The Second Mrs Darcy (3 page)

“But I shall not need so many clothes, and it will not do for me to arrive in London black and dowdy; my sisters are very smart, and will abuse me for a provincial if I do not take care.”

“Oh dear, you are quite right, first impressions are so important. Well, if you have the wherewithal, you cannot do better. I shall send to Ballygunge at once, there is no time to be lost. Indeed, I may ask her to make a gown for me, my blue is looking sadly shabby, I thought, when I wore it to the Lawrences the other night.”

When Octavia retreated to her room that night, lying under the muslin draped over the posts of the bed to keep insects at bay, she found sleep elusive. In a day, her world had been turned upside down. Hope sprang in her breast, hope that Mr. Gurney had not been exaggerating, that her inheritance would provide her with at least a modest independence. In which case she would no longer be a poor relative, no longer obliged to put up with her sisters' patronising ways. Perhaps there would even be enough money to rent a house in a quiet part of town; if the house in Yorkshire could be sold, she had no desire to live in Yorkshire …

Fortune, Mr. Gurney had said. What constituted a fortune? To her, an income of a few hundred a year would be a fortune beyond her wildest dreams. How pleased Christopher would have been for her. Dear Christopher, with his kindness and sense of amusement. Tears slid through her closed eyelids as she finally fell asleep, her mind filled with memories of her husband, and the inheritance quite forgotten.

Octavia lay in her narrow berth in the tiny cabin she occupied on the
Sir John Rokesby
. She wasn't asleep, but listening to the sounds around her that had become so familiar to her over these last six months: the creak of the ship as it hit the waves and rolled up and then back, the shrill bosun's pipe, the noise of the sails and rigging singing in the wind, running bare feet on the deck, orders bellowed out, the slap of halyards against the three masts, and, more often than she would have liked, the scuttle of rodents' feet as these unwelcome fellow passengers went about their ratty business.

Tonight, even in the early hours that were the quietest on board, the hours she had come to know as the dog watch, there was an expectancy in the air. The long voyage was nearly at an end. Today, with the wind in the right quarter, which the captain had assured her it would be, the ship would be making land, and then it would sail up the Thames to berth at Tilbury docks, in the heart of London.

It was more than five years since she had sailed from Tilbury, on a soft June day, alone; none of her half brothers or sisters had felt inclined to take the time to see her off.

Her brothers and sisters. Half brothers and sisters; at least she had some hope of not turning out like them. She shifted in her bunk, too short for her long legs, and gazed into the darkness, seeing them in her mind's eye.

Octavia heard the sounds of the morning watch going on deck, followed by the steady thump as the lascars washed and dried the decks, the sound of the chants as sails were furled or unfurled. She sat up, shivering slightly. She missed the warmth she had grown used to in India; a voyage that had started in brilliant sunshine was ending on a chill March day.

The
Sir John Rokesby
slid up the grey Thames in the mist. They could have been coming into port anywhere; for a wild moment Octavia imagined they had taken a wrong turn and were arriving in America, or Canada. Anywhere but London, where she would be greeted without enthusiasm by her brothers and sisters, a black sheep making an unwelcome return.

There was no one waiting for her on the dockside; of course there wasn't. She looked out at the forest of masts around her, for a moment wishing she was setting sail and not arriving. Then she squared her shoulders and, wrapping her cloak about her as a gust of cold air struck her, snatching at her hat, walked down the gangplank to set about the business of making sure her few boxes and trunk were despatched to Theodosia's house in Lothian Street. A kindly officer helped her into a hackney carriage, and she was off along grey London streets.

Home, Octavia said to herself. All the passengers had talked enthusiastically of coming home, even the disappointed girls for whom a season or two or three in India had failed to produce the requisite husband. They had families, she supposed, people who might even be glad to see them, whereas she— Well, she wasn't going to allow herself to fall into a fit of the dismals. This might turn out to be a far different homecoming from any she had imagined, should what Mr. Gurney had told her in Calcutta turn out to be even half true.

