The Second Mrs Darcy (9 page)

An angular woman wearing an extraordinary turban on her head, adorned with feathers and coloured strips of silk, stepped briskly out from beneath the trees. She was accompanied by a younger woman, one, however, who was dressed in a perfectly normal blue gown, with a wide-brimmed hat.

Octavia stared, wondering who the older woman could be, dressed in such a very odd style. It was not only her headgear, her dress was a kind of Eastern robe in shades of vivid red, from scarlet to cherry pink; was she a foreigner?

“We startled you,” said the younger woman. “I am sorry, you nearly came off.”

“There is no need to apologise,” said the turbanned woman, “since she stayed on, at least she can ride. Who are you, and who gave you permission to go galloping about in my park?”

“It is Rutherford's park,” the younger woman put in quickly, “and you know quite well that our neighbours often ride here.”

“This isn't a neighbour,” said the woman, fixing a pair of blazing blue eyes on Octavia. “I have never seen her in my life. The Vicar of Stoke has a new bride, I am told, but you can hardly be she.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Bolton are still away on their honeymoon, Mama,” said the younger woman.

“I knew it could not be her, no Vicar's wife I ever heard of rides about on other people's land on a large black horse. Stay,” she went on, raising her hand in a dramatic gesture. “I don't know you, but I know the horse!”

“Of course you do,” said the young woman. “It's Vagabond, Mr. Ackworth's Vagabond.”

“What, is she a horse thief as well as a trespasser? I never heard of such a thing.” She stepped forward, and tugged at Vagabond's forelock before blowing gently into his nostrils, an activity of which the horse seemed greatly to approve.

“Pay no attention to Mama, she likes to joke. This will be Jane Ackworth's cousin, I told you she was coming to stay. Am I right?” the young woman said to Octavia.

Octavia leant down to shake hands. “I am Mrs. Darcy.”

“Which of the many Mrs. Darcys?” said the older woman. “I know, you are Christopher Darcy's second wife. Ha,” she said with a sudden, raucous laugh, which made Octavia jump. “I could tell you a thing or two about the first Mrs. Darcy.”

“Mama is Lady Rutherford, and I am Lady Sophronia,” said the younger woman, “since the normal methods of introduction seem to have been made superfluous.”

Lady Rutherford was watching a bird hopping from twig to twig of a nearby tree. “A yellowhammer,” she observed, and then went on. “And no groom with you? Mr. Ackworth is remiss. I should not allow my daughter to ride on her own.”

“No chance of that,” said Lady Sophronia with asperity, “since I never ride if I can help it.” She smiled at Octavia. “I am fond of horses, indeed I am fond of most animals, but I have never been a keen horsewoman.”

“You've come from India,” said Lady Rutherford, who had been looking at Octavia as though she were another yellowhammer. “That accounts for the thin face, you need to eat up while you are at the manor, plenty of cream and good food there. The East saps the strength, I have often noticed it. Christopher Darcy's wife, and left in very reduced circumstances; it doesn't surprise me. Christopher always was a fool, a fool when it came to wives and a fool with his money. But there you are, that is what men are like.”

“You are very welcome to ride in the park, Mrs. Darcy,” said Lady
Sophronia, ashamed for her mother. “Will you not come into the house for some refreshment?”

“Not everyone wants to be sitting about maudling their insides with tea,” pronounced Lady Rutherford.

Octavia certainly didn't want to. “Thank you,” she said quickly, “but I must be riding back, or my cousins will be wondering what has become of me.”

“What a strange pair Lady Rutherford and Lady Sophronia are!” said Octavia as she sat with her cousins that evening in the dining room at Ackworth Manor, the curtains drawn, a fire lit in the handsome old stone fireplace, and the soft flickering candlelight sending a warm glow on to their faces.

“I should have warned you,” said Mrs. Ackworth, “only I had no idea of Lady Rutherford being out and about. It is unusually early for her to be abroad.”

“She is a late riser, then?”

“No,” said Mrs. Ackworth. “It is that she is an eccentric, a complete eccentric.”

“I told you, mad as a hatter,” said Mr. Ackworth, reaching for another helping of the duck in green sauce.

“Lady Rutherford believes in hibernation,” Mrs. Ackworth told Octavia.

Hibernation? Octavia was so astonished that she forgot her manners and paused with her fork in the air, staring at her cousin.

