Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | The Second Mrs Darcy

The Second Mrs Darcy
Elizabeth Aston


Romance and scandal abound in this warm and witty tale of the young Octavia Darcy. Perfect for Austen addicts everywhere!‘I am a woman of independent means, definitely in possession of a good fortune, but I am not in the least in want of a husband!’So declares Octavia Darcy. Raised as a poor relation, she is sent off to India to be married, only to have her brief happiness as the second wife of Captain Darcy dashed by his early death. But an unexpected legacy leaves her extremely well off and for the first time ever she can decide her own fate.Suddenly everyone wants to know her and pay court to her. Who can she rely on? Luckily her new-found acquaintance with her Darcy cousins takes her to Netherfield Hall, which has an argumentative but undoubtedly intriguing new tenant…





ELIZABETH ASTON




The Second Mrs Darcy









For Jessica Buckmanwith love



The Second Mrs. Darcy




Contents


Title Page (#u97da63df-d122-56ce-821c-522a063b7590)Chapter One (#u3413a6f0-ebe7-57f7-b032-0ff78f86ff0a)Chapter Two (#ue26cb8fd-9ccf-5e65-a6e1-cc4be39e5360)Chapter Three (#ue200b134-ae70-5347-9f10-0f032218050a)Chapter Four (#u0ec9fdb2-2064-5e6b-bc0f-3bff91e5911a)Chapter Five (#u93e7332d-d6cb-54a0-a3bf-dd3de896f38e)Chapter Six (#ud95e480c-58aa-551c-9f3d-c3e24c62a557)Chapter Seven (#u98fcb5dc-5619-571e-8189-c8d13242a291)Chapter Eight (#u96f82e40-2858-50f7-b1c5-bbe1fd39ebd8)Chapter Nine (#u54e92705-3f6f-53c1-9c92-371ab41d2140)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)A Touchstone Reading Group Guide (#litres_trial_promo)About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)Also by Elizabeth Aston (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a husband.”

Lady Brierley made this pronouncement in booming tones that brooked no disagreement. “Of course you will marry again.”

Octavia smiled at Lady Brierley, a woman all nose, but despite her Roman appearance, very good-hearted.

They were sitting on the verandah of the Thurloes’ house in Alipore, a suburb of Calcutta, making the most of a pleasant breeze which ruffled the huge leaves of the banana tree near the house. The hovering bearer came forward on silent bare feet to fill their cups with more fragrant Darjeeling tea.

“I am sure you are right,” said Octavia, “but, however, I am not in possession of a good fortune. I am in possession of virtually no fortune at all.”

“No fortune? Of course you have a fortune. Your late husband was certainly well-to-do; he had a good income, a good estate, a first wife brought him a handsome portion—and then he won a considerable amount in prize money; it was known throughout the service that Captain Darcy was a lucky captain in the matter of prizes.”

“That is true, but he put a lot of that money into his house and estate, and both are entailed.”

Lady Brierley narrowed her eyes. “I had heard that was the case, but I did not believe it. He had no brothers, no close relations at all; pray, who will inherit?”

“A man called George Warren, a distant cousin.”

“George Warren! I have heard of him, he is the son of Lord Warren, who— Well, it is all most irregular, and I am sorry for you, my dear, if you are not left in as comfortable circumstances as you might have expected.”

“I shall have a small income, on which, with care and good management, I shall be able to live.”

“That is hardly—” began Lady Brierley.

Octavia smiled. “It is not as though I was brought up in affluence, I am used to making do on little.”

“Before your marriage, you were a Melbury. Your brothers and sisters may not rank among the very rich, but they hardly have to watch every penny.”

Which was true enough, but they certainly grudged every penny that had to be spent on Octavia. Octavia disliked her brothers and sisters—half brothers and sisters—in fact, quite as much as they disliked her. There were five of them, three sisters and two brothers. One sister married and—thankfully—living in Yorkshire, two others married and living in London—married well, by the standards of the world, although Octavia didn’t care at all for Lord Adderley, and knew Mr. Cartland to be quite under her sister’s forceful thumb.

Her eldest brother, Sir James, the Squire of Melbury, lived in the country, at Melbury Hall, rarely left his land and stables and hounds to visit London, and took no interest in his young half sister; a person of no fortune, no consequence, no account, he would have said, if asked. Her next brother, shrewd, ambitious Arthur, always ready to point out Octavia’s failings and defects, spent most of the year in London. He was a rising politician, who sat for the family parliamentary seat of Melbury.

Her brothers and sisters had never forgiven their father, the late Sir Clement Melbury, for remarrying, several years after his first wife had died, when he was well advanced in years. He had seven children, of whom her five half brothers and sisters were the survivors; two more children had died in infancy. What need had he to disgrace them, caught by a pretty face and a well-turned ankle, choosing to marry the daughter of a man who was hardly more than a tradesman, not even a successful London merchant, not in any great line of business, and his mousy, ill-bred wife? The daughter had been attractive, in an insipid, ordinary way, but their father had made a fool of himself, of course he had; what folly to marry a girl less than half his age, a nobody.

They had felt nothing but relief when the second Lady Melbury died in childbirth, leaving a baby daughter, whom he had named Octavia. The name annoyed them, as suggesting that this child was one of them, which, of course, in their opinion, she wasn’t.