She stared out at the warehouses, a hive of industry as goods were loaded on and unloaded from the immense number of ships in this busiest of ports, and drew her cloak more closely about her.

Harriet, kind Harriet, who had made sure that she had warm clothes for her return to England: “One forgets how cold it is at
home.” They were, thankfully, the clothes of a matron, of a married woman, velvets and silks; even though in mourning colours, they suited her much better than the light dresses of her girlhood.

She sincerely mourned her late husband. She had never been deeply or passionately in love with him, but she had liked him, found comfort and even pleasure in his arms and bed, and had enjoyed his company. Had they been given more time together, it might have grown into a very happy marriage.

What was to become of her? What kind of a life could she make for herself? If she had money, then the prospects were far more cheerful, the choices greater. It would be hard to make decisions for herself, after the in-between time of her early widowhood, and the out-of-times days on board. She hadn't been bored on the
Sir John Rokesby
; with far more assurance than she had had on the voyage out, she had found it easier to make friends and play her part in the social round of the small world of a ship.

She had her sketchbooks with her, and paints, and had whiled away many hours building doll's houses. That was something that happened by chance, when the small daughter of a fellow passenger, fretful after an illness, had wanted something to play with. Octavia, remembering how much pleasure she had had as a girl from the doll's house that she had made with the help of a friendly joiner, acquired some balsa wood from the ship's carpenter and set about modelling a stately home for little Emily. The carpenter had offered to do it, he could run her up a house in a jiffy, but Octavia was eager for an activity to soothe her restless mind. Busy fingers were, she had long ago discovered, a very good remedy for troubled spirits, and so she had set about it herself, creating a fine Palladian house which was the admiration of her fellow passengers.

“Amazingly clever,” said one of the officers. “And you a woman, I'd hardly have believed it possible.”

The doll's house had aroused suspicions in some of the less amiable among her fellow passengers. Did they imagine she didn't hear their whispers?

“She was lucky to catch Captain Darcy, she was indeed, a very good catch for her, if not for him, poor man.”

“Wasn't she a Melbury before her marriage?”

“Yes, indeed, but only a half sister to the baronet and his brother and sisters. Her mother was a nobody, daughter of a tradesman.”

“Only imagine, and when you think who the first Mrs. Darcy was.”

“Oh, perfection, such a beauty and a handsome fortune with her, which, however, they say he went through in no time.”

“You'd think he'd have found himself another rich wife, of equal standing, instead of marrying Miss Octavia Melbury, who after all has no looks, is far too tall for a woman, and has no fortune, and if you say she's of low origin, too—Well!”

Octavia couldn't help feeling a spurt of temper when she heard people singing the praises of the first Mrs. Darcy. Christopher never spoke of her after the time when Octavia had asked him, hesitantly, whether he had, as the saying went, buried his heart with his first wife. He had looked startled, and then laughed.

“No, indeed, I did not, no such thing. Don't listen to what all the old tabbies have to say about the first Mrs. Darcy, it is none of their business, nor, indeed,” he added, more serious now, “of yours. I don't mean that in any unkind way,” he said quickly, seeing the look on her face; she was all too used to rebukes from her family, but not from Christopher. “I merely mean that all that is in the past, and to tell you the truth, I do not care to remember my first marriage. I assure you I am as happy now as I ever was then, more so.”

His words were meant to reassure her, and she had been grateful for them, although she didn't believe him. How could she compare to the first Mrs. Darcy, the rich, well-born, beautiful Mrs. Darcy?

Unwanted tears prickled Octavia's eyes as his voice came back to her, as though he were with her, speaking those words. She was going to miss him, she wished he were here at her side, rejoicing in her sudden increase of fortune, making plans for the future.

All too soon, the hackney cab was turning into Lothian Street.
The cab driver drew up outside the familiar house with its red-brick façade and handsome front door; she had arrived. She opened her purse for the coins to pay the cab driver, then stepped down on to the pavement. She paused, looking up at the windows of the house, then took a deep breath, went up the three shallow steps, and lifted the knocker.

