The Second Mrs Darcy (24 page)

By the time the date of their departure for Netherfield arrived, Octavia was more thankful than she would have believed possible to leave London. Hertfordshire might have all the disadvantages of country life, but there she would be among friends, and would not, she hoped, have to face the whispering and cold shoulders that had been her lot in London ever since Warren, with undue malevolence, had spread the tale about of her underhand and dishonest corruption of Gresham.

Some stood by her, such as Mr. Portal and Mrs. Rowan among them, but others proved fair-weather friends. Invitations ceased, and more than one former acquaintance crossed a street to avoid greeting her. Lady Langton, looking down her elegant nose, had cut her dead at the library, following this by declaring in her fluting, carrying voice that Mr. Hookham should be more careful about whom he let in through the doors, or she would change her subscription to Eber's library.

Lady Susan had responded swiftly, advising her to do just that. “It can make little difference to you, Kitty, for you are so busy listening to tittle-tattle and passing it on that I am sure you never have time to open or read a book.”

Once again, Octavia found herself in Meryton, this time in her own carriage—but her own carriage for how much longer? She had
been awakening at night, hot and unhappy, her future once again uncertain, and with the dreadful persistence of the law hanging over her.

Lady Susan noted the dark rings under Octavia's eyes, and admired her friend's attempts to keep up a good front, but the worry was there, and no comforting words or distractions could remove it. Many weeks and months had to be lived through before the lawyer's agent could return with information from India—and that might be no help at all.

Octavia remembered quite clearly the day she had heard the news in Calcutta, and there had been no hesitation in the details which a white-faced Gresham had given her. She had been at divine service at the moment of Christopher's demise; he had died on a Sunday, Lieutenant Gresham said, at eleven in the morning. Sunday the fifteenth of April, a date engraved in her mind.

She had attempted to make contact with Gresham over the last few weeks, because she was sure that if she could meet him face-to-face, he would have great difficulty in standing by his preposterous story, his out-and-out lie—but Mr. Gresham was not in London. Mr. Gresham, it appeared, was not even in England. He had gone to France, was in Paris or Toulouse, or possibly Dijon; no one could be sure where.

“Fishy,” said Portal, when he heard this. He was brisk in Octavia's defence, spoke of the refutation of Gresham's lie as being a certainty, as did Mrs. Rowan, and Octavia was heartened and touched by his belief in her.

Gresham's father was a clergyman; Octavia had a wild notion of travelling to Suffolk to ask him to intercede with his son, but Lady Susan convinced her it would be a wasted journey. Father and son were not on good terms, and apparently, clergyman or no, the Reverend Gresham was not a model of Christian probity.

So it was with relief that she sat back against the squabs as the carriage turned into the long drive leading up to Netherfield House. Dusk was falling on the chill December evening; it was two days before Christmas and there was frost in the air. The house had a wel
coming look, with soft lines showing behind the shutters, and before the carriage had come to a standstill, the front door was opening, servants were hurrying out, and there was Lady Sophronia, greeting Lady Susan with an embrace and shaking Octavia's hand with great warmth.

Octavia's room was a pleasant chamber, with long windows, heavily curtained against the winter night. A maid brought her water, and Alice, flushed with excitement at the visit to a grand country house, was unpacking her trunks, and asking Octavia what she wished to wear for dinner.

Octavia met Lady Susan on the stairs. Octavia was resplendent in a silk dress the colour of old claret, with a very dashing feather in her hair, and looked as though she were prepared for an evening of enjoyment. They went down arm in arm, Lady Susan calling out to Lady Sophronia and Lord Rutherford, who were standing in the hall below, wrangling about seating arrangements for dinner.

