The Second Mrs Darcy (8 page)

“Family affairs. My mother wants me to attend my sister's ball—Georgiana is making her come-out this year, you know.”

“Already?” said Sholto, who thought of his friend's youngest sister as a mere chit in the schoolroom.

“She is turned eighteen, and grown very pretty. I warn you, my mother has her eye on you as a suitable husband, although I have told her that I don't think you have any matrimonial inclinations. Or do you?” he said, cocking a knowing eyebrow.

“I suppose I shall have to marry one of these days, but don't let your mother try to push Georgiana in my direction, a charming girl, I am sure, but if and when I marry, it won't be to a girl of her age.”

“Men do.”

“Not I.”

Henry Poyntz ran over in his mind the succession of elegant beauties whose names had been linked with Sholto's over the years, and was inclined to agree with his friend. “Marriage is different from a liaison, of course. One does not look for the same qualities in a wife as in a mistress, and a very young woman is likely to be more malleable, can be moulded …”

“You think so? You don't know much about women, Henry, which is probably as well, given your chosen profession. No, I shan't marry, not until I find some woman who doesn't get up to all the usual tricks of her sex, and that is not very likely to happen soon. Let Georgiana fall in love with some dashing young fellow, and I am sure she will be very happy.”

It pained Henry to hear Sholto speak in that way. In everything else, Sholto was relaxed, amusing, an excellent companion, a fine swordsman, nothing stuffy or dull about him, and he'd spent many a merry evening in the company of his friend and his various mistresses—although not the current one, whom Henry Poyntz disliked. Many women were willing to find solace in the strong arms of Lord Rutherford, but when it came to anything that might touch his heart, a suggestion of love, of any more tender emotion, then Sholto was
made of steel. He despised women for their wiles and guiles, he told Henry. “They pretend to love you, and the moment their fancy wavers, they are off after some juicier prey.”

Poyntz knew that his friend regarded the whole marriage mart of London society—Almacks, the balls, the parties, the gossip, the pushy mamas—with bored contempt, although he was a good and graceful dancer when he could be prevailed upon to attend any of the season's functions.

Which he would, given the good nature that lay beneath his cynicism. Henry knew that he would respond to his mother's invitation to Georgiana's come-out ball, he would arrive in reasonable time, display perfect good humour and excellent manners, be affable and attentive to his partners, dance every dance, and leave every mother in the room sighing with vexation at the knowledge that it all meant nothing; they had long ago learned that it was a waste of any mother's time and effort to make any attempt to capture the rich and eligible Lord Rutherford for their daughters, no matter how lovely, how accomplished they were.

Henry's private opinion was that, in the end, needing an heir, Sholto would marry the daughter of a neighbour in Yorkshire, whom he would then install in his draughty ancestral home, leaving her with the castle and nursery to attend to, while he decamped back to London. There was no getting away from it, Sholto disliked and mistrusted most women. With his the way his mother was, his early view of the female sex had not been a fortunate one.

A successful falling in love when he was a young man in London might have set him upon a different path, but he had had the bad luck to fall head over ears in love with the beauty of her year, Miss Eliza Hawtrey. That had ended unhappy, which misfortune seemed to set the seal on Sholto's bitterness, and he'd embarked on a series of arm's-length attachments, all he would ever permit himself. And the moment he sensed that any high-born lady of the moment was growing fond of him, she would be ruthlessly cut out of his life.

Which was why Kitty Langton had lasted longer than the others; icy-hearted, was Henry's view of her, despite her luscious form and
melting eyes. She was a harpy, and had her claws far further into Sholto than perhaps he was aware of.

Henry sighed, and stood up. “Let's dine at Pinks,” he suggested, “and then we might call in at the Brindleys' ball.”

“To support your sister?” said Rutherford, raising an eyebrow.

“I don't know who may be there,” said Poyntz with a carelessness that didn't deceive Sholto for a moment. “I should just like to dance, it is a long while since I have enjoyed a waltz.”

