The Second Mrs Darcy (26 page)

“I am quite able to afford the cost of postage, my dear,” said Mr. Ackworth.

“Of course you are, but it will be a good notion to make Lord Rutherford aware of what we are up to; Octavia tells me he is very keen on the match for his friend.”

“A cunning plan,” said Octavia, taking the letter from Mrs. Ackworth and looking at it as though it might burst open and reveal a furious Theodosia. “I do hope our plan works.”

“What plan, may I ask?” said Lord Rutherford, coming into the room. He glanced from her face to Mrs. Ackworth's. “You have a guilty look about you.”

“Mrs. Ackworth has written to my sister, to Mrs. Cartland, a letter that we hope will pave the way for Mr. Poyntz to be able to marry Penelope.”

“Tell me.”

Mrs. Ackworth told him, and he listened without interrupting, a rare grace in a man, Octavia thought.

“You want it franked,” he said at once, taking the letter and scrawling his signature across it. “I will put it with the rest of the post, it will be on its way today.”

“Do you think it will serve?” said Mrs. Ackworth.

“It may, but what if Mrs. Cartland has some possible suitor of her own up her sleeve, some tiresome country gentleman with interest in the Party? I think I shall be underhand myself. I shall write to Cartland—stay, no. Poyntz must contrive a meeting with Cartland, propose himself, ask for Miss Cartland's hand. At the same time I shall write, saying how much I will approve the match. Will that carry any weight with your brother-in-law?” he said to Octavia.

“Mr. Cartland does, I believe, sincerely care about his daughter, and would be happy to see her marry the man she loves. But his word or opinion counts for little in their household, it is no secret that he lives under the cat's foot. Now, if there were anything you could do for my brother, that might have a great effect. It is a shame you are such a great Whig, and not a Tory.”

Rutherford gave Octavia a swift, knowing look; she was mocking him, and he knew it.

“Ah, Mrs. Darcy, inexperienced in political matters as you are, you perhaps don't appreciate that even a Whig such as myself can have some influence in parliamentary matters, Tory government notwithstanding. A word in the right quarter would do wonders for your brother. How may this information be conveyed to Mrs. Cartland? We cannot state it baldly; we cannot say, ‘Consent to Miss Cartland's marriage to Mr. Poyntz, and Mr. Arthur Melbury will find he has the office he has long sought'—a minor post, I do hope you will be content with a minor post, Mrs. Darcy, since I don't care to see the country in the hands of such men as your brother.”

“He is not a bad man, nor a corrupt one,” said Octavia fairly. “I have little affection for him, but I don't think he will be any worse than any of the other men who fill such positions. Your conscience may be easy on that point.”

“You put my mind wonderfully at ease,” he said.

Mrs. Ackworth looked from one to the other of them, and made an interesting discovery, which she imparted that night to her husband.

“Lord Rutherford and Octavia? Make a match of it? You cannot be serious.”

“I am certain there is a powerfully strong feeling between them. Unacknowledged as yet, I am not saying they are about to announce their engagement, but the attraction and affection is there on his side; I am not so sure of Octavia, yet—”

“If she wishes to marry him, she would be the greatest fool on earth to turn him down. The loss of her fortune, if it turns out that it is the case, will be of no moment at all if she married Rutherford, who is one of the richest men in the country.”

Mrs. Ackworth adjusted her husband's nightcap, which had slid down his forehead.

“It would solve her problems at a stroke,” Mr. Ackworth continued. “With Rutherford's wealth and influence on her side, her situation would be quite different. George Warren may take on a mere widowed Mrs. Darcy, he would never dare to try his tricks on a Lady Rutherford. Should such a marriage take place, we will hear no more of Lieutenant Gresham.”

“That is all very well, but while there is this vile accusation, the charge of behaving in such a way, Octavia will never accept the hand of Rutherford, no, nor anyone else.”

“You are probably right. She is too nice, too careful and scrupulous for that. Her name will have to be cleared, openly and with Warren's complete agreement that he was mistaken. Nothing less will serve.”

“Warren mistaken?” said Mrs. Ackworth, as her husband blew out the candle and drew the covers comfortably around himself. She tugged at the eiderdown. “There is no mistake, it is sheer wicked skulduggery, and if there is any justice in the world, it will be shown up as exactly that!”