Lady Susan kissed Rutherford on both cheeks; Octavia hung back a little, feeling almost nervous, and annoyed with herself for it. Only a slight colour in her cheeks betrayed her emotion, and she looked perfectly calm as she shook hands and exchanged the usual conversation about the journey—swift, changed horses at the Swan, raining in London, snow forecast …

The truth was, she found that Lord Rutherford disturbed her thoughts and even her dreams more than was quite right. He unsettled her, threw her off balance. She was too experienced not to recognise how much he attracted her, and too sensible to imagine for a moment that he had any such inclination towards her. Was she in love with him? Good gracious no, she was beyond the age of that kind of folly. A handsome figure, a lively mind, a quick wit, a kind disposition—not to mention a good seat on a horse—were excellent qualities, but she didn't deceive herself; Lord Rutherford's affections were not so easily engaged, and she must not let her liking for his company betray her into the least indication of her feelings.

And then it was into the handsome drawing room, with its yellow and old gold hangings. There was quite a little crowd of guests
gathered before the large fireplace, appreciating the merry blaze from the heaped logs. Octavia was happy to see Mr. Portal and Henrietta already there; they had told her in London that they would be joining her at Netherfield. And Mr. Quintus Dance, smiling at her and crossing at once to her side, drawing her attention to the panelling—“of another age, but admirable in its way.” Yes, he was here as a guest, but also on a professional basis; he had all the preliminary plans for the new Chauntry to be discussed with Lord Rutherford, he was sure she would be interested to see them, in the morning, perhaps.

Octavia found herself relaxing among people who neither stared nor passed whispered comments, such as she had endured over these last two or three weeks. She was able to smile and laugh in a perfectly natural way, and was delighted, when they presently went into the dining room, to find herself seated at the dinner table between Mr. Poyntz and Mr. Quintus Dance.

“Your niece will be in Hertfordshire in a few days,” said Poyntz, with undisguised satisfaction in his voice.

“Penelope? I had no idea she was invited.”

“She is to join her cousins the Ackworths after Christmas.”

Octavia had seen little of her sisters and brothers recently. She had had an unpleasant encounter with Arthur, who had paid a call at Firth Street a few days after she had heard the news from the lawyer.

“Well, sister, and now you have got yourself into a fine mess. Had you let me handle your affairs, I am sure none of this would have happened, Warren would not have dared to make this claim had I been looking after your fortune; this is what comes of your headstrong ways.”

What irked her most was that Arthur was quite ready to believe her guilty of bribing Gresham, and he confided to her that he would have done just the same in her shoes. “For Warren has no moral right to Mrs. Worthington's estate, none whatsoever, and nothing could be more aggravating than to see family money ending up in quite another quarter. You were right to do as you did, but you should have been more careful, more discreet, and you were mean, you did not
pay Gresham handsomely enough, every man has his price, and you obviously bought him too cheap, so that now Warren has outbid you.”

She could say nothing to convince her brother that there had been no conspiracy, no bribery. She was speaking the truth; Gresham was not, and that was the end of it.

“You are obliged to say so, but it is not easy to believe that you were in such perfect ignorance of your relationship to Mrs. Worthington, a woman in the same country as you, a close relation. Your case would sound better if you did not insist that you were unaware of even having a great-uncle; people do not lose relations, especially when, as in your case, they have so few of them. No, no, Octavia, it will not do, and you will have to come down off your high horse and come to terms with Warren. You have bungled and must pay the price. I dare say he will settle for perhaps half or three-quarters of the inheritance, you cannot reasonably expect to come away with more.”

And Octavia had responded with sudden wrath and a sharp tongue, so that Arthur went away in a considerable huff, and Octavia received a note from Augusta the next morning saying that in view of her stubborn refusal to see reason, it would be better for all family contact to be avoided for the present.

“I know Penelope was reluctant to be immured, as she put it, with my brothers and sisters at Melbury. They are a hunting set, and it is a cold and uncomfortable house. She will be much happier with the Ackworths.”

Octavia didn't say, as she might have done, that comfort had nothing to do with it, the superior charm of Ackworth Manor was a human one, nothing to do with bricks and mortar and hunting.

“Now, tell me, Mrs. Darcy,” Mr. Poyntz was saying, “what part do you take in the theatricals? For we are to put on a play, you know, we shall perform
Twelfth Night
by William Shakespeare. Viola, perhaps, or even Olivia?”