The journey from Meryton to Ackworth was only a matter of two miles or so. The carriage that Hugh Ackworth had sent to fetch Octavia drove along a deep lane and then came up to the brow of a hill, where a pleasing landscape lay before her. Her mind was on houses, and her eyes focused on a very large house set down in the valley, beside a winding river, a pretty spot and in a sheltered place, with the land rising behind it, although she suspected it would be both damp and also in shadow for most winter days. Built in red brick, with a great arched gateway, it had numerous chimneys, several of them with columns of smoke rising into the air; in the parkland around it, fat sheep grazed, and it presented a serene and tranquil scene.

A mile further on, the carriage turned in through a handsome pair of gates. Her cousins were waiting at the door of Ackworth Manor, an ancient house which had been extended and altered over the centuries, but still had pleasing harmony of scale to it.

Mr. Ackworth, as Penelope had suspected, was loud in his indignation that Octavia should have travelled on the stage. “That is Theodosia's doing, do not attempt to deny it, no, my dear”—this to his wife—“Mrs. Darcy is no fool, she can have few illusions about her sisters.”

The Ackworths were in their forties, he a man of medium
height, with a well-bred if sardonic look to him, and she a lively, slender woman with a good-humoured mouth. They ushered Octavia into the house, saying that she must be tired after her journey.

“Especially jostling about on the stage, squashed up to all kinds of people you would rather not be in company with,” put in Mr. Ackworth.

“In truth, I was sat next to a man who was very interesting, and we talked so much that the miles flew past.”

Mr. Ackworth snorted, and Mrs. Ackworth said that Octavia was quite right to make the best of what had to be endured. She was to go upstairs this instant, to wash and change, and to lie down upon the bed if she felt in need of a rest. They dined at six, there was no need to hurry.

Octavia would have been ashamed to do any such thing, when it was obvious that her host and hostess were a tireless pair; she was sure that they would not have dreamed of resting in the day time.

The house smelt of beeswax and pot-pourri; it was a pleasingly mellow house, which had been in Mr. Ackworth's family for centuries. The dining room was hung with tapestries, woven, Mr. Ackworth told her, in the seventeenth century; he showed her how his ancestors had cut into the fabric to allow for the opening of a door which had been put in at a later date. The room was warm from a good fire, and the food, all their own produce, was substantial, well cooked, and more than welcome to Octavia, who found she was very hungry after her journey.

“Do you have a large circle of acquaintance here in Hertfordshire?” she asked. “My niece Penelope told me that she was never dull here.”

“That girl is a joy,” said Mr. Ackworth. “She takes after her father, but has more character than he does. I do hope her mother doesn't succeed in marrying her off to some bore with more money than sense.”

“We dine with some five and twenty families,” said Mrs. Ackworth. “The big house here is Chauntry, of course, you will have
noticed it as you came in the carriage, a vast red-brick edifice dating from the age of Elizabeth.”

“I saw it indeed, and meant to ask you about it.”

“It belongs to Lord Rutherford, but he is rarely here. It is lived in by his mother, Lady Rutherford, whom we visit, but as seldom as possible, since she is a difficult woman.”

“Mad, quite mad,” said Mr. Ackworth dispassionately.

“Well, she is not quite in the ordinary way, but … her daughter, Lady Sophronia, is a different kind of creature, however, for whom we have a great affection; you will like her. She is not a young woman, of course, past thirty, but she is young at heart, with a sharp wit and a good eye for the comical. I feel you will get on together. She never married, which is a pity, for it would have got her away from her mother. She dines with us; without her mother, since, fortunately, Lady Rutherford never dines out. She summons people to Chauntry from time to time, and we feel obliged to go, in the interests of good neighbourliness, but we are always relieved when the evening is over, she is so odd.”

For some reason, Octavia didn't want to tell her cousins of her glimpse of Lord Rutherford at the inn. So brief an encounter could hardly be worth a mention, and she had no desire to reveal what an impression the man had made on her. “Where does Lord Rutherford live, if not at Chauntry?”

