The True Darcy Spirit (31 page)

Horatio Darcy left town for Dorset in a temper. He was often in a temper these days, he realised as he sat back, then leant forward to adjust the glasses; chaises were wretched things, draughty and cold in winter and hot and stuffy in summer.

He had no desire to go down to Dorset. It was a long and troublesome journey, and then, when he arrived, out of sorts and cramped, he would be ushered straight into the presence of his aunt Mrs. Shawardine, who would grill him as though he were a leftover French agent.

He stretched out his legs and tried to settle more comfortably into the corner. And it was a devilish expense, all the way down there, by post. However, his aunt gave him an allowance, and she felt she had a right to dictate how he spent at least part of it, by coming at the double to see her when summoned. And it had been, what, more than two years since he’d last had to make the journey?

Why couldn’t she live in Bath, like other people’s widowed aunts did? At least that was accessible. But Mrs. Shawardine wasn’t like other people’s aunts, and then the thought of Bath reminded him of Cassandra, and that made him even angrier. God, what a fool he was making of himself, what a mix-up everything was.

And in no time at all, Lady Usborne would be back in town; she and Lord Usborne had gone north for the shooting, but Lady
Usborne was not a country person, she would be back in London as soon as she could escape from the moors.

What a pity that his aunt wasn’t less of a country person. That was why she wasn’t living a seemly life in Bath, of course. No, she was at Yarlton, managing the large estates which belonged to her stepson, Frederick Shawardine, her husband having meekly breathed his last many years before. While the stepson, another of Darcy’s numerous cousins, lived a life of riot and rumpus in London, rarely taking part in any debates in the House, where he held the seat for Yarlton.

Frederick preferred to frequent the more notorious kind of houses of ill repute and get thoroughly disguised six days out of the seven. By the seventh, he wasn’t to be found in any church, merely sleeping off the excess of the week, and gathering his strength to begin the next week in exactly the same way.

Horatio’s aunt rarely mentioned her stepson to him. He hadn’t married, nor was he ever likely to, and Horatio knew that, if Frederick predeceased his stepmother, which seemed probable, his extensive estates would pass to Mrs. Shawardine, and thence, so she had told him, to Horatio’s elder brother. As if he didn’t have enough already, thought Horatio, in a burst of resentment.

But he didn’t really have ill feelings about it. He liked his brother, a hardworking, domestic man, with a brood of children to educate and provide for. And it was the way things were, younger brothers had to fend for themselves, otherwise all that carefully accumulated wealth and land, most of all the land, would be split up and distributed into parcels too small to be of any use when it came to votes and power and making sure the country was run as it ought to be.

He took out one of the books he had brought with him, a novel; the other was a collection of John’s writings, but he felt he wouldn’t do them justice shaking and rumbling along in this coach. Who said that the roads were so wonderfully smooth these days, that it was like gliding along? Clearly no one who had ever made this journey. The road to Brighton, maybe; the road to deepest Dorsetshire, not so.

He couldn’t concentrate on the novel. The characters seemed
wooden, the plot improbable, the dialogue stilted. He knew that when he came back to it, in a better frame of mind, he would enjoy it, and find it an absorbing read.

He fidgeted into another position, crossed his legs at the ankle, uncrossed them, hunched his shoulders, tugged at his neckcloth. He had never felt so restless; whatever was the matter with him?

His aunt, damn her, noticed it straight away.

“What’s got into you, Horatio? You’ve never been a peaceable man, but at present you’re downright jumpy.”

They were seated, the two of them, in the vast dining room. Fortunately, his place had been set on her right, and not down at the other end of the gleaming mahogany table, which was several yards away. A footman in full livery came and went with dishes, or stood waiting impassively at the end of the room, ready to dart forward and retrieve Mrs. Shawardine’s napkin, which slid to the floor several times at each meal.

It was a strange habit, using these napkins, Horatio thought. A continental habit; his aunt had spent many years on the Continent, while her husband was alive, chiefly to get away from him, Horatio surmised, and had acquired some very un-English ways.

