The Second Mrs Darcy (5 page)

“It is from a Mr. Portal,” she said, turning the page over to read the signature.

“Well, that is something to have the great Mr. Portal write to you, a mere relict—”

Octavia knew she was about to add “a person of no account,” but for once her sister restrained herself.

“Why, what is so strange about it?” Octavia had turned to the beginning of the letter and was running her eyes down the page. “It appears that he knew my husband and wishes to express his condolences.”

This was true enough, but there was more to the letter than that, some sentences which she did not quite understand, but which she wasn't going to pass on to Theodosia. Mr. Portal, it seemed, had also been acquainted with her great-uncle and -aunt, and from what he wrote, although it was couched in discreet terms, he was well aware of her inheritance. Presently in France, he looked forward to having the honour of meeting her on his return to England, and meanwhile she could have every confidence in Mr. Wilkinson.

How odd, what did it mean? Who was this Mr. Portal?

“I suppose you have no idea who the great Mr. Portal is, being away so long, and not moving in quite those circles when you were a debutante. He is known everywhere as Pagoda Portal, you may have heard the name.”

“Like the tree in India?”

“I have no idea why he is called Pagoda, it is an outlandish name,
although I believe it is something to do with his having made a great deal of money in India. He is a nabob, but a well-born, extremely well-connected nabob; nobody can say he is any kind of a mushroom.”

“So he is great because he is rich?”

“Now, do not be putting on those false missish airs. You have lived long enough and enough in the world to know that a great fortune commands a good deal of wholesome respect. Especially, as I say, when combined with belonging to such an ancient family—the Portals have been landowners and members of Parliament for ever, and they are related to quite half the House of Lords.”

She hesitated for a moment, seeking her words with care, which was unusual for her.

“However, his life is somewhat irregular, it would not do for you, in your position, to become more than a mere acquaintance, it would do your reputation no good at all if you were to be drawn into his set.”

“What set is that?”

“Oh, a very ramshackle, mixed set of persons, artists and poets; here a banker and there a politician, and women novelists and musicians, not at all the kind of people who would be admitted into my drawing room.”

Octavia thought they sounded rather charming.

“However, that is part of his eccentric way, a man so rich may be as eccentric as he wishes, you know. The difficulty comes in his—what shall I call them? His domestic arrangements. Now you are a married woman I can speak freely: Mr. Portal is not married, and it seems has not the least intention of entering that happy state. Instead, it is openly known that he and Henrietta Rowan, a tiresome woman if ever I knew one, have a liaison that goes far beyond what is proper. She is a widow, who seems to think that such a state allows her perfect liberty; she declares she will never marry again, and certainly there appears to be no inclination on either party to regularise their union.”

“Have they set up house together?”

“Good gracious no, whatever are you thinking of?”

“From the way you spoke—”

“It is a liaison, as I said, and one of which the whole polite world is aware. Mrs. Rowan, who is very well off in her own right, has her own house, done up in the most extraordinary style, I have to tell you, in the Turkish mode; it is a fancy of hers to admire the Turks, and therefore she has carpets and cushions and all kinds of hangings which are entirely unsuitable for one in her position. And in London! She spent years abroad, in Turkey, which is where she acquired the taste for such nonsense.”

Theodosia looked around her own sitting room with great complaisancy; in Octavia's opinion, the room was overfilled with furniture, much of it downright ugly.

“However, Mr. Portal seems to like it well enough, one cannot expect a man who has made his own fortune to have much taste, perhaps. Mrs. Rowan holds a salon there in the afternoon, and soirées, and I don't know what else. I admit that society flocks to her parties, she is considered a notable hostess, although for the life of me—I consider that she is not quite the thing. But since it appears that you don't know Mr. Portal and this letter is written as a mere courtesy call, made as much on my account as yours, I dare say, then any question of you pursuing the acquaintance of either him or Henrietta need never arise.”

How like Theodosia, laying down the law on whom Octavia might be permitted to know, and asserting the rightness of her own moral judgement.

Octavia returned to her letter. “Mr. Portal sounds an amiable man,” she said. “He writes that he will do himself the honour of calling upon me when he is back in London.”