Lady Brierley was busily arranging Octavia’s future for her. “Well, my dear, we must think of what is to be done. You will return to England, I dare say, there will be legal matters to be dealt with, and this cousin of yours must be persuaded to give you an annuity, he will not wish to appear mean in the eyes of the world, and Captain Darcy was a man with many friends and of standing. He was liked by everyone, so amiable as he was. No, that is the best course for you, the voyage to England will take you several months, so your period of mourning will be almost over by the time you arrive, and then, you know—”

Octavia could finish the sentence for her. And then, you know,you might be so lucky as to find yourself another husband.

Lady Brierley’s mind was indeed still running on husbands. “On the other hand, such matters can be dealt with by lawyers, and with the Ninth Foot due to be posted here, although of course soldiers are careful whom they marry—but still, even with a very modest portion, you are a Melbury by birth, and that does count for something. You were fortunate before; where so many girls return to England still unmarried, you quickly found a husband, and I don’t see why that should not be the case again.”

What a lottery marriage was, Octavia reflected. Her father had married again, within ten months of being made a widower for the second time, and this time he chose better, in the eyes of his older children; the third Lady Melbury, herself a widow, was the placid daughter of a respectable squire, and her first husband had been a man of position and wealth. She had brought Octavia up without enthusiasm or much kindness, but she had a strong sense of duty, so that when Sir Clement was carried away by an inflammation of the chest, and his heir and his siblings made it quite clear they had no wish to take responsibility for their half sister, Lady Melbury had taken the eight-year-old Octavia to live with her in a pleasant house near Weymouth, in Dorset.

Octavia’s half brothers and sisters had paid their younger sister little attention for the succeeding seven years, hoping merely that a fever or some childish complaint such as a virulent attack of measles would carry her off. But Octavia survived the dangerous early years of infancy and had grown into a tall girl, taking after her despised mother, with very few graces about her and a distressing tendency to speak her mind.

Then, at the age of thirty-nine, Octavia’s stepmother had announced her intention to marry a Dublin physician, which was all very well for her, the Melburys said, quite good enough, and would mean that there was no longer any danger that a dowdy Lady Melbury might turn up unexpectedly in town and want to be introduced to their circle. But not even a mere half sister was going to be allowed to go and live in Dublin in such a household, not while she bore the name of Melbury.

Since her brothers were Octavia’s legal guardians, they could impose their will on their despised half sister. Lady Melbury would have taken Octavia with her to Ireland, but she accepted the family’s ruling without argument and set off to her new life in Dublin as wife to Dr. Gregory without Octavia. After all, she told her stepdaughter, she was a great girl now, fifteen was nearly grown up. She would do better to keep up her connections with her father’s family than languish in Dublin.

Octavia fought the decision, but Arthur was absolute, and so she stayed on in Dorset, in the company of a woman who wasn’t well educated enough to be called a governess, a woman of indeterminate age who drifted around the house in a cloud of melancholy and with a perpetual sniff that drove Octavia to leave the house and saddle her horse and gallop the fidgets out of herself on long solitary rides.

When her brother Arthur found out about the rides, he put a stop to them by the simple expedient of selling her horse and leaving her with one old pony who could be used in the trap to take them to and from the nearby village when required.

“One is expected to marry, of course,” said Octavia, watching a mynah bird with its comical yellow eye hopping about on the sparse grass in search of insects. “It’s considered the natural state for any young woman. And yet, do I want to marry again? I am not so sure that I do.”

Lady Brierley pursed her lips. “You are still grieving for your husband, of course it is too soon to be making any plans of that sort, any definite plans, that is. However, one must look ahead, you will come out of your blacks, and you know, once a woman has been married, she is accustomed to the state. Even women with husbands a great deal less amiable than poor Captain Darcy find themselves wishing to marry again.”

“Only I am tall, you know, and that does limit the possibilities.”

Lady Brierley looked sharply at Octavia; was there a hint of laughter in her voice?

“Nonsense, height has nothing to do with it. You are graceful, you carry your inches with style, and there are shorter men who prefer—”

“Oh, I think I could only like a man I could look up to,” said Octavia gravely.

At eighteen, Octavia had been summoned to London from Dorset, whisked away from one day to the next by an impatient Arthur, to be inspected and made ready for marriage by her sisters.

One look at her, and they despaired. “She’s taller than most men, which is a grave handicap,” complained Augusta.

“Built like a cart horse,” said Theodosia.

“You’ll have to do your best to make something of her,” said Arthur with a shrug. “She is as ill bred as her mother, and you must break her of this habit she has of speaking her mind; that will never do.”

And they tried, in their ruthless way. Muslined and crimped and scolded and directed as to just how to behave, Octavia must be meek, men didn’t like any forwardness in a woman, particularly not in one who resembled a bean pole. She must laugh, but softly, nothing merry or uproarious, at whatever jokes or pleasantries her partner might make; she must listen; she must hold her tongue and keep her thoughts to herself, no one was interested in her except as a wife of more or less suitable breeding and the possible mother of future sons.

“At least she looks healthy enough,” said her brother disparagingly. “Perhaps some country fellow in town for the season might take a fancy to her, some man who is not averse to an Amazon for a wife.”