The True Darcy Spirit (19 page)

Cassandra watched the pale grey of the sky turn to pink and gold and the outlines of smoke drifting up from numerous chimneys. The sounds of a new day came up from below, the creak of a bed, a woman calling out of the window to the driver of a passing wagon; she could hear its wheels squeaking as it rumbled over the cobbles.

Petifer, lying snugly on the truckle bed, was still fast asleep. Cassandra had wanted to take the truckle bed, but Petifer wouldn’t hear of it. “I’m used to it, and you aren’t,” she said.

A truckle bed might be the least of what she had to get used to, Cassandra thought ruefully. Never in her life had she slept in a room like this, in a house like this, in a district like this. They were at 42 Bow Street, Covent Garden. On the ground floor was a shop, selling pots and pans. The first floor was rented out to a man who owned several market stalls, and he lived there with his wife and his five children and a large cat, a fine mouser, one of the children had told Cassandra with pride as he passed her on the stairs, the squirming feline clutched in his youthful arms.

On the next floor lived Mr. and Mrs. Mantel, who owned the house. They were a stout and amiable middle-aged pair, their children grown up and with families of their own, and it was in the attic where three of their children had formerly slept, that she and Petifer had spent the night. Cassandra sat up. She was wearing her shift, and
she looked over to where Petifer had carefully hung her gown over a pole attached to the sloping ceiling.

Cassandra liked the room, and she liked the Mantels. Cousins of Petifer’s brother-in-law, Margaret’s husband, they had accepted their arrival the night before with a kind of phlegmatic pleasure, and a bob of a curtsy to Cassandra. They were always ready to welcome one of the family, they said to Petifer, and if Miss Cassandra was in need of a bed, why, there was the room upstairs, nothing fine—with a doubtful look at Cassandra—not what a lady might be used to, but clean and comfortable, the mattress stuffed with their own straw, no bedbugs in sight, and fresh linen, washed and aired by her herself, and laid by with lavender to keep it sweet.

Cassandra could smell the lavender now, its scent mingling with the smell of fresh baking which wafted through the tiny window. She slid out of bed and went to look out, over a sea of roofs; this was an unknown and fascinating London.

She went back to the bed, and sat down. She needed to do some serious thinking. Mrs. Mantel was kind and hospitable, but the truth was that Cassandra was homeless and penniless, and only her own wits and Petifer’s indomitable spirit stood between her and despair.

She opened her purse, and counted out the meagre amount of money she had left. Petifer had not wanted her to give so much money to Harriet—but how could she not help her when what she needed was, in all honesty, so very little. And it was little enough to pay for the story that Harriet had told them, a story that might well have saved Cassandra from a similar or even sadder fate.

Harriet told them, as she sat on the bench, that she had nowhere to go. She owed rent to her landlady, and had no money to pay it. She had intended to slip out with her few possessions, “and indeed, I hated to do it, for she has been kind enough, and she has her living to earn, the same as everyone else.”

What had happened to bring her to such a state of desperation? “For you are gently born, don’t tell me no lies,” Petifer had said with more directness than Cassandra would have employed.

It was odd, how her story echoed Cassandra’s, only it contained fewer falsehoods.

“I was born Harriet Foxley, the daughter of a clergyman, in a poor parish in Devon.” A fiery blush spread up her face. “When I was sixteen, which was a year after my mother died, I ran away from home. I shall not say why it was, but I was no longer welcome there. I had a little money, and I came to London, where I lodged with a woman from my village who had married a London man. I had to find employment, and since I am very fond of children, and was used to care for my little brothers and sisters, I obtained employment in a household with a large nursery. I was happy there. Until, one day, while out in the park with two of my charges, I had the ill luck to encounter Lord Usborne.”

Another blush. “He was persuasive and handsome, and made me feel not at all like a servant.”

“Nothing wrong with being a servant,” said Petifer.

“Oh, nothing in the world, and how I wish I had remained in my position as nursery maid. However, I was foolish, and succumbed to temptation, and allowed myself to put aside all the moral teaching I had had from my mother—in short, I put myself under the protection of Lord Usborne, and consented to become his mistress and live with him on terms other than marriage. It was wrong of me, very wrong, but I did not then know that he was already married, I told myself that he was in love with me, and would marry me, but of course he had a wife.”