“I very much look forward to seeing the play, but I have no talent nor ambition in the Thespian line, so I shall be content with forming
part of the admiring audience. Lady Susan is to take the role of Olivia, but as to Viola, I have no idea who plays her.”

“It is a pity, you would make an excellent Viola. To take a man's part, an actress should be tall, I always think. Would you care to dress as a man, and wear breeches?”

Octavia laughed, and said that she preferred her skirts. “I rode astride sometimes, as a girl, when there was no one to notice me, but I took some terrible tumbles. Skirts have their advantages, as do side saddles.”

Rehearsals began on Christmas Eve, with the actors assembled to read through the first act after a light luncheon. Lady Sophronia handed a copy of the play to Octavia when she came down in the morning. “I have decided that you shall prompt.”

Lord Rutherford was passing by just at that moment, and after bidding Octavia a civil good morning, he told her that Sophronia had the habit of directing people to do as she wished, and that she must feel free to assert her will if she preferred not to prompt.

“Nonsense, Sholto,” said Sophronia. “If you encourage people to argue, we shall never get anywhere.”

“I am more than happy to prompt,” said Octavia. “It is all new to me, I have never been involved in any play before, and I am looking forward to it. I shall be glad to be of use.”

Lord Rutherford smiled and moved away to talk to Mr. Portal. For a second Octavia's eyes followed him, and then she looked down at the book in her hand and began to riffle through the pages, aware that Sophronia was watching her.

The Rutherford she had met during the fire had been overpowering in his anger and authority. The man she had crossed swords with in Yorkshire had been formidable and forceful. The man who had talked to her about his friend's love for Penelope had been a different person, direct, thoughtful, but still with some distance and reserve.

Now she saw yet another facet of his personality, a man among his friends, at ease, an affectionate brother, and with more charm than she would have credited him with, she reflected as she saw him bow
ing over the hand of Charlotte Goulding, who had arrived with her mother to take her place among the actors.

She turned to find Mr. Quintus Dance at her elbow. “You mentioned that you would like to see the plans for Chauntry,” he said.

“I would indeed.”

“I am using the library, they are spread out on a table there.”

Octavia enjoyed every minute of Christmas Day, which began with a walk across glistening frosty fields to church and ended with mummers performing in the hall. The Christmases of her childhood had been lonely ones, and the one she had spent at Melbury Hall had been a damp and depressing time in the company of hearty hunting men, sleeping in a small and chilly bedroom in the attics, finding herself among women who stared at her as though she had been a chicken in a cage, passed over for the pot. She felt she had been judged and found wanting yet again, and only her sense of humour carried her through the days of hard riding and hard drinking; it had been a relief to go back to the chilly formality of Theodosia's London house and life, for the last few weeks before she set sail for India.

And Christmas in India was a different kind of feast, with regimental displays in the hot sunshine and a meal of scraggy birds doing duty for the traditional goose or turkey. It was too hot to relish eating the rich Christmas pudding that was so often dutifully ordered in the English houses, although the men set about it with a will.

Christmas at Netherfield was entirely different, with the house warm and enchanting with boughs of evergreen and bunches of holly, ribbons fluttering from them, hot punch and delicious food, from the tiny spicy mince pies served in the hall to the feast served in the dining room. When they came back from church, a cheerful group of them set about cutting up gold paper and making tassels and ornaments to add to the greenery.

Dinner was a long and splendid affair, with the wassailers appearing at the same time as the pudding, to sing and wind their way
around the rooms in the customary way. Then all the guests and the servants stood in the hall while the mummers put on their play, their efforts rewarded with loud applause and substantial plates of mince pies and hot punch.

Octavia went tired and happy to bed, too tired to do anything but fall asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

Rehearsals for
Twelfth Night
resumed the day after Christmas. The wind had turned to the northeast, blowing away the damp clouds, but bringing a biting frost. The ground was too hard for hunting, and the gentlemen had to resign themselves to no more exercise than could be afforded by taking out a gun after breakfast.

