to brave the bad roads and worse weather of a journey to her ancestral home, brightened immediately, and managed to stop coughing for long enough to thank Sophronia and accept her kind invitation.

Another knock on the front door, another visitor, but this time it was a stranger who was shown into the room. “Mr. Forsyte, ma'am,” the butler announced.

Octavia stood up, expecting to see Mr. Forsyte from Yorkshire, but it was a complete stranger who entered the room, a big man in his early forties. He had a full mouth, a pair of humorous and penetrating dark eyes, and a considerable air.

He bowed, and explained. “I am Mr. John Forsyte's brother, just come back to town after a visit to Yorkshire, and I promised Mrs. Forsyte that I would do myself the honour of calling upon you, and bring you some of her plums. I left them downstairs and told the footman to take them down into the kitchen.”

Octavia smiled and said what was proper, and introduced him to Lady Sophronia and Lady Susan, both of whom were looking over the newcomer with appraising eyes. There was a watchfulness to Lady Susan, Octavia felt, but the moment passed, Mr. Forsyte was seated, and Lady Sophronia was asking him if he lived in London.

“I do. I have a house not so far from here, I walked round, in fact, although it's an unpleasant day to be out and about. I am a banker,” he added.

Lady Susan gave a little cry of recognition. “Of course you are, I have heard of you. They say you are the cleverest man with money in London.”

He smiled, a smile with a great deal of charm, but like a well-bred man did not talk about money but about the dismal weather, the pleasant aspect of Octavia's house, and the inconveniences of there being so much building presently going on in London. He stayed for a half hour, then rose politely to take his leave. Sophronia also got to her feet, exclaiming that she must be on her way, she had a thousand things to do before she went back to Netherfield.

“I heard that Lord Rutherford had taken a house in Hertford
shire, near Chauntry,” Mr. Forsyte said. “Are you to spend the festive season there?”

They left together, and when the door had closed behind them, Lady Susan and Octavia looked at one another, each of them uncertain where to begin.

“I think that is a remarkable man,” said Lady Susan finally.

Another glance exchanged.

“He seems to me to be a man of an ardent temperament,” Lady Susan continued. “An attractive man.”