“His seat is in the north, near Richmond, in Yorkshire, but he is not a country dweller. They are Whigs, you know, and he spends most of the year in London; he is active in politics and has a busy social life. He has no wife, the mamas say he is not a marrying man, although that may change. His single state does not mean he is indifferent to women, on the contrary, he has had a string of beautiful mistresses, but he is disinclined to put his head in any matrimonial noose. I can say these things to you, my dear, I can see you are not offended by my frankness, and you have been a married woman, I need not be careful of your morals, I think!”

Octavia laughed, liking her cousins more and more. Mrs. Ackworth had the outlook and attitude of the last century, when women
were more outspoken and less constrained than her contemporaries; Octavia found her a breath of fresh air after the rectitude of her sisters.

“Chauntry is a large house for a solitary woman and her daughter.”

“It is absurd her living there. There is a perfectly good Dower House, which would be much more convenient for her—but, as I said, she prefers grandeur and state to comfort and convenience.”

“We can find you better company than Lady Rutherford, rest assured of that, Octavia,” Mrs. Ackworth said. “Although you will not want to be going out to the assemblies and so on just yet, not while you are still in mourning, although your year will soon be up, and then you must make the effort to get out into the world. You do not look to be the moping kind; it will do you good to meet new people and have some enjoyment.”

“I must not trespass on your hospitality for too long,” said Octavia, and with a rueful smile. “My sisters expect me back before the season is over, as soon as I can put off my blacks. They have hopes of my finding another husband for me; as quickly as possible.”

“Your sisters have some sense,” said Mrs. Ackworth. “It is no secret that you have been left in straitened circumstances, and life isn't easy for a gentlewoman of slender means; you are too young, too good looking, to while away the years in some dismal spa. A good marriage—”

Octavia laughed. “Well, my sister Drusilla has a brood of children and is never in good health, so if I weren't to marry again, I dare say the family will try to pack me off there to do my auntly duty,” Octavia said lightly, and, once again feeling guilty for not telling anyone about her inheritance, added, “It will not come to that, I have other plans.”

Mr. Ackworth sent Octavia off to bed early. “For you are looking peaky, I dare say you found London tiring; a few days of country air
will bring a bloom to your cheeks and take those dark circles from under your eyes.”

The country air was one thing, but the quietness of the countryside was another. Not since she had left her home in Dorset had she spent a single night of such utter stillness, the only sounds those of a hunting owl, or the sharp, distinctive bark of a fox.

Octavia lay in the soft, comfortable four-poster bed, the sheets fresh and warmed by the pan of coals the maid had drawn across them before turning down the covers for her. She had pulled back one of the bed curtains, and opened the shutters at the window, so that she might look out at the clear, frosty sky.

She had grown used to the southern stars during her time in India, but these blazing stars, sprinkled across an inky sky, were the stars of her girlhood, old friends to a lonely child. She felt extraordinarily peaceful lying there, the sounds of Calcutta, of the creak and wind of the ship, of the constant blur of carriages and wagons and voices in London no more than a memory.

She found herself remembering her last night in Dorset, when her stepmother had already left for Ireland. Her elder brother had arranged her journey to London, the hired chaise would be at the door first thing in the morning, the governess had been paid off, and had left, sadly weeping, for a new position, and Octavia had spent a solitary evening drifting about the house, touching familiar objects, pulling out books she wanted to take with her and then putting them back on the shelves. She had no one to talk to except the housekeeper, never a great conversationalist, and a woman who did not bother to restrain her pleasure in Octavia's departure, when she would have even less work to do, and would have the house to herself except for the maid and the slow-witted boy who did the heavy work; Arthur had turned off all the other servants.

And here she was, more than five years older, once again to be put up for sale by her sisters like a horse to any man who would take her off their hands. How shocked they would be when they learned of her plans for an independent life, how furious that she were become so rich, how enraged that she had kept the fact to herself.