The door was opened by the butler, Coxley, whom Octavia disliked, not merely because he had a face like a fish, but because he had always shown his disdain for her. He recognised her, welcomed her with chilly civility, and said that he would inform her ladyship that Miss—that Mrs. Darcy had arrived.

A cold kiss from Theodosia, accompanied by an uncomplimentary, “How tanned you are,” and then, “I've told them to put you in the Blue Room on the second floor, I am sure you will be comfortable there.”

Octavia went unsteadily up the familiar stairs, finding, as she had done from the moment she stepped ashore, that the ground under her feet seemed to be swaying. The Blue Room was on the second floor up a further flight of stairs, and as she went into the familiar room, she felt as though she had never been away. It was far from one of the best bedchambers in the house; it had been considered quite good enough for a mere Miss Octavia Melbury, and was clearly still good enough for a widowed Mrs. Darcy. The carpet was a little worn, the furniture made up of items that had done earlier duty elsewhere, the curtains the same as when she had inhabited the room before, only a little more faded.

A maid had been sent to wait on her, a country girl judging by her rosy cheeks, not yet grown pale in the sooty, dank air of London.
Upon enquiry, Octavia discovered that the girl's name was Alice, she was fifteen last month, and had newly come up from Wiltshire, where her mother was in service on Sir James Melbury's estate.

Octavia washed her hands and face in the water that Alice brought up. She stood in front of the glass to tidy her hair. Yes, she was slightly tanned, no surprising consequence of a long sea voyage, but fair as she was, she had kept her complexion, the worst effects of the sun being a few pale freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had never gone very brown in India and hadn't been there long enough to take on the sallow look that so many English people had, nor had her skin ever burned in the hot sun.

“We dine at home tonight,” said Theodosia when Octavia went downstairs. From the sound of her voice, she considered this a great condescension. Octavia felt a flash of anger; her sister might at least put on an appearance of welcome. There were no enquiries about the voyage, nor condolences for the loss of her husband. At least her brother-in-law Henry Cartland seemed glad to see her, welcoming her with something like affection, and even venturing a few words of sympathy on her recent loss.

His wife swiftly put him in his place. “Don't be absurd, Henry. Octavia had hardly been married five minutes when she lost her husband”—she made it sound as though the loss had been due to some carelessness on Octavia's part—“she can really have barely known him. Wasn't he away at sea for most of your married life?” she went on, addressing Octavia.

“Yes,” said Octavia.

“It is the most unfortunate thing you didn't bear him a son,” her sister said in her forthright way. “It is a thousand pities that his heir should be George Warren, you can expect nothing from him, he is an out-and-out Whig and will grudge you a single penny.”

“Entailed estates make for many problems,” Mr. Cartland said with a sigh.

“It is a most unfortunate arrangement in this case,” said Theodosia. “Quite unnecessary, in my opinion; what business had Captain Darcy to have an entail?”

It had never occurred to Octavia, when she accepted Captain Darcy's hand, to enquire about his fortune or estate. But Mr. Thurloe had done so, and, on the whole, he said, it was quite satisfactory. “He has a good estate in Wiltshire, worth some two or three thousand a year, and then there is his navy pay, although of course these days there are not the opportunities for prize money as there used to be; why, in the war, a mere master and commander could sail away in penury and come back a rich man after a lucky encounter, able to set up his carriage and buy himself a house and land. Of course, those days are behind us, but still, Captain Darcy does not do so badly. However, the estate is entailed, you understand the nature of an entail?” he had added, seeing Octavia's puzzled look.

He had explained it to her. Captain Darcy's estate was entailed upon the male line. He could not leave it to her, nor to anyone else; it would pass, in the absence of an heir of his loins, into the hands of a second cousin. “A man with no very good name, a rakish fellow,” Mr. Thurloe said with a frown. “It is your duty to be brisk about breeding, my dear, because then your own future is secure in the case—well, that is, life at sea is always uncertain, and should anything befall Captain Darcy, if you have a son, you will be provided for, you will be able to live on the estate in comfort during the boy's minority, and then of course, he will take care of you.”