“Of course,” said Petifer. “A man of his years, and standing and wealth, and not one of the other kind, he would be bound to have a wife, as you must have known.”

“Well, I did not care to think about it, and when I found out about the existence of Lady Usborne, I was already installed in a pretty little house in King Street, with servants of my own and a carriage and fine clothes and luxuries that I had never known. He took me out, to the play and to the opera and to masked balls and to parties, but never among any people except those who were of the demimonde, which was what I had become, one of the impures. I knew
that I had no chance of a respectable life, of marriage, only of staying what I was, and then, when he tired of me, moving under the protection of another such man, as long as I kept my looks and charm. Only Lord Usborne is a difficult man, very clever and with a terrible temper, and he is jealous. If I so much as looked at another man, it would rile him. He treated me as a possession, not of as much value as his horse, perhaps, and a little higher in his esteem than his dog, but what he had, he held.”

“So what happened?” said Cassandra.

“While I was a nursery maid I had became acquainted with a young man, Mr. Morris—well, not so very young, he is near thirty. He is an engraver, and we were on more than friendly terms; you might say we were courting. Only, then I went off with his lordship and had to put him out of my mind. You may imagine my surprise when one morning there was a ring on the door, and he was shown into my sitting room, come to deliver a set of engravings ordered by Usborne!”

Petifer gave her a shrewd look. “So who got you in the family way, his lordship or this engraver fellow?”

She was with child. That accounted for the fainting as much as the hunger; indeed, weren’t women in her condition often much hungrier than usual? Cassandra cast Petifer an enquiring glance, how had she known?

“Pray do not speak of him with contempt,” said Harriet, tears filling her blue eyes. “For indeed I love him, and he is my husband, and the child I carry is his.”

“Husband?” said Petifer sharply. “If you are married, where is this husband?”

“He is in hiding. He was arrested for debt, on a trumped-up charge, when his lordship found out that I had been seeing him, that I was attached to him. He does not know we are married, he would not care. As far as he is concerned, another man dared to take what belonged to him, so he threw me out of the house, and used his influence, which is considerable, to have my dear Richard seized by the bailiffs and thrown into a sponging house.”

“Your husband is in jail?”

“Not any more. I scraped together every penny I could, and bribed the turnkey to look the other way, and he escaped. Only Lord Usborne found out and is scouring London for him; I do not know what he will do if he finds him, indeed, he will not do so, for Richard has found a man who will let him work his passage to America. Richard was pressed in the late war, you see, and so he is of use on board a ship. It is arranged that I am to accompany him, as a passenger, only how can I go with not a stitch to my back but what I have on now? How can I even get to the ship in time? For it sails tomorrow evening, and will not miss its tide for any passenger!”

“To begin with, stop crying, which never did anyone any good, and use such wits as the good Lord gave you,” said Petifer.

“You must join your husband,” Cassandra said. “What will he do when you reach America, how will he support you?”

“He is a fine craftsman, a master of his trade. He has served his time and will find work, I am sure. He has relations over there, in Boston, and he plans to work and save and then set up his own business.”

“Very creditable,” said Cassandra. “Where are your lodgings, where is this landlady of yours?”

Harriet shrank back. “It is no use; she will not let me have my things. If she sees me, she will raise a hue and cry, and then I, in my turn, will be thrown into a sponging house.”

“You won’t,” said Cassandra. “I shall give you the money to pay what you owe.”

“You are very kind,” said Harriet, shaking her head. “But I cannot accept it. You don’t know me, and how can I ever repay you?”

“You have told me what kind of a man Lord Usborne is, and that information will be of great benefit to me. In return, I will settle your debts—at least, I will if they are not too great.”

Petifer was up, in her usual brisk way, and was, Cassandra saw, putting on her bonnet, as though to go out.

“Where are you going?”

“To St. James’s Square, Miss Darcy, to collect your things.”