“Oh, that is only form, simple politeness, it means nothing, why should he call on you?”

“If he should do so, do you wish me to say I am not at home?” Octavia asked with deceptive meekness.

“That will hardly be up to you. It won't arise, but if it did, it would never do to cross him, not with him being so rich and influential—
although he sits as a Whig, please remember that. Your brother Arthur will hardly speak to him, they have crossed swords in the House too often for him to find Mr. Portal in the least bit agreeable. No, he must always be accorded every courtesy, but it is quite unnecessary for you to pursue the acquaintance.”

Which opinion made Octavia determined to become acquainted with Mr. Portal, and also with the interesting Mrs. Rowan.

Octavia had a swift reply from the lawyers: Mr. Wilkinson would be at her disposal whenever it were convenient for her. By great good luck, the letter had been delivered into Mr. Cartland's hand. “You will not wish everyone to be aware of your affairs,” he said, with a kind smile, when he found her alone in the drawing room. Her sister would have demanded to know the contents of the letter, but he simply passed it to her and went back into his library.

Octavia decided that she would slip out to see the lawyers the very next morning. And she would have to exercise her skills of subtlety again; were she to announce that she was going into the city, there would be questions and deep disapproval—a woman on her own to venture into that part of London, it was not to be thought of. There would follow disagreeable, probing questions as to what business she had there. She could lie, which she found hard and disliked, but any hint of the truth would bring the conclusion she most feared: her sister or brother summoning the lawyers to Lothian Street, where Arthur or Mr. Cartland or Lord Adderley must be present to take the entire business out of her hands and put to rest for once and for all her obstinate insistence on managing it for herself.

Theodosia had ordered the carriage for later that morning. She summoned Octavia to tell her that she was to accompany her. “For I am going to the library; you will want to join the library, if you can
afford the subscription, and if not, you may take out a volume or two on my account. I shall have no objection to that.”

“Thank you, Theodosia, but I took out a subscription at Hookham's library when I went out yesterday, and borrowed some books.”

“I was told you had gone to the circulating library, but I did not realise you were entering your name there. You did not tell me that. You should have consulted me first; Hookham's is by no means the most fashionable library at present. I would have advised you to take out a subscription at Earle's, in Albemarle Street. However, you may wait while I change my books and then I shall pay one or two calls, on the Miss Watsons, for instance. Do you remember them from when you were last in London? No? Well, they are an unremarkable pair, to be sure, but their salon is fashionable, everyone goes there, and they know everything that goes on in town, one hears all the latest
on
dits
there. They know you are staying in Lothian Street, they will expect me to bring you.”

Why? Octavia wondered. What possible interest could they have in Theodosia's poor relation?

“And it is important that they like you, for in due course, not so long now, when you are out of mourning, and if something can be done about your clothes, you will be going to one or two parties, and they know just how everyone is situated, which eligible men are looking out for a bride. We cannot hope for too much, but they understand the situation, they will be inclined to help, not on your account, but because I and Augusta take care to remain on good terms with them, there is no one whose good opinion is worth more …”

Theodosia's voice tailed off, even her supreme self-confidence faltering in the light of the smile on Octavia's face, her half sister's look of amusement, of positive merriment.

“Well, you may find it amusing although I can't for the life of me think why you should do so, but let me tell you, the only hope for you, if you are not to live in genteel poverty, is to catch yourself another husband.”

“Yes,” said Octavia. “You have told me so.”

“Then I tell you again, and will do so until you listen; you are so
stubborn, there is no doing with you.” Theodosia went towards the door. “Please be ready within half an hour, and you should wear that hat with the feather, it is the best of your hats.”

“I have the headache,” said Octavia. “I prefer not to go out in the carriage.”

“Of course you do not have the headache, you are perfectly well.” Any hint of an indisposition in anyone but herself always roused Theodosia's ire. “And if you think you do, all the more reason to come out in the carriage. It will do you more good than remaining cooped up indoors all day long.”

“Perhaps I may take a walk later, but I assure you I would be dull company this morning.”

Theodosia persisted for a while, but Octavia stood her ground, and had the satisfaction, an hour later, of seeing her sister and Penelope drive away in the open carriage. They would be gone at least two hours, with luck; now she must hurry about her own affairs.