“And if I don't have a son, but only daughters, or no children at all?”

“Then, my dear, you will have nothing but whatever the captain should leave as his personal fortune. Which is nothing very much; it seems that the fortune his first wife brought with her was unwisely invested. I did hear she was an expensive creature, so maybe that was the truth of it. However, let us be sanguine, he is a healthy man who has no idea of taking risks at sea, and the entail will be soon cut off by the birth of a son, if you do your duty.”

The marriage had taken place quickly, in light of the captain's imminent departure. Octavia had hesitated, feeling it might be wiser to postpone the ceremony until Captain Darcy's return, but Robert Thurloe would have none of it. “A bird in the hand, my dear,” he said
bluntly to Harriet, who was inclined to agree with Octavia. “Who knows whom Captain Darcy may not meet on his travels? No, no, they must tie the knot as soon as may be, and then Octavia will be sure of him.”

“So is it true that his private fortune was practically nothing?” Theodosia said now.

Her husband attempted to remonstrate with her. “My dear, here is Octavia only just arrived, tired after her long journey; it is hardly the time to ply her with questions of this nature.”

“Nonsense,” said Theodosia. “There is no point in beating about the bush. We are all family here, we dine alone, and the sooner we know just what Octavia's circumstances are, the better.”

“I was left enough to buy some clothes and to pay my passage and a little put by,” Octavia told her sister. “When everything is settled, I shall have an income of about a hundred and fifty pounds a year.”

“Well, that is something, in any case,” said Mr. Cartland, who would have found it hard to manage on less than his own income of fifteen thousand a year.

“It is barely enough to live on. I am really annoyed with Captain Darcy for having so little foresight, for making so little provision for her.” And then, to Octavia, “Why did you come back? I should think it was easier to live in India on very little money, surely everything is cheaper there.”

Her husband made a tsking noise and shook his head at his wife's ill breeding.

“I had no particular reason to stay in Calcutta.”

“No reason? You had every reason; in London you were unable to find a husband, whereas in India you made a perfectly respectable match—except for this tiresome entail, of course.”

“Mr. Thurloe felt that my best course would be to return to England and approach Mr. Warren, to see if he can be persuaded to give me an annuity, or an allowance. I know he has a reputation of being a close man—”

“He is simply a man who knows how to take care of his money,” said Theodosia. “Which is more than can be said for your late hus
band, I might point out. Yes, Warren must be approached, must be made to see that he has to do his duty by you. And meanwhile, we must put our heads together and decide what is to be done with you.”

Octavia caught Mr. Cartland's shocked eye, and had to make an effort not to burst out laughing. She knew whose heads were to be brought into service on this matter, and it would not include her own; her views were of no interest to Theodosia, nor would they be to Augusta and Arthur.

“Naturally, you are our guest here,” Henry Cartland said quickly. “You are welcome to stay for as long as you like.”

“Be quiet, Henry,” said Theodosia. “Octavia is my sister, this has nothing to do with you.” She looked at Octavia with narrowed eyes. “I will say that you are improved in looks since you went away, despite being burned by the sun. It is an extraordinary thing; for the most part women return from India with any trace of beauty gone.”

Octavia was startled at this compliment, coming as it did from such an unexpected quarter; she was used to nothing but criticism from her sisters.

“It is all to the good. One marriage can lead to another, even though you are now past your prime, at four or five and twenty you have lost your bloom—but even so, it may be possible. It will be best for you to stay in London, I think, and we shall see if we can find you another husband.”

“But I don't want to marry again!” exclaimed Octavia, furious at the heartlessness of her sister's words. “It is less than a year since Christopher died, I am in mourning, I have no wish to be looking for another husband.”

“You can't pretend any great grief for a man you hardly knew. You did very well to catch him, very well indeed, and it is a great pity that things turned out as they did; whatever did the man have to go plunging into the jungle for?”