“There isn't, my dear,” Mr. Ackworth murmured.

“Any what?”

“Justice.”

She lay there as his snores grew from a gentle rumble to a resounding thunderous noise. She poked him in the ribs, forcing him to turn over, and lay back against the pillows, with thoughts of nuptials floating through her brain.

The house party at Netherfield were very glad when Lord Rutherford announced a brief suspension in the rehearsals. “With my sister's consent, we are all to have one day off, for she has made plans for us to go, such of us as are inclined, to make a party for the Meryton assembly. We go every year, it is expected of us, but at Christmas it is always a merry occasion.”

In the event, it was a large party that gathered in the hall as the carriages were brought round. Lord Rutherford and Lady Sophronia, Lady Susan and Octavia, the Portals, Henry Poyntz and Mr. Quintus Dance, together with five or six other guests who were looking forward to an evening's dancing.

To Octavia's great joy, when they arrived and had unburdened themselves of cloaks and coats and muffs and gloves and the other appurtenances of travelling on a cold winter's night, there were several other friends in the ballroom. The Ackworths were there with Penelope, Mrs. Ackworth looking very fine in a bronze satin ball dress, Mr. Ackworth pretending to find it all a great bore, but deceiving no one, not with his bright eyes, and his joyful greeting of numerous acquaintances. Sir Joseph and Lady Goulding were present, keeping a watchful eye on Charlotte, who was a picture in pink, and Octavia was particularly happy when soon afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Wytton came into the room. They were staying with Mr.
Bennet at Longbourn until after the new year. And yes, they had heard about the play; the Rutherford theatricals were famous and they would be driving over to Netherfield on the sixth, weather permitting, to see it.

Octavia enquired after young Hermione, who was, Camilla told her, thriving. “Mr. Bennet dotes on his new great-granddaughter, she is clearly destined to have shoals of admirers, starting at so early an age. We are always glad to come to the assembly here, where we meet old friends and make new ones. It has a special place in the family's affections for another reason, for it was at an assembly here that my papa first met my mother. Of course, the place is not exactly the same, for they have built a new ballroom since then; there was a fire a few years ago, and they improved the rooms and enlarged the ballroom when they rebuilt.”

“It seems that this part of the country is prone to houses and buildings burning down,” said Octavia.

“It was a chimney caught fire at Chauntry, was it not? At this inn, I believe, a candle was left too near a hanging in one of the bedchambers, and several rooms were gutted. Anyhow, now it is all to the good, for there is more room for dancing, it was rather cramped before. Now, I shall point out several of the local worthies, should you be interested. There are the Darleys, who live in the great house at Stoke. That is Mrs. Collins; her husband, who is a self-important bishop, may be here also, they are spending the Christmas season at Lucas Lodge; Mrs. Collins was Charlotte Lucas before her marriage and was my mama's closest friend when she was a girl. There are a regular troop of Lucases here. And there is a good joke about the bishop, for Mr. Bennet's estate at Longbourn is entailed—of course, you know all about entails—and the Collinses have been waiting for my grandfather to die any time these last twenty years. But as you see, although he is now sixty-seven, he is still spry and full of life. I dare say he may outlive Mr. Collins, just to spite him. Now, how goes it with the love affair between your niece Penelope and Mr. Poyntz?”

Octavia, knowing she could trust her not to spread the tale around, told her what had been done.

“Good gracious, I call that excellent staff work. So all we need is for old Dr. Rawleigh to give up his parish.”

Mrs. Ackworth, who happened to be passing, heard these words. “Yes, Mrs. Wytton, and we have hopes in that direction. Lord Rutherford has been too tender-hearted, not wanting to push the rector into retirement, but to tell the truth, it has been a mistake. The parish is falling apart, for all Mr. Poyntz does what he can. Dr. Rawleigh not only neglects his duties, but he does not care for Mr. Poyntz to take over any but the most minor of them; he frustrates him at every turn, and if things go on as they are, no one will be christened, married, or buried, and things will be in a sad way and so I have told Lord Rutherford. Now he says he will prevail upon Dr. Rawleigh to depart; he believes he can obtain for him a canonry in Shropshire or some such place, where he may retire with honour and dignity intact, and, more importantly as far as he is concerned, continue to unearth the secrets of those tiresome Druids.”