She slept soundly and deeply, waking long after the thin spring sun had risen over a landscape sparkling with frost, and was ashamed to find, as she entered the breakfast parlour, that Mrs. Ackworth had been up at first light, and had been busy ever since.

“I have to rise early, or the days are never long enough,” she said, feeling the silver coffeepot to make sure it was hot before pouring Octavia a cup. “I write my letters and do accounts, and then there are so many tasks, I never have time for all I want to do.”

After breakfast, Mrs. Ackworth took Octavia to see the rest of the house: the lofts, with the soft smell of apples laid up from the previous autumn; the dairy, where a large, cheerful dairymaid bobbed a curtsy to Octavia without stopping in her steady labour of churning butter. “We have a herd of Jersey cows, and make our own cheese, more than we can use, so we sell it round about; we are famous for our cream cheeses.”

They came out from the dim coolness of the dairy and into a sunny yard, with hens scratching around, and in the poultry run itself, geese and two large turkeys set up a din when they saw Mrs. Ackworth.

“You would not think that birds who have no brain at all could become so friendly; it is always hard for me when the time comes for them to fulfil their destiny. I swear some of them are more intelligent than many humans, but that says more about our fellow beings than it does about the birds.”

Mrs. Ackworth kept bees, and their hives were near her large herb garden, where green shoots were showing forth. “In the summer it is a delightful garden, with the scented air, and the hum and buzz of the bees. I like to sit here, although never for long, for there is always some duty calling inside or in the gardens.”

The house had a sufficient staff, meagre in comparison to the large number of servants that even modest establishments maintained in India, but Octavia had a fair idea of how much work all this must entail.

“I am busy from dawn to dusk,” said Mrs. Ackworth complacently. “It suits me. I was born a countrywoman, and keeping the
house and my domain in order is a pleasure to me. And Mr. Ackworth is a keen farmer, and as occupied as I am, although in the evening he likes to come into his library and his books, while I find I nod off over my embroidery!”

The days, each one bringing new greenery and life to the countryside, slipped past. Octavia enjoyed helping her cousin, but knew that such a life would drive her to distraction. How odd, that in India she and Christopher had dreamed of such a life, the life they would one day live at Dalcombe, and had felt nostalgia for the scent of new-mown hay, for green fields, for misty dawns and long grey twilights. Yet Octavia was restless, and she was delighted when Mr. Ackworth offered her a mount. “It has not been a good weather this winter, with rain and then heavy frosts,” he said. “All the horses need as much exercise as they can get, let us see which one will be best for you.”

He put her up on a quiet hack, but as she rode round the paddock, and he saw with what ease and assurance she rode, he laughed, and told the groom to saddle Vagabond. Octavia was all admiration as a large black horse, ears pricked, was led out.

“He is a handful, but there is not an ounce of wickedness in him, he will be an excellent ride for you.”

For the first few times she went out, she was accompanied by a groom, but she dispensed with his services as she grew to know the surrounding land. Mr. Ackworth was doubtful as to the wisdom of her riding out alone, but when she told him where she planned to go, he agreed that she would come to no harm. “You are on my land until you reach the crossroads,” he said, “and then to the south is Rutherford parkland, there can be no objection to your riding there, nor to the west, which belongs to Squire Jervis; I am on good terms with all my neighbours, I am glad to say.”

So Octavia rode out along the ridge, relishing the energy and strength of her horse, who felt the springy turf underfoot and snatched at the bridle, eager for a gallop. She pulled him up when she reached the crossroads, and then trotted down the deep rutted lane that ran past the Rutherford lands, looking for a gate where she might jump into the park. There was one a little further on; she put
Vagabond to it, and the big horse hopped neatly over. Once in the park, he pretended to take offence at the deer grazing and moving about the park, but Octavia chided him and told him not to be silly and he settled down to a steady canter along the perimeter by the fencing.

Octavia was startled by a shout; her horse shied violently, as startled as she was, and she only just managed to stop him kicking up his heels and galloping off. There was another shout, the words clearer now: “What is all this, who are you?”