Cassandra sat down on the side of the iron bed. “They will not give them to you, not without you pay the rent, and even if Mrs. Nettleton were to accept the sum agreed, which, if what Betsy told you was the truth, is unlikely, I do not have that amount of money left.” She gave Petifer a shrewd look. “And if you pay her out of your savings, Petifer, I shall never forgive you.”

“I dare say that Betsy was truthful enough in what she said, although a poor misguided creature in most ways. It’s of no account, and I wouldn’t give a farthing to that woman, not after what she had planned for you. No, I’ll find a way, don’t you fret about it.”

“It is for me to face Mrs. Nettleton, Petifer, not you. I can fight my own battles.”

That earned her a snort from Petifer. “You may be a match for Mrs. Nettleton, and when your temper’s up, I warrant you would be, but you can’t go capering about London in your shift, can you now? Besides, it’s best you keep away from St. James’s Square, it isn’t Mrs. Nettleton that should bother you as much as his lordship. For the way he was eyeing you, he’s taken a great fancy to you, and such a man doesn’t like to let his prey slip, I tell you that for nothing. Now, I shall take this horrid gown back, to think of you wearing such a thing. You wait here until I get back.”

Cassandra had to consent, although she wasn’t happy about it. What might Mrs. Nettleton say to Petifer? How could Petifer possibly come off the best from such an unequal encounter?

“No problem at all,” said Petifer triumphantly, placing Cassandra’s portmanteau on the bed beside her and unbuckling the straps, and requesting Mr. Mantel, who was clutching Cassandra’s trunk, to place it on the floor. He did so, told Petifer that if she fancied a bite to eat, just to let Mrs. Mantel know, and left the room.

“All your things, every last stocking and pin,” said Petifer, with great satisfaction.

“How did you manage it? And you are back so soon?”

“I took a hackney-coach both ways. It goes against the grain, to spend the shillings, although I suppose the cabmen, cheeky fellows they are, have got to earn a living, same as anyone else. I picked out a big fellow, with an amiable face, apart from the scar over his eye, I think he was once a prizefighter by the look of him. I told him to wait for me, and if I wasn’t out within the fifteen minutes, then he was to knock on the door and ask for me.”

“Gracious,” said Cassandra, whose respect for Petifer was growing by the hour. She had always known her for an efficient manager, but it was becoming clear that she had had insufficient scope for her talents within the staid surroundings of a country house like Rosings.

“Mrs. Nettleton was in, and very haughty and high-and-mighty, but I soon put a stop to that, by putting my nose in the air and saying as how I was your maid, sent by your brother, now in town to collect your possessions.”

“Brother! I have no brother!”

“I know that, and you know that, but how should Mrs. Nettleton have any idea that you don’t have half a dozen of them, all ready to descend on her house and ask what she is about? Her cunning schemes only work when a girl is on her own and has no one to look out for her.”

“But she knows I never mentioned a brother, surely she did not believe you?”

“Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t, but she’s not one to take a risk. I said that you and your brother had had a disagreement, because he hadn’t got on with your late husband, but now it’s all made up, and you’ll be staying with him.” Petifer paused, looking shrewish. “If you ask me, she doesn’t believe in that husband you invented, but I think the mention of a brother alarmed her.”

Petifer’s voice held a note of triumph, which Cassandra felt was fully deserved.

“What about the rent?”

“I said to send an account of what was due to Crillon’s hotel, care of Mr. Barnaby, and it would be attended to. As it will, by being thrown out with the rubbish after it’s sat there a few weeks.”

“I must and shall pay her, I owe her the money.”

“Not so fast, for she was quick enough to give me this,” and Petifer handed over a sheet of paper, closely written. “It is an account of some paints you bought, I am not sure what she was speaking of, but I said you would see to it. Time was running short, and I wanted to be out of there. So upstairs I went, with that Betsy, who isn’t a bad creature, although not so good at dusting, judging by the stair treads, and had your things packed up in a trice. Then I summoned the cabman to help with the trunk, and I was out of the house, within the quarter hour, and back here as you see.”

Cassandra was looking at the paper. “I do not know what to do about this. It is a bill for all the paints and brushes and so forth that I bought on Mrs. Nettleton’s behalf. Everything is still there, I suppose, in the room where I was working.”