She told the butler to call her a hackney, and for a moment it looked as though she was going to have a fight with him as well, but she looked him in the eye. “A hackney cab, if you please.”

“And where shall I tell the jarvey you wish to go?” said Coxley.

“I shall give him my direction,” said Octavia, knowing that her reticence would be reported back to Theodosia; she would have to concoct a good reason for her expedition, with all the necessary corroborative details; no, it was simple, she needed to see Christopher's lawyers; that would bring reproaches, but it would be believable.

The offices of Wilkinson and Winter were situated at the river end of King's Bench Walk, near the Temple. It was a handsome building of the last century but heavily begrimed with soot, and once admitted, Octavia found herself in a dimly lit passage, lined with boxes and papers. However, she was not kept waiting there for more than a few minutes before being ushered into the presence of Mr. Wilkinson, a cadaverous individual in sombre clothes as befitted his profession, who rose to his considerable height as she came into the room, offered her a chair, and said, in a gravelly voice, that he was honoured by Mrs. Darcy's visit.

“Do you come alone?” he said, looking at the door as though an entourage were lurking outside.

“Yes, I'm on my own.”

He raised an eyebrow, and gave a thin smile. “I had expected your brother, Mr. Arthur Melbury, to accompany you.”

“Mr. Melbury knows nothing at all about this.”

“Nothing about your coming here?”

“Nothing about that, certainly.” Octavia sat straight in her chair, a glint of defiance in her eyes. “Also, nothing about this inheritance. It seems so improbable that I have come into my great-aunt's fortune, if it is what might be called a fortune. Mr. Gurney, in Calcutta, spoke of a substantial inheritance, but, really, I am quite in the dark as to what it all means. So I prefer not to speak of it, to my family nor anyone else, until I have the truth of it.”

Mr. Wilkinson gave her a look of approval. “You are perhaps right, although a brother— However, let us get down to details. A substantial inheritance is not quite how I would describe the estate of the late Mrs. Worthington.”

Half an hour later Octavia came out of the lawyer's office, almost missing the two shallow steps down to the street in her agitation and excitement. Mr. Gurney had not been wrong when he had used the word
fortune
. Fortune! It hardly described the wealth that Octavia, in that brief time, had found herself to be in possession of.

The hackney cab that had brought her from Lothian Street drew up beside her; after taking another fare, the jarvey had returned, judging that Octavia would want to make the return journey, which might mean another good tip.

“Back to Lothian Street?” he asked as he shut the door on her.

“No,” said Octavia. “I want to walk. Take me to— I shall go to Green Park.”

She could not possibly go back to Theodosia's house yet, not until she had calmed her nerves and composed herself, and begun to come to terms with this extraordinary change in her circumstances.

She gave the hackney cab driver a tip that made him stare, and touch his forehead with a deeply appreciative “And a very good morning to you, ma'am,” before whipping up his horse, and guiding it back into the traffic.

Unlike Mr. Gurney, Mr. Wilkinson had been precise, precise almost to the last guinea; his words were still ringing in Octavia's ears. “The house in Yorkshire, Axby Hall, is a considerable property, a fine building from the middle of the last century, in good order, and with the farms and land forms an estate altogether of some five thousand acres. It also includes most of the properties in the nearby village of Axby, which are all at present occupied by good tenants.” There was no private house in London, the late Mrs. Worthington didn't care for London, but she had owned several commercial premises in London as well as in York and Leeds, which were bringing in rents that made Octavia stretch her eyes.

“However, that is the least of it,” Mr. Wilkinson had continued. “There are the tea plantations in India, which bring in a considerable annual income, the figures are all here, and although of course the profits are dependent on the crop and the hazards of shipping, the plantations are well managed, and you will find the figures for the last five years on this sheet.

“In addition, there is the sum of ninety thousand pounds in gilts; Mrs. Worthington was always a conservative investor—and, held at the bank, there are her jewels.” He lifted yet another sheet of paper covered in lists and figures. “This is the inventory with the valuation that was made a year ago.”