“Whereupon Mr. Poyntz steps into the living, and a young couple are made very happy,” wound up Octavia.

“I wish all difficulties might be so easily surmounted,” said Mr. Ackworth with a sly look at Octavia. “Now, tell me, who is that surprising and handsome man who is leading Lady Sophronia into the dance?”

At that moment, Mr. Portal came up to beg Octavia's hand in the dance, but she just had time to say over her shoulder, “That is Mr. Richard Forsyte, the banker,” and to see Camilla and Mrs. Ackworth putting their heads together after several keen looks in the direction of Mr. Forsyte and his partner.

“I was surprised to see Mr. Forsyte here,” said Mr. Portal.

“You know him well?” said Octavia.

“Oh, anyone who has any connection with the City knows and admires Mr. Richard Forsyte. An impressive man, with a name for being honest and honourable, which is not always the case among the money men of London, let me tell you. I see that he is a friend of Lady Sophronia's.”

Octavia was about to tell him that as far as she knew, Lady
Sophronia had met him only once before, at her house in Firth Street, but the dance separated them just then. Octavia took steps to the right, to the left, and then behind, which brought her closer to where Mr. Forsyte and Lady Sophronia were waiting their turn. The warmth in their eyes as they looked at each other startled her; she blinked, looked again, and became aware that she wasn't the only one to have noticed the rapport there was between them; Lord Rutherford, who was partnering Charlotte Goulding, had lost his place in the dance for watching his sister and her partner.

He made a quick apology and caught up, but Octavia was amused to see him look back over his shoulder to where Lady Sophronia was now twirling round on Mr. Forsyte's strong arm.

To Octavia, the two men dominated the room: Lord Rutherford, tall, eagle-nosed, dark, with those astonishing eyes, and Mr. Forsyte, nearly as tall, but of a much broader build, older, balding, yet with something of the same vigour and vitality that was present in his lordship.

The dance finished. Octavia walked over to where Lady Susan had just been delivered by her partner, and Mr. Portal went off to fetch them glasses of lemonade. Lady Susan's face was alight with mischief. “My dear, have you seen Sophronia and Mr. Forsyte? And, vastly more amusing, Rutherford, who is full of alarm to see his sister capering away with the dashing banker.”

“Why should not Lady Sophronia dance and enjoy herself?”

“Lord Rutherford is no fool, he has eyes in his head, anyone can see that those two are smitten with one another, it is as plain as the nose on your face.”

“Is Lord Rutherford such a jealous brother?”

“He has never had occasion to be so. I think this has come as a complete surprise and shock to him. Look, Sophronia is sitting down with Mr. Forsyte; it is a joy to see her looking so alive and happy. My word, I never saw a man have such an effect on a woman. Sophronia has been out in society for more than fifteen years, and in all that time she has never met a man who could please her. And into her life walks this Mr. Forsyte, by the merest chance, and there you are.”

“Where are we?” said Octavia. “You are making too much of it.”

“I am not. You felt yourself the attraction of the man, and Sophronia recognised it instantly. I think her feelings are as strong as her brother's, but the world being as it is, she has not had the opportunity to find an outlet for them, as he has done. But now—well, you have started something here, bringing Mr. Forsyte to Firth Street.”

“It was the merest chance that he called when Lady Sophronia was there. Do you think that he is here tonight by chance?”

“Of course not! He will have found where Netherfield House is situated, and made the reasonable guess that a party would come to the assembly tonight; it is the custom of the Rutherfords to do so, after all; that is well known here. And now he will call at Netherfield House, and then we shall see what happens.”

“If he is serious, will Lord Rutherford be displeased?”

“What, that his sister has fallen for a man from a completely other world to that in which she was born and bred? I should think it will alarm him greatly, but there is little he can do about it. Sophronia is of age, she may bestow her affections and her hand where she likes. He may disapprove and try to dissuade her from any rash steps, but she is as strong-willed as he is. If she has a particle of sense, she will seize this chance of happiness with both hands; she will not meet such a man again, men like Mr. Forsyte do not grow on trees. I only marvel that he was not snatched up years ago.”