“From late autumn, in about November, to spring, Lady Rutherford remains indoors, keeping almost entirely to her bedchamber, wrapped up in numerous garments, and sleeping a good deal. When she emerges, she declares she has had enough sleeping for the year, and so she spends hardly any time asleep, some two or three hours a night. She is a great bird-watcher, and we are quite used to hearing of her being out at all hours in pursuit of some owl or buzzard; stalking some feathery creature at two in the morning is nothing to her.”

“And she lives alone with her daughter? It must be hard for Lady
Sophronia, come the winter, she must be left very much on her own. Or does she hibernate as well?”

“No, her mother wishes she would do so, she considers it the best and most healthy way to live for everybody, but Lady Sophronia has all her mother's strength of will and a good deal more sense, so she will have none of it. I do not think she is lonely, she has a fortunate disposition, she reads and sketches and, indeed, I sometimes suspect she prefers the winter, when she barely sees her mother at all. She goes out when she wants, she is a welcome guest at all the houses hereabouts, she has a large circle of friends.”

“And I dare say she has to run the house while Lady Rutherford is—indisposed?”

“Not at all. Lady Sophronia is not inclined to domesticity, no more than her ladyship is. They have a good housekeeper and a steward, which is fortunate, for although Rutherford is hardly ever there, they still keep a large staff, and the house itself, which is very old, is always in need of care and attention.”

Octavia helped herself to a portion of spiced parsnips. “It seems to me to be a badly situated house,” she said. “It must be in shadow for much of the day, except in high summer, and surely, so near the river as it is, it must be damp.”

“Damp, foggy, impossible to heat, great smoking chimneys, it is as impractical a house as any in the land,” said Mr. Ackworth. “Rutherford always says if he had his way, he'd knock it down and build a modern house, further up the hill.”

“That would be a very good position,” said Octavia. “South facing, and with an excellent outlook.”

“The Romans thought so, at any rate,” said Mrs. Ackworth. “That is another one of Lady Rutherford's hobbies, she is up there every summer with men who can ill be spared from the estate work, digging and burrowing. She was in ecstasies last June when she unearthed a piece of leather which she said was a Roman shoe.”

“She was right,” put in Mr. Ackworth. “Our vicar is something of an antiquarian, and he says her knowledge is remarkable. If you ever go into the house you will see the collection her ladyship has made;
any number of pots and rusty buckles, all set out on shelves in glass cupboards.”

“And I dare say the house has had many additions since it was built in Tudor times,” said Octavia.

“It has,” said Mr. Ackworth. “It has been added to each century, but in such a higgledy-piggledy way. There are more tall chimneys than a house can have any need of, and they all smoke, or have birds nesting in them—”

“And Lady Rutherford will not allow the nests to be removed,” said Mrs. Ackworth.

“Well, if it were mine, I would do as Lord Rutherford wants to do, and take it down to build a new house further up the slope.”

“It is all talk with him,” said Mr. Ackworth severely. “Pass the sweetmeats to Octavia, Jane, she is still looking peaky, we cannot send her back to London so thin.”

“All talk?” said Octavia.

“These Whig grandees have no interest in anything that happens beyond the bounds of London. They live on their rents and maintain their great houses and estates, but at a distance, or they will spend at the most a few reluctant weeks in the summer there. Whigs are London people, they like to breathe the sooty, foul air, and then to let it out again in Parliament. And Rutherford is your arch Whig, he is full of wicked Whiggery. He would never take the time or effort it would require to rebuild Chauntry.”

“He could employ an architect, I suppose,” said Mrs. Ackworth.

“Pooh, with an architect you have to spend even more time on your building scheme, or you will find yourself a good deal the poorer and with another house that no one would want to live in, turrets sprouting here, inconvenient kitchens there. That would not be Rutherford's way; what he does, he will keep under his direction. No, no, the house will moulder on, until one dark night a wind will blow the roof off or the chimneys away.” He laughed heartily. “Probably bearing Lady Rutherford off with it; she would be perfectly happy to wake up and find herself lodged in a tree with some great owl hooting at her. She is like an owl herself with those immense eyes.”

“Lady Rutherford always makes Mr. Ackworth feel uneasy,” Mrs. Ackworth explained later as she and Octavia sat in the cosy drawing room, warm from the logs burning in the grate; Mr. Ackworth had stayed in the dining room to drink his port and read a book.

“The eyes
are
remarkable,” said Octavia. “And her daughter has them, too.”

“So does Lord Rutherford,” said Mrs. Ackworth. “Only his are a darker blue, and he does not share his mother's temperament; in him, the eyes are formidable, a hawk rather than an owl.”

“Why has Lady Sophronia never married?”