“They are glad to be back,” said Lady Sophronia when they came in, bringing gusts of icy air into the hall and stamping their feet to warm frozen feet. “Go into the dining room,” she told them, “where there is a good fire, and food set out.”

They tucked into the cold pies and brawn and ham with a will, washed down with mugs of ale, and then pronounced themselves quite ready to participate in the gentler activity of the drama.

The estate carpenter had brought up some of the wood saved from Chauntry, part of the Elizabethan gallery that had been in the great hall, together with its supports and some of the panelling that had, miraculously, not burnt. This had been erected at the end of the ballroom, giving a very convincing Shakespearean look and providing the structure of a stage.

The huge wicker baskets containing the costumes and heavy red velvet curtains from the Chauntry plays had also been rescued.

“Without that, we could not have contemplated putting on a play,” Lady Sophronia told Rutherford. “What a stroke of luck,
Mama deciding that the baskets were to be brought down from the attics in the spring.”

“It was time they were sorted and cleaned,” said Rutherford. “Some of the costumes were looking distinctly shabby, I remember thinking.”

The contents of the baskets were laid out on trestle tables in a parlour off the ballroom, and those of the housemaids who were adept with their needles were hard at work altering and trimming sufficient robes and breeches and ruffs for the performance of
Twelfth Night
. Lord Rutherford and Lady Sophronia fell on the garments with cries of delight and exclamations as they recalled past performances.

“Do you remember the year we put on scenes from
Henry VIII
?” Lord Rutherford said, picking up a heavily embroidered gold robe with crimson slashes in its sleeves.

“And this was what I wore as Amelia in
Lover's Vows
.”

Lord Rutherford had found a long sword. “Macbeth's sword, I'd forgotten how long it was.”

“Here's the coat you wore when we did
The Rivals
, that was one of our best productions.”

“And this was the yellow robe Poyntz had for Prospero.”

“When Eliza played Miranda, and you were Ferdinand,” said Sophronia with a sly glance at her brother. “You wore this cloak.”

Rutherford folded the cloak up and put it to one side. “It was all a long time ago.”

“Ten years at least.”

“This will do for me as Orsino,” he said, holding up a set of black velvet doublet and hose, slashed with gold. “We had this for
Hamlet
, did we not?”

“Lady Susan will be perfect in this.” Sophronia pulled out a dress in crimson silk with an embroidered fronter and a gold filigree ruff. “I am so happy that our costumes escaped the fire, they are a part of Chauntry.”

“Make-believe, our theatricals, just as Chauntry was.”

“There was nothing make-believe about the smoking fires and draughts and stone floors running with damp,” said Sophronia tartly.

“Well, we are agreed on that. It was a house that outlived its usefulness, and was a mere facsimile of its original self,” said Lord Rutherford, suddenly serious. “I shall build a new house to suit the new age.”

“With plumbing for the new age as well, I hope, dear brother; the smells at Chauntry on hot days in the summer were something I shall be glad to forget,” said Sophronia, pulling out a pair of baggy yellow breeches. “Yellow for Malvolio, to go with his cross gartering. Henry will have his work cut out to appear a glum Puritan, it is one of his most delightful characteristics that he smiles so readily. He'll have to practise making his mouth turn down and his brow furrow. Now, what have we for Viola? And Sir Toby Belch, we shall need padding for him.”

“I shall leave it to you,” said Lord Rutherford. “Mama was right, they could do with a clean, most of them.”

“Mrs. Sandford will see to it, so that by the time everyone arrives, there is nothing to be done but to fit the costumes and make final adjustments.”

Mrs. Sandford, the housekeeper, had duly carried out her task, and now, instead of untidy heaps of costumes, everything was in order, a costume for each member of the cast, with its own place on the trestle or on the racks set up behind, and a label pinned to every dress and hat and the other accoutrements.

Octavia found Lady Susan in the wardrobe, as Lady Sophronia had dubbed it. She stood there, standing stock-still while Alice, who was a notable needlewoman, crawled around her feet, pinning up the hem of her dress with the assistance of one of the Netherfield housemaids.