“It is early days, they barely know one another.”

“It is a
coup de foudre
, you know what that is.”

“That is the stuff of novels.” Even as she said it, Octavia chided herself for the sharp envy she felt; how could she be envious of Lady Sophronia, whose happiness must be the wish of everyone who knew her? It was not as though she had fallen for Mr. Forsyte herself; although aware of how attractive a man he was, he did not have the effect on her that he so clearly had on Lady Sophronia.

No, it was quite another man who made her heart beat faster, and he, laughing and smiling, too well-bred not to hide any disturbed feelings he had about his sister, was on the other side of the room, standing next to Charlotte.

Mr. Quintus Dance approached to ask her for the next dance, and she rose with a smile to put her hand in his. She didn't see the reaction of those two people she had just been watching; Charlotte Goulding's head flew up, and for a moment a stricken look passed over her face, while Lord Rutherford frowned and missed what Poyntz, standing on his other side with Penelope on his arm, was saying to him.

Mr. Dance lived up to his name, and Octavia, who was always able to lose herself in the movement and activity of the dance, put the complicated and tangled cross-currents of feeling in the ballroom out of her mind and concentrated on her steps.

She danced one dance with Lord Rutherford that evening. He came up to her as the musicians struck up for a waltz, and a moment later, she was whirling round the ballroom with his arm about her waist. He was an excellent dancer, and the exhilaration she felt brought an extra colour to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. But when the dance was over, he left her with a civil bow and a thank-you, before going off to dance with one of the Miss Lucases.

“Nothing in it, I told you so,” said Mr. Ackworth to his wife as they went in to supper.

“You're a fool,” she said with great affection, and settled down to drink her soup.

The Netherfield party were not back at the house and in their beds until the early hours of the morning. The others might be wrapped in slumber, but as the church clock in the distance struck three, Octavia found herself still awake, thinking about Lady Sophronia and Mr. Forsyte, of Penelope and Henry Poyntz, and with a sad weariness of heart, of Lord Rutherford and Charlotte Goulding. The rumours had been buzzing about the ballroom that his lordship was indeed going to offer for Miss Goulding. Poor Charlotte, who had eyes for no one but Mr. Dance; did Lord Rutherford not realise that she cared nothing for him, that she would go unhappy to the altar, driven there by her parents, who no doubt thought they were acting in their daughter's best interests? Or did he know and think nothing of it, coming from the aristocratic tradition
of marriages being as much a matter of arrangement and convenience as affection?

Why Charlotte, though? She was not from one of the great aristocratic families where Lord Rutherford might be expected to seek a bride. It could only be that he wanted to hold even more sway over his wife than was usual, and that might be easier with a girl from the Gouldings' rank of society.

Octavia took no comfort in this reasoning, and as a consequence of her restless night, came down the next morning in far from her best looks, with dark rings under her eyes, a slight headache, and a reluctance to attend to her duties beside the stage.

She was not the only one in a languid mood. Charlotte looked as though she had been crying—it was the smoke from the fire that made her eyes red, her mother declared—while Lady Susan gave in to prodigious yawns whenever she had finished speaking her part.

Lady Sophronia had not, it seemed, suffered at all from lack of sleep. She was in glowing looks, although her mind did not seem on the play; she let several slips go past without comment, and called an early end to the rehearsal—“Since most of you look half asleep,” she said.

“Speak for yourself, sister,” said Lord Rutherford, who looked his normal self. And after dinner, he had the card tables set up in one corner of the room and invited those who did not care for cards to indulge themselves in a game of Speculation. Mr. Portal joined this group, and showed how he had gained his enormous fortune by winning effortlessly, although the wild bids of the rest of the players caused a great deal of merriment, their mirth causing the card players to turn disapproving heads towards their end of the room.

Lord Rutherford played neither cards nor speculation, but went away to attend to some business. When he returned, he went over to a table on which lay some books, and where Octavia had left her sketchbooks. He took one up, and began to look through it. Then he came to a particular page, and paused. He carried the book over to a set of branched candles to cast a stronger light upon it.

“What are you doing, Sholto?” his sister called out to him. “Why do you not join us here?”