“She did a season or two in London, when she was a girl, but for some reason or other, did not marry. Rumour has it that she received one or two very good offers, for the Rutherfords, you know, may marry as high as they choose. But she did not choose, and now that she is the wrong side of thirty, it is unlikely that she will marry, despite having a handsome fortune.”

“There are no other brothers or sisters?”

“No, just the two of them. People say that Rutherford must marry and get an heir; every season the mamas are agog with hope that he will cast his eye in the direction of one of the debutantes, but they are too young for a man of his age, he is the same age as Lady Sophronia, of course, and by the time a man has got to that age, you know, he is used to not having a wife.”

“Lady Rutherford would have something to say if he cast his handkerchief in the direction of any woman,” said Mr. Ackworth as he came into the room and stood before the fireplace, holding his hands to the flames. “She would not like to be the Dowager Countess, not at all. She has her vanities, for all her head is full of owls and Romans and those animals she has wandering about the house.”

“Animals?” said Octavia.

“Animals everywhere,” said Mr. Ackworth. “Dogs and cats are nothing to her, no, she must have a tame pig and a sheep and rabbits hopping here and there, and parrots screeching from the rafters.”

“That is true, but she certainly has a knack with the creatures,” said Mrs. Ackworth. “And you cannot criticise her way with horses.”

“No, no. She breeds Arabians,” Mr. Ackworth said to Octavia. “Best in the country, I give you that.”

“Do not be standing there like that,” said Mrs. Ackworth, “you are taking all the heat from Octavia, and she will feel the cold, coming from India, show some compassion.”

The moon was full, the weather had turned mild, and Octavia was invited with her cousins to dine with the Gouldings at Haye Park.

Mr. Ackworth was not a great diner-out, he claimed. “It takes away useful time when I could be gainfully employed on the farm or doing my accounts, instead of putting the horses to and driving for an hour or more in the carriage and then being obliged to sit on uncomfortable chairs and spend an afternoon and evening in the company of a great many people who have nothing new to say to one another. And I do not know why the Gouldings are not in town, for,” he said to Octavia, “they are fashionable people, not at all like us. Surely that daughter of theirs, what is her name?”

“Charlotte, as you very well know,” murmured his wife, adjusting the straps on the window of the coach.

“Charlotte, yes. Charlotte was to make her come-out, we heard all about the ball they were to give in their London house.”

“You know perfectly well that they postponed Charlotte's London season for a year, after she was so ill with the chicken pox. She had it just before Christmas and it left her not in her best looks, and very tired,” Mrs. Ackworth explained to Octavia. “Lady Goulding is a sensible woman. Charlotte is still very young and a London season is strenuous, even when a girl is completely well.”

“They could have left her at Haye Park and gone to London.
Goulding should be there, he is an MP, he has no business being in Hertfordshire and dragging his neighbours out to dine.”

“It is all humbug,” Mrs. Ackworth said to Octavia. “You will see when we are there how much he enjoys being in company. And it will be the very thing for you. Mrs. Goulding keeps an excellent table, they have a French chef, and there are always a lively party of younger people invited, for Charlotte and her brothers.”

Haye Park was an imposing, modern house built in the reign of George II, set in a well-landscaped park. Lady Goulding came out to greet them, a tall, kindly looking woman with fine, aristocratic features who was dressed in a most elegant gown of ruched green silk. Sir Joseph Goulding was a rubicund man in a dark blue coat, half a head shorter than his wife, with a cheerful expression and a ready laugh.

Charlotte Goulding might be pulled after her bout of chicken pox, but, Octavia said to herself, if this was how she appeared when not in looks, she must be an out-and-out beauty when she was quite well. She had a rare perfection of feature, and a tall slender figure, like her mother. She was dressed with charming simplicity in a yellow muslin gown with delicate roses on the flounces, a dress that suited her to perfection. Lady Goulding obviously had excellent taste.

Seeing the very evident affection her parents showed Charlotte, Octavia wondered if they were altogether sorry to have postponed their daughter's come-out. They might prefer to have her at home for a little longer, for, with what her cousins had said was a good fortune, she would surely be snapped up the moment she made her appearance in London, and her loving parents would in no time be waving her off from the church door on the arm of some eligible young man.

“Now, here is someone who is very anxious to meet you,” said Lady Goulding, taking Octavia's arm. “How tall you are, we are used to think of Charlotte as a tall girl, but …” Her voice tailed away as she caught her words, fearing she might be suspected of a criticism.

“Miss Goulding is a perfect height, ma'am,” said Octavia at once. “I find my own inches a sad trial, but your daughter's height suits her very well.”