Lady Sophronia watched with a critical eye, and then said to the plump maid whom Mrs. Sandford had put in charge of the costumes, “The breeches we put out for Viola will not do, Lady Goulding will not permit Miss Goulding to wear breeches. We shall have to find her a robe of some kind that she can wear instead.”

“Those breeches you picked out would have needed shortening in any case, my lady, for all that Miss Goulding's a tall young lady. I'll go through the baskets again, and see what I can find.”

Sophronia, who had a keen eye for colour, was thinking aloud. “Black, gold, scarlet, yellow—there is a purple robe, my brother wore it once, I think, for Shylock. That would do. Purple with green trimmings, I seem to remember.”

Another housemaid was in charge of hats, and was trimming a black velvet cap with curling golden feathers. “For his lordship,” she said, showing her work with pride to Lady Sophronia.

The first rehearsal took place at the far end of the ballroom, while the workmen were still busy about the stage, talking in loud whispers as they set up an intricate arrangement of pulleys for the heavy curtains.

Octavia took her place to one side, a copy of the play in her hand, but at the moment most of the actors were still reading their parts, no prompting was called for, and she could listen and enjoy.

Octavia had seen very few plays until these last few months, when she had gone several times to the theatre. It still held novelty for her; she was like a child when the curtain went up and the action began. Now she was backstage, she felt the magic in the air; even in a country house production, even with a play staged in a ballroom, the promise of enchantment was there.

And even to her inexperienced eye, it was obvious that this was going to be a far from amateurish production. For a start, there was Lady Susan, already line perfect, transformed the moment she stepped forward from the aristocratic daughter of an ancient house into a professional actress. Her voice, always expressive and beautiful, was exact in its modulation, pitch, and projection, and every gesture, every expression, was considered and effective, although, Octavia noticed, nothing was set in stone; Lady Susan would try a phrasing, a movement, and then run through it again in a different way.

She commanded the stage, which put both Lord Rutherford and Henry Poyntz on their mettle. Lord Rutherford's voice, deep and resonant, would have graced any stage, and he knew how to use it to the best effect. Octavia loved listening to his speeches; he had an ear for poetry, and his verse speaking brought out both the meaning and rhythm of his lines.

Henry Poyntz, a natural tenor, shed his clerical nature entirely and threw himself ably into his part. He would preach an excellent sermon, Octavia thought. She had heard it said that all the best preachers had something of the actor in them, and in Poyntz's case this was certainly so. Gone was the lively, amiable man, and in his place was the vain, self-absorbed, sad character of Malvolio.

Among the main characters, only Charlotte Goulding was something of a disappointment. She spoke her lines clearly and well, she had been well schooled in elocution by her governess, but there was little life to her, none of the passionate feeling and ardour that was in the role of Viola. Still, she would look well, and moved gracefully; it might be enough.

“She is a sweet little cabbage, and full of pretty smiles,” said Lady Susan when a halt was called for refreshments to be brought for the hard-working cast. “However, she is no actress. We must be glad that we have such a good Orsino and Malvolio. Who is seeing to the scenery, Sophronia?”

“Mr. Dance, who is also to play Sebastian. He should be here, but I'm told he went out earlier on horseback and hasn't yet returned. He has shown me his sketches, which are very good indeed, and he will supervise all the work.”

Charlotte was glad when Sir Toby and Maria, played by a lively young Miss Amelia Lucas, came on for their scene, and she could sit at the side and watch.

“I am not to wear breeches,” she confided to Octavia. “Mama will not permit it. I am to wear a kind of robe. Lady Sophronia is to see to it. Who is the man who plays Sebastian?” she added.

Quintus Dance had come in late, full of apologies; he had ridden over to Chauntry to check something on the site, and had quite lost track of time.

“That is Mr. Dance, the architect, who is to build Lord Rutherford's new house.”

“An architect? Oh,” Charlotte said, “I took him for a gentleman.”