“He was very interested in natural philosophy, and he had heard news of a rare plant that he had long wanted to see—”

“Natural philosophy, my—” Theodosia caught her husband's eye,
and the words died on her lips. “Well, as to that, the past is the past, and we must look to the future, and since you have no fortune, just as you didn't have when you left, the only course open to you is marriage.”

“Or I could seek employment as a governess,” said Octavia, still angry, and yielding to an impulse to annoy her sister.

As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Her sister's eyes flashed, and Mr. Cartland, after giving her a quick, despairing glance, fixed his gaze on the ceiling.

The abuse washed over all, all her sister's pent-up rage: the disgrace. Octavia was born a Melbury, even if she had never been worthy of the name; what would people say if her sister went out to be a household drudge; how could she, on her first day home, come up with such a crack-brained scheme and upset her own sister so greatly?

Mr. Cartland called for his wife's smelling salts; Icken, her maid, stalked into the room and waved a vinaigrette under Theodosia's nose. Octavia could hear her hissing under her breath, “Shameful, upsetting the mistress like that, her own sister, she should know better.”

“Theodosia suffers from her nerves,” Mr. Cartland said, a smile flickering to his face and then vanishing again.

It was as though the intervening years had never happened, as though Octavia were a nineteen-year-old girl once again, expected to be obedient and to listen to her elders and betters.

She had had enough of this. She was a grown woman, a married woman, if now a widow; what right had her sister to treat her in this way and lay down the law about what she should and shouldn't do?

She rose from the table. “Theodosia is unwell, I think my presence upsets her, I shall go to my room,” she said, flashing a smile at her brother-in-law before she fled upstairs.

It was inevitable that Theodosia, when she had recovered from her equanimity to some degree, should send for her other sister and brother. “Let us see if they can talk sense into the wretched woman, let us see if they can't make Octavia see reason,” she said to her husband with grim satisfaction.

Mr. Cartland, who knew that the combined forces of his wife and her sister and his brother-in-law were more than he could stomach, beat a hasty retreat to his club, murmuring that he had business to attend to in town, might not be back for some hours.

Octavia wasn't at all surprised, as she sat sipping a cup of chocolate the next morning, to be told by a bright-eyed Alice that she was wanted downstairs as soon as ever might be, that Mr. Melbury and Lady Adderley had called and were waiting to see her.

Octavia had heard the door knocker, knew perfectly well that it was far too early for any but members of the family to be at the front door, and had correctly guessed what was in store for her.

She didn't hurry her toilette, and indeed took unusual care over it. She put on a dark grey bombazine morning dress, trimmed with black silk rosettes on a flounced hem, which the clever fingers of Madame Duhamel's derseys had made for her from a not-too-out-of-date pattern in the book of plates which had arrived in Calcutta on the last ship. It was modish enough, if not bang-up-to-the-minute—her sisters' sharp eyes would at once spot last year's trimming and the set of the sleeve that no modish London lady would dream of being seen in, but Octavia knew it suited her. The awareness of looking her best heightened her courage, so that, with the tinge of colour in her cheeks from the apprehension that she was trying so keenly to quell, she made a striking picture as she entered the room.

Her brother Arthur rose from his seat. “Well, upon my word,” he exclaimed. “I never saw you in better looks, Octavia. I should have thought—”

A formal kiss from Augusta. “That's as may be, Arthur,” she said in her brisk way, “and we must be pleased to see Octavia looking tolerably well, but nothing alters the fact that she is several inches taller than any woman has any right to be, and what is more, several inches taller than any Melbury female has ever been. Of course, she gets her height from her mother.”

From the contempt in her voice, you would have thought Octavia's mother had been a giantess; it was a familiar insult, and one that Octavia knew how to ignore. She was, in some obscure way,
proud of her height; it was an inheritance from her despised grandfather and as such, she treasured it. If it set her apart from her brothers and sisters, so much the better.