The True Darcy Spirit (21 page)

There was a great likeness between the two cousins, although the relationship was not a close one. Cassandra had inherited her chestnut hair from her father, whose glossy brown locks had not been the least of his attractions for the mousy Anne de Bourgh. Cassandra’s hair was almost of the same shade as Camilla’s; there was a liveliness in both the cousins’ expressions, and a sparkle to their eyes that was also similar, although Camilla had her mother’s dark eyes, while Cassandra’s were an unusual shade of grey.

So, although Camilla had not seen her cousin for several years, not since they were girls, in fact, she recognised her at once. She was perceptive, and as she took in the similarity in their looks, she also noticed the signs of strain in Cassandra’s face, the hint of a shadow about her eyes, an unhappy look to a mouth that was naturally smiling, the tension in her bearing.

She took her by the elbow. “Come, we are standing in the way of all these people, come over here, I so much want to talk to you.”

“Do you think you should be seen with me?” Cassandra said, with some bitterness. “I may be your cousin, but I assure you, I am no longer considered a member of your family, or indeed of any other.”

“Such nonsense. That is your absurd, no, not absurd, foolish and unchristian stepfather speaking. What has he to say about any Darcy? You are one of us, and always will be.”

That made Cassandra smile. “You are generous, but the connection is distant, we are not such close cousins that you have to acknowledge me. And”—with a lift to her chin that Camilla admired—“I do not at present go under the name of Darcy.”

“You did not marry that man, after all?” exclaimed Camilla.

Cassandra’s mouth tightened. “Is my story so well-known?”

Camilla could see that this upset her. “It was bound to be so,” she said quietly. “We had it from Mr. Horatio Darcy—ah, I see you know him; of course you do, for he acted for your stepfather. Much against his will, I may say, he told us that your stepfather was not a man he could admire or wish to have any dealings with. He felt obliged to do so in this case, however, as he felt he owed it to you.”

“He owed it to the family name, he has no concern for me.”

“There I think you wrong him, but let us not argue about it. Now, tell me everything. How are you situated? Where are you living? For we have been worried for you, we heard that you had gone to live shut away in Cheltenham, and yet here you are in London. She would never let you come to London, I feel sure. Is this your maid with you?”

“Yes, that is Petifer, who has looked after me since I was a girl, at Rosings.”

“I am so glad she is come with you.”

“It is not quite what it seems. But I am not living with Mrs. Norris, although it may yet come to that.”

Camilla could see that her kindness was making it difficult for Cassandra not to break down, and here, in front of all these people, that would never do. “Have you yet seen the exhibition?”

“No,” said Cassandra, glad for the chance to move on to a more neutral subject. “For we have only just arrived.”

“Then let us go round together. I should so much appreciate it, for I have heard what a skilled artist you are yourself; I never had the least inclination in that direction, my drawing had my governess in despair. But I love to look at paintings, and you may tell me what I should think of them.”

It was a shrewd move on Camilla’s part, because by the time they
had stood before two or three canvases and Cassandra had eagerly pointed out details of brushwork and the use of light and the arrangement of the subject and the balance of the composition, she had quite forgotten to think about herself.

Camilla was startled by the depth of Cassandra’s knowledge, for she had expected no more than any of her artistically inclined friends could have provided in the way of explanation. And her cousin’s concentration and observation were absolute, she looked at the paintings in a way that opened Camilla’s eyes. She was, she reflected, as passionate about art as her younger sister Alethea was about music. Which boded ill for a young woman in a censorious world, where female enthusiasms were expected to be of a milder kind. Not that Camilla had ever been a great one for the stuffier conventions; she had married a clever, eccentric man, and was enjoying the freedom that marriage gave her to think for herself and express as well as form her own opinions.

She knew that an understanding of art did not necessarily go with any great degree of skill or genius, but had a good idea that Cassandra’s own painting and drawing might be much beyond the usual run. Her sketches, when she came to Pemberley as a girl, had made her father lift his eyebrows, she remembered, and say, “Remarkable, quite remarkable.”