“And so he is. He is a younger son, with his way to make in the world, and he chose to be an architect rather than go into the law or
the military or the Church, as he tells me his brothers have done. As you can tell from his name, he has four elder brothers.”

“Does he? Four, and sisters as well, I dare say, he comes of a large family. But why does his name tell you that?”

“Quintus means five, he is a fifth son. Just as I am called Octavia because I am an eighth child.”

“It is Latin, I suppose,” said Charlotte. “My brothers study Latin, but of course I never did, girls do not need to know Latin. He is very handsome, do not you think so?” she said, lowering her voice.

“Mr. Dance?” Octavia would not have described him as handsome; he had a good figure and a lively countenance, but his features were unremarkable.

“I should not say so,” said Charlotte, colour flaring into her cheeks. “It is impolite to make personal comments, I know.”

“I think there is no harm in noticing whether a man is handsome or no,” said Octavia, smiling.

“Sebastian is Viola's twin brother in the play, is he not? My governess read it through with me. I don't care much for Shakespeare. And a girl dressing up as a boy, it is like something out of a novel, and I don't think I make at all a good boy. I don't know why Shakespeare had women disguised as men; my governess told me he did it in other plays as well.”

“You must remember that in Shakespeare's day, women were not allowed to act on the public stage, and all the women's parts were played by boy actors.”

Charlotte was too well mannered to protest at this extraordinary idea, but her incredulity was obvious. “Mama says that Lady Susan was an actress in America, although she is a great lady. Is that not very shocking? And yet she is received everywhere.”

“She is a very good actress,” said Octavia, knowing that she was being evasive, but she found Charlotte's artless questions difficult to respond to. “Now, that scene is finished, turn over your pages, look, we are here, and there is your cue. On you go!”

Octavia watched for a few minutes, and then, deciding that she was not needed among the actors for the moment, took herself off to
the other end of the ballroom, where Quintus Dance was deep in discussion with the carpenter, a gnome of a man in his leather apron, who listened attentively and intelligently to what Mr. Dance was saying.

“There's a gent as knows what he's doing,” the carpenter said appreciatively to Octavia, and Mr. Dance, after acknowledging her presence with a smile, went over to talk to the man who was putting together the curved wooden staircase that led up to the gallery.

“It's a pleasure to work with him, and he's going to be a marvel with the new Chauntry, mark my words. These architects mostly have their heads in the clouds, with no more notion of how their fancy drawings can be built in bricks and mortar than my old ma has; less, I reckon. But Mr. Dance is a man who knows his houses and his building materials through and through.”

“You are right,” said Octavia. “I live in London in a house built by Mr. Dance, and it is a most practical and well-built house.”

Her house! Every time she forgot her predicament, she or someone else said something which brought it to the forefront of her mind. She had resolved to put her concerns to one side for the Christmas season, and not allow herself to consider the prospect that the new year would bring, of her losing everything, including her London house that she felt so at home in.

She turned her mind to the designs for the set. Worrying would do no good, and to brood would be to make herself uncongenial company. There was nothing she could do about her affairs at the moment, neither here nor if she had remained in London.

As far as the possibility of criminal charges went, her reason told her that she need not worry. Both Mr. Wilkinson and Mr. Portal had reassured her on that point, when she had seen them the day before coming down to Netherfield.

“It will never come to that, however much Warren blusters and threatens,” Mr. Portal said, and Mr. Wilkinson nodded his head in silent agreement. “He could not attempt it, not without becoming an outcast from society. Your brothers and sisters, and therefore you also, have too much standing in the world for that, and then the Darcys are very much on your side; Mrs. Wytton has been very active
in your favour, she has altogether no doubts about your innocence, and as for any prosecution, she says that the Darcy clan have quite enough influence to scotch any attempts in that direction—although Wytton agrees with me,” Mr. Portal added, “that Warren will not be such a fool as to press for charges. He is a greedy man, an unscrupulous man, certainly not too nice in his morals, but he is not a stupid man. He will go for the money and the property, but will not lay charges.”