His aunt filled the pauses between dishes by bringing him up-to-date on the details of every family member known to her, which was a great many, and she seemed to have an intelligence network that any general would envy, being aware of the minutiae of their lives to an astonishing degree.

Horatio nerved himself for when she would move on to him; meanwhile, he half listened, responding with an occasional “Really?” or “That’s very harsh” or “I would never have believed him capable of that.”

This stage of the proceedings would generally last until he was left in state, nursing a glass of excellent port, which he didn’t want, while he gazed either at the footmen, still lined up, or stared at the numerous family portraits hung somewhat haphazardly about the damasked walls. He’d rather look at one of Cassandra’s portraits any day. He closed his eyes, reminded himself that he had sworn he was
not going to think about Cassandra, and at once found an image of her in his mind, as clear as though she were standing in front of him in all her gaiety and beauty, with that smile she sometimes had on her face.

This wouldn’t do. He took too large a gulp of wine and stood up. Footmen rushed forward to assist him, just as though I were some gouty old fellow, he said to himself, waving them away.

His aunt had clearly been enjoying a glass of port of her own, and she waited hardly a minute while he sat himself in one of the broad-seated, throne-like chairs, which her father-in-law, a huge man, had favoured, before she began to talk again. These chairs had always made Horatio feel at a disadvantage, especially since his aunt chose to sit her small, lean self in an upright chair, so that, although she was not a tall woman, she could look down at him as he sat beside the mercifully empty fireplace. She was a chilly soul, and was all too inclined to have a roaring fire on even the warmest nights.

“There is a problem with the chimney,” she informed him, catching the look he had given to the empty hearth. “And it is remarkably warm, with this fine spell of weather. The builders and the sweep will have done their work, I hope, before the weather breaks.”

As if she didn’t have half a dozen other large rooms, each with monumental fireplaces, to which she could withdraw after dinner.

“I have some news for you, Horatio, of a confidential nature. Concerning the family.”

“Oh?”

“It concerns you also, or will do so, if you have any sense, which is why I’ve summoned you here.”

“Because I have sense?” he said, quizzing her, feeling more mellow after the wine and the modest amount of port he had drunk.

“This is no time for frivolity. You have always had a frivolous streak; it needs to be kept under tight control.”

Judging that no reply was expected to this remark, he held his tongue.

“Frederick is giving up his seat in the House and going abroad,” she announced, in her blunt way.

That did bring Horatio out of his mellow mood. “What? Giving up his seat?”

“Indefinitely,” she continued.

“Abroad?”

“For the good of his health,” she said.

Horatio was of the opinion that his cousin Frederick was unaware of just how much his mother knew about his life in London.

“Boys, still?” he said. It was a risk to make such a remark, but his aunt was a woman brought up in the last century, when people were less mealy-mouthed about such matters.

“You shouldn’t say so, not in front of the servants, but yes.”

Horatio looked around him. “I see no servants.”

“No, there are none, I sent them all out. But they’re probably listening at the doors.”

Since the doors in question were at the far side of the room, and were large, deep, wide, heavy wooden doors, Horatio doubted if even a servant with the ears of an elephant could follow their conversation.

“Yes, it’s the old trouble, but he has gone too far. There are houses in London, which cater for his tastes, I understand.”

Molly houses, Horatio said to himself.

“At one of these, there has been some trouble, stories passed to the newspapers, and reports of certain incidents. Well, it will be impossible for the authorities to ignore them. Oh, they’ll be hushed up, of course, but various gentlemen will do well to locate themselves outside London for a very long while, and indeed, they would be advised to leave the country. As Frederick will.”

“I thought he was at Brighton.”

“He was. He will shortly be in France, and will be taking up residence in Italy, where I own a house. He will not be returning to England. He has agreed to this, I have power of attorney, and,” she spoke with a little effort, “he is not well. I do not think he will survive for long, because what ails him is not the sort of—There is little doctors can do when it has reached this advanced stage.”