Octavia's eyes flickered unbelievingly down the page: a diamond necklace, a pair of rose diamond drop earrings, a number of large uncut rubies, an emerald necklace with matching bracelets … It was a long list, and the words floated in front of her eyes.

“Good heavens, what use had she for all these?” she cried. “And what should I do with them all?”

“I do not believe she ever wore most of them,” said Mr. Wilkinson, pursing his lips. “Although she may have done so when Mr. Worthington was alive, when they were in India. She kept them as an
investment, I dare say, and a good one, for they are unquestionably worth a great deal more than she or Mr. Worthington paid for them, as you will see. The jeweller who valued them, who knew her and looked after her jewellery for her, remarked that she was extremely knowledgeable; they are all stones of the highest quality. Should you decide to sell any of them—although I hardly think you would need to—he would be glad to have the handling of the sale, he asked me to say.”

Octavia looked down at the papers that Mr. Wilkinson had handed to her, barely taking in the columns of figures, still unable to comprehend the extent of her inheritance.

“And all this comes to me?”

“Yes. You are named in her will, there is no mistake. She left some small legacies, annuities for her servants, that kind of thing, but the rest comes to you—you see, born Octavia Susannah Melbury, daughter of the late Sir Clement Melbury and Lady Melbury, now Mrs. Darcy, of Alipore, Calcutta. Now, it is fortunate, extremely fortunate, that she died after your late husband—since that removes any complications that might otherwise have arisen.”

“What complications?”

“As a married woman, your inheritance would have come under your husband's control, and could have formed part of his estate. I understand there was an entail? Yes. Well, it would not have formed part of the entailed property, and should have come to you in the event of your husband's death—but it might have been, as I say, a complication—not one we need consider in this case. I have from Calcutta copies of the documents relating to your husband's sad and premature demise, please accept my deepest sympathies—and I am sure everything will be quite in order with regard to that.”

Christopher would have rejoiced in her good fortune, Octavia reflected, as she watched the cows who grazed in Green Park lying comfortably on the grass, chewing the cud, looking, she couldn't help feeling, very much like one or two of Theodosia's acquaintances, with their bland, bovine expressions.

Had Christopher survived, he would undoubtedly have put quite
a lot of her inheritance into his house in Wiltshire, a place that seemed to eat up money. She went pale at the thought of the Worthington money passing into the grasping hands of Mr. Warren; well, there was no point in dwelling on might-have-beens; Christopher, God rest his soul, was gone, Mr. Warren had Dalcombe, and she had her own immense fortune from her mother's despised family. She gave a little skip, startling a stout man hurrying past.

She had pledged Mr. Wilkinson to secrecy.

“It will get about in due course,” he said. “Such things always do, although not from me or anyone in my employ, we know our business too well for that, discretion is essential in our profession, Mrs. Darcy. Now, I am one of the executors of the will, and the other is a Mr. Portal—ah, I see you know the name. He is presently abroad, travelling in France, I believe, but that need not hold us up, although, as a lifelong friend of your great-uncle and -aunt, I know that he is very eager to make your acquaintance.”

“He wrote to me, from France, but I did not quite understand his position. So he is an executor?”

“Yes. Meanwhile, you will want someone to advise you; your brother, Mr. Arthur Melbury, would be the proper person, for I understand that Sir James Melbury is rarely in town. I can be in touch with Mr. Melbury at his earliest convenience to discuss—”

Octavia cut in swiftly. “I forbid you, I absolutely forbid you to have any contact with Mr. Melbury about this or anything to do with me.”

Mr. Wilkinson's grave face took on a look of astonishment.

“I am twenty-five, and as a widow I believe I have full control of my financial affairs, is not that so?”

“In law, yes, but as a practical matter, I beg of you to consider what a responsibility such a fortune is. Mr. Melbury is known as an astute man, he will be better able to—”

“No. If I decide to run wild and sell out of the gilts and gamble the money away at the card table, I shall do so; it is entirely my own business.”

“But, Mrs. Darcy,” he began in appalled tones.

“I joke, Mr. Wilkinson. I am not a gambler, and I have been too poor for most of my life not to know the value of large sums in gilts. But I mean what I say. Whom did Mrs. Worthington rely on to advise her?”