A lively looking young woman dressed in a dashing bronze gown was coming towards them, her face alight with smiles. She was pregnant, Octavia noticed, as the woman held out her hand in the friendliest way. “I have so looked forward to our meeting, I was delighted when Lady Goulding told me you were dining here tonight. Oh, don't look so startled, we have never met, that is what you are wondering, is it not? I am a Darcy, by birth, that is, I was Camilla Darcy, although I am now Mrs. Wytton—that is Mr. Wytton over there, casting admiring glances at Charlotte”—turning to Lady Goulding—“how well she looks, Lady Goulding, she will be a wild success when you take her to London, all the men will be sighing over her beauty.”

Lady Goulding moved away, leaving Octavia with Camilla. “So you see, we are cousins by marriage. What a shocking thing to happen to Christopher; I have the fondest memories of him, he was a most amiable man, and I am sure you must miss him so much. Alexander,” she called to her husband, “come over here, I want to introduce you to Mrs. Darcy, Captain Darcy's wife.”

Alexander Wytton, a tall man with a handsome face and a pair of intelligent dark eyes, came over to his wife's side. He pulled out a chair. “I beg you will sit, Camilla, you must take care of yourself.” He bowed over Octavia's hand. “I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Darcy.”

“Oh, that is all nonsense,” said Camilla, but she accepted the chair. “I am breeding, as you can see,” she said, giving her stomach a pat.

“Camilla!” said Alexander.

“Oh, don't be stuffy,” said Camilla. “He is anxious as an old hen,” she went on. “Now, don't give me one of your looks, Alexander, my dear. Since Mrs. Darcy—may I call you Octavia?—is kin, I may say what I like. And here comes the Gouldings' butler, who always makes me laugh, he is such a cadaverous individual, you would think he was going to announce the last trump, not dinner. Now, let Alexander take you in, and I shall sit near you, because I want to hear all about you.”

Octavia was happy enough to sit next to Alexander, finding him to have a keen mind and a witty way with words. On her other side was a tall clergyman whom Lady Goulding had introduced her to earlier on, a Mr. Henry Poyntz, not the incumbent of the parish here, but the son of an old friend of Sir Joseph Goulding's. He and Camilla were clearly good friends, and their corner of the table was very lively, causing Charlotte to turn her lovely eyes in their direction, with some astonishment, and Sir Joseph to call down the table to them to keep up their high spirits, he liked nothing better at his table than the sound of people enjoying themselves. “And try the saddle of lamb, Wytton,” he added, “I swear you will never have tasted a more tender joint.”

So it was not until after the meal was over, and Lady Goulding had led the women from the table to amuse themselves in the drawing room, leaving the men to their port, that Camilla began her interrogation of Octavia.

“You are staying with your sister, are you not? Mrs. Cartland. Mrs. Cartland and I do not get on, she considers me fast. And I most heartily pity that girl of hers, what is her name?”

“Penelope,” said Octavia.

“Yes, she takes after her father, who is an amiable man, but weak. Is Miss Cartland weak? I suspect she has something of her mother's strength of character.”

Octavia laughed. “You seem to know them well.”

“I do not move in that set,” Camilla said frankly. “And if Alexander were here, he would wag his finger at me for abusing your relatives.”

“One cannot choose one's family,” Octavia said. “Theodosia and I have never been close, although,” she added politely but without conviction, “I am sure she has always had my best interests at heart.”

“Oh, as to that, let us not bite our tongues. She packed you off to India, did not she? And although it was a lucky circumstance, for you met Christopher, I cannot think it kind in your family to do that. You had only had one London season, I believe?”

“Yes, but I did not take, and clearly never would take, and
although they prize the Melbury name, my lack of fortune meant it was highly unlikely that I would find myself a husband.”

“That is all in the past, and there is no need to remember those days at all. I hope that the time you had with Christopher was a happy one, that leaves you with good memories.”

“It does indeed,” said Octavia, furious with herself to find tears prickling her eyes.

Camilla thrust a wisp of lacy handkerchief into her hand. “I am sorry, Alexander would be right to rebuke me, here you are still in mourning, and I am insensitive.”

“Not at all,” said Octavia, giving her eyes a token dab before handing the handkerchief back. “It was just for a moment—you are very kind.”

“And you aren't used to kindness, not at Lothian Street, I'll be bound.”

“Everyone was very kind in India, and a naval officer, you know, always is part of a wider network of friends—it is in a way almost another family. I met with nothing but kindness from anyone associated with the service.”

“That is quite as it should be, but tell me, what are your plans?”