“Ah,” said Horatio.

“I have never liked Frederick,” his aunt said in remote tones.
“But he is my stepson, and my late husband’s flesh and blood. There is no chance now of his marrying and providing me with grandchildren.”

She does have courage, Horatio said inwardly.

“You, Horatio, are more of a son to me than Frederick has ever been. You were a lively little boy, but as kind as they come; you’re clever, but you don’t use your wits and tongue to put down your fellow men, and you’ve set about making your way in the world, as a younger son, with determination and energy. You have ability, you are a very handsome man—no, don’t shake your head, good looks are an advantage, for a man as well as a women, if coupled with charm, which you also have. And charm is an asset in a political career. You make no secret of the fact that a political career is what you want.”

“In the fullness of time, yes,” Horatio said. “But I have to make my mark first.”

“Well, you won’t do it crawling in and out of Lady Usborne’s bed,” said his aunt, with one of the sudden thrusts for which she was famous. “That has to stop, Horatio. It’s an adulterous relationship, which is always wrong. She’s ten years older than you, which makes both of you look foolish, and you can’t afford to look foolish. And her husband is a dangerous man. She’s using you to play off against him, and if you can’t see that, then you are a fool.”

Horatio, stunned by the force of her attack, opened his mouth to protest, but she swept on. “I don’t say that she won’t have enjoyed the liaison. As I said, you are a handsome man, a fine scalp to add to her belt, but it won’t do. Conducted with discretion, you might have got away with it. Now that it is so generally known, it is quite another thing, and Lord Usborne won’t like it. And, if I may give you an excellent piece of advice, be careful with Lord Usborne. I knew his father well, and this son is just like him.”

“He is not the most agreeable of men,” Horatio began, but his aunt cut him short.

“I’ve said what I’ve got to say on that subject, although it does have a bearing on what else I want to speak about. Which is, regarding Frederick’s seat in Parliament.”

Horatio could not believe his ears. Of all the reasons that had passed through his mind for his being summoned to Dorset, this one had never occurred to him, it could not, even in his wildest dreams. She was offering him the seat, the chance to become an MP.

“You will have to spend a little time down here, but there are not above four thousand votes, and they will vote for you if I tell them to and will continue to do so until some meddling politician takes himself at his word and brings in reforms. Don’t you have anything to do with radicals of that kind, Horatio, they will do nothing but harm.”

Horatio, who knew that his political views were very different from his aunt’s, kept silent, hugging himself with an inward joy. Parliament! Years before he could have hoped to even contest a seat, here was one dropped into his lap. Not a county seat, of course, but a seat was a seat, and he would make far better use of it than eighty percent of those presently members of the House.

“That is why you must keep away from Lady Usborne. What with Frederick, and the new morality that is starting to take hold, you have to be seen to be whiter than white; the newspapers will be ready to pounce on you; do not give them the chance.”

Lady Usborne? If only his aunt knew; since she had been in Brighton, he had come to realise that he didn’t care for her at all. He had been flattered, she was a most attractive woman, and his desire had got the better of his sense, as was the common lot of men. But it would cost him no pain to part from her. In fact, he had already done so, to all intents and purposes, and he felt pretty sure that she would have found herself a fine new young lover while she was at the seaside, that place of trysts and flirtations.

“It’s time you married,” his aunt was saying. “I may not have grandchildren of my own, but I should like to see your children growing up.” She held up a hand. “You are going to say, you cannot yet afford to marry, which is true, but while you are not married, you will find yourself falling into the snares of such as Lady Usborne, and it will not do. Therefore, at such time as you choose a suitable bride, I shall give you Caldwell House.”

This time, Horatio was truly astounded, and he could do nothing but stare at his aunt.

“There is the house and a neat little estate. It will not make you rich, but, properly managed, it will bring you in some three thousand a year, and provide a home for your family in due course.”

Suitable bride, there was the fly in the ointment. Horatio had a very good idea what his aunt would consider suitable, and he didn’t think it would match with his, at all.