Cassandra was entranced by the Turners in the exhibition. She turned to Camilla with shining eyes. “Look at the light, how does he do that? I never saw such a luminous quality to a painting!”

“Do you paint landscapes?” Camilla asked.

“I like to do so, but my true love is portraiture.” She was looking through Camilla’s catalogue. “There are some portraits by James Lonsdale, I should very much like to see those.”

“I admire those who can capture a likeness,” Camilla remarked, as they stood before a striking portrait of Mrs. Siddons. “There is a famous picture of her, painted when she was much younger, by Mr. Gainsborough.”

“I have never seen it, although I have seen an engraving. He did
better by her nose than this artist does, for in her case, such a notable feature brings out the whole strength of her character. That is the real art of taking a likeness, of course, to express the nature of the sitter as well as his or her appearance.”

Cassandra lingered for a moment in front of a large canvas, a portrait of the Prince of Wales. “Is this the Prince Regent?”

“Yes,” said Camilla. “Lower your voice before you pass judgement, for he is extremely touchy about his appearance. He had Leigh Hunt thrown into jail for calling him a fat Adonis.”

“Well, if he does not think that is true, he must have turned all his mirrors to the wall, for I never saw a grosser man. The artist is clearly afraid that he might also be thrown into jail, for he has painted nothing more than a paper and straw person, draped in regal robes, there is no insight into the soul or nature of the man at all.”

“I think I would prefer not to see inside Prinny’s soul, if he has one,” Camilla said in a whisper. “He is not popular, you know; and my husband, Wytton, whom you must meet, cannot abide him.”

Camilla could have bitten her tongue; even as the words came out, she saw Cassandra stiffen, and the wary look come back into her eyes.

“You are very kind, but I do not think my circumstances will permit of my having any social engagements while I am in London.”

“Oh, stuff!” said Camilla. “One may make judgements on a painting, or even on a prince, but Wytton is not about to pass any judgement on you, I assure you. He is not that kind of a man at all.”

Although that was not strictly true, she reminded herself. Wytton, who knew and liked Eyre, had been quite harsh about Cassandra. “She has thrown over a good fellow, on a whim,” he had said, frowning.

“She was right to do so, if his liking and willingness to marry her were dependent on her fortune.”

“That is the case in most matches, and besides, she liked him well enough to run away with him. So why did she not swallow her pride and marry him? It makes no sense, she must be an idiot of a girl, this
cousin of yours, not to consider what she was about. Eyre is very cut up about it, he cared for her, whatever you may say about only wanting her fortune.”

Men, even the best of them, saw things from a very different view-point, Camilla told herself, and she did not want to get into an argument with Wytton about it, so she turned the subject, and kept her own, very different views to herself.

Once Wytton had a chance to meet Cassandra, he would be of a different opinion, Camilla felt quite sure of that. No one who spoke to her for five minutes would call her idiotic; foolish, maybe, but her folly was the action of a moment, not an innate part of her. He would recognise the Darcy pride and the Darcy spirit as soon as he got to know her, and that would change his mind, and give him a better understanding of why she had behaved as she had.

“That is enough of paintings,” Camilla said briskly, after an hour of inspecting canvases. “My mind cannot at present take in any more, so let us call a halt to it, and I shall take you to drink tea and then you may tell me all about what you are doing in London and what your plans are. No, no, do not look at me in that way, if you please. I am an inquisitive creature, and you are family, whatever you say, and perhaps I may help you in some way.”

Petifer, who had been unashamedly listening to their conversation, nodded her head at this. “Show some sense for once, miss. You go with Mrs. Wytton, as she says.”

Camilla looked at Petifer with approval. “Thank you, Petifer, is that right? Don’t worry for your mistress, for I shall see her home if you will give me your direction.”

Cassandra opened her mouth to protest, but Petifer spoke before she could stop her. Well, it didn’t matter so very much; it was only a temporary address, she could not stay there for much longer. This lowering thought brought all her problems, forgotten in the delight of being at the exhibition, flowing back into her mind, and it was with a heavy heart that she followed Camilla out of the Royal Academy.

“We could go to Gunter’s,” Camilla said, with a frown. “However, it is a hotbed of gossip—”

“No, you do not want anyone to know you have been keeping my company,” Cassandra said quickly.

“What a goose you are! That is not what I mean at all, only that we are speaking of private matters, and there is no need to shout them to the whole of London, as is what happens at Gunter’s. I know of a little tea room nearby, very quiet and respectable, that will be much more suitable.”

They sat together in a corner, while a broad man in a long apron, who seemed to know Camilla quite well, came to attend to them. Camilla ordered tea, and some pastries.

“He is now set up in this business,” Camilla told Cassandra, “because he has a game leg, did you notice the limp? Formerly, he was in my husband’s employ, he accompanied him to Egypt, and was of the greatest use, so Mr. Wytton says.”

It took skilful questioning, interspersed with refreshing cups of tea and deliciously light pastries, for Camilla to pry any useful information about Cassandra. Her cousin was cagey and cautious, but Camilla was quick of understanding, and had not grown up with four difficult and temperamental sisters without learning how to extract the truth from someone such as Cassandra.

“Your situation then, is this. Your stepfather and mother have cast you out, which is cruel and unfeeling, but I dare say your mama is under the thumb of Mr. Partington, and so dare not let her maternal feelings influence her. You do not wish to live with Mrs. Norris, which is wise, for that would truly be a fate worse than death, if anything can be. You have no money at present, and your quarterly allowance will not be sufficient to permit you to stay in London without you finding some other source of income. You have nowhere to live beyond perhaps the next few days.”

None of this came as news to Cassandra, but stated in these plain words by Camilla, it seemed suddenly too much for her to bear. Petifer was matter-of-fact and bracing, everyone else was censorious. Camilla’s voice, even with this clear, even ruthless, exposition of her predicament, was warm with sympathy; and sympathy, Cassandra found, quite undid her.

“No, do not cry,” Camilla said.

“I am not going to cry,” said Cassandra, dabbing fiercely at her eyes with her handkerchief. “It is only that I feel so powerless and helpless. How different it would all be if I were a man.”

“That is what my sister Alethea often says, but you cannot change your sex. You can find employment, though, that is the first thing to be done.”

“Then there is the bill at Rudge’s,” said Cassandra inconsequentially. “He will not be expecting it to be paid at once, but yet I shall have to meet it. The world of colourists is bound to be a close-knit one, and I cannot afford to be turned away as a customer by any of them.”

“I see you have not yet told me everything,” said Camilla. She poured more tea. She would drink pints of tea and consume far more pastries than was good for her, if that was what was necessary to get to the bottom of Cassandra’s troubles. She had a feeling that she had not yet heard the half of it.

When, an hour later, she had wrung every last detail out of Cassandra, she sat back with satisfaction. “There, don’t you feel better for sharing your troubles?”

“I have shared them, with Petifer, and despite the saying, it does no good to one’s spirits.”

“It may not, but Petifer has given you a great deal of practical help, and I can give you some more. No, do not start up with all that nonsense again. I shan’t offer you money, but I think I may be able to provide you with a suitable place to live. My former governess is a writer, Eliza Griffin, you may have heard of her?”

Cassandra’s face lit up. “Oh, yes, indeed I have, I am extremely fond of her books. Mama and Mr. Partington did not approve of novels, but I had some good friends who lent me all of theirs, and we were all so delighted to read Eliza Griffin’s novels.”

Camilla was pleased. “She will be pleased if you tell her so, for she has a very modest estimation of her talents. The point is, she has a house, not far from here, and I know that her lodger left at the end of the last quarter. I am almost sure she has not yet let the rooms. She is
very particular as to whom she shares her house with, and would prefer to have the rooms empty than to have a lodger she does not feel comfortable with. I have an idea that you and she might get along very well together. Writers and artists often do, I find, since both live in a world of fancy.”

Miss Griffin lived in Soho, which was a warren of streets on the eastern side of Nash’s new Regent Street. It boasted some more modern houses among those in the old style, some of them still with the overhanging roofs that made the narrow streets below seem dark even on the brightest day. Miss Griffin’s house was on the corner of Soho Square, which, although small, had a pleasant green space in its centre.