For a moment, Octavia was tempted to tell Camilla of her inheritance, but no, this was neither the place nor the time. She had kept it to herself thus far, she would wait a little longer.

“I hope to spend a little while longer here in the country while I am still in mourning—”

“Forgive me,” Camilla interrupted, “but I would not set you down as a country girl.”

“No, indeed, I am quite sure after helping my cousin at the manor that such a life would not suit me at all. I prefer town life.”

“Only town life is expensive,” said Camilla. “Is George Warren going to do the decent thing and provide you with an annuity?”

“I do not think George Warren is the kind of man who would willingly part with any money, let alone with a regular drain on his purse such as an annuity would be,” said Octavia drily.

“Ah, you have made his acquaintance, I see. Well, I think it a very
shocking thing if he does not. I shall ask my papa whether he can bring his influence to bear; my papa has no opinion of Mr. Warren at all, I may tell you.”

“My brother has approached him,” Octavia said, the indignation she still felt showing through, “even though I expressly asked him not to.”

“Oh, Arthur Melbury is the kind of man who will always do what he thinks is right, regardless of the trouble or inconvenience it may cause. But without money, with such a very small income, how will you manage?”

Octavia found herself blushing.

“I have some plans,” she said, knowing how lame it sounded.

Camilla gave her a shrewd look. “In another woman, I would say there was a man in this, but with you—no, it is too soon for you to be interested in men.”

“Everyone says I will marry again,” said Octavia with some heat. “However, you may believe me when I tell you I have no wish to find myself a second husband. I was happy with Christopher, very happy; I might not have the luck a second time to marry another such a one.”

“Yes, clever, amusing, kind men do not grow on trees,” said Camilla. “I count myself fortunate indeed to be married to one myself, but there are not, as you say, so many of them, not enough to go round, in fact, which accounts for some of the dreadful husbands one meets.”

The gentlemen came in soon after, and Octavia was touched to see how Alexander at once made his way to the sofa where Camilla was sitting.

“Alexander, you must mingle,” said Camilla, with a merry smile. “It is quite Gothic, you know, to want to sit and talk to your wife.”

“Oh, hang that,” said Alexander. “Besides, why should I not talk to Octavia? It is not every day one acquires a charming new member of the family.”

“I am talking to Octavia,” said Camilla. “You may go and flirt with Charlotte.”

Alexander cast the daughter of the house a quick glance. “Not to my taste,” he said in a low voice, taking his place between Octavia and Camilla on the sofa. “She is a pretty enough girl, but—”

“Pretty enough!” cried Camilla. “Alexander, have you eyes in your head? You will not find a more beautiful girl anywhere.”

Charlotte was smiling up at Mr. Poyntz, and wrinkling her brow at some droll remark he had made.

“You see, she does not have any great degree of understanding,” said Alexander. “There's Poyntz, as amusing a man as ever lived, and she does not know what to make of him; there, she looks to her mother, to see if she should laugh or turn the jest off, she works her fan. She is well enough, but I am happy with my company here.”

Camilla was watching Charlotte with a little frown. “Lady Goulding does not like to see Mr. Poyntz paying Charlotte so much attention. That's a match that wouldn't do.”

“Oh, a man only has to smile at a pretty girl—all right, Camilla, at a beauty—and all her acquaintance have them married. Poyntz's tastes don't lie in that direction, he will prefer a woman with some thoughts in her head.”

Camilla said, in a confidential way, “The Gouldings hope that Charlotte will make a match with Sholto Rutherford.”

Alexander let out a crack of laughter, earning himself a look of rebuke from Camilla.

“Rutherford has far too much sense to fall for a dewy young creature like that.”

“She would make an excellent countess,” said Camilla.

“Oh, she would look the part, I grant you, but there is more to being the wife of a man like Rutherford than merely looking the part. Can you see Charlotte as a political hostess, and can you imagine Rutherford having a wife who could not play that role? Far more important than the title are his political ambitions. Charlotte is shy, however much her mama and governess's careful training have hidden it. It appears as a pleasing modesty, but it is deep seated, and it is not something that will easily be changed.”

“A season in London, some polish, and she will be much more assured,” said Camilla.

“For many young women, that would be true, but I think it is an essential part of her nature and will not change. She would find the demands of the kind of life Sholto leads quite insupportable. If she married such a man, she would retreat, under pretence of ailments or breeding, to the country, and join him in London as seldom as possible. No, no, it would not do. Besides,” he added, “Rutherford shows no more sign of hanging out for a wife than he ever did, which is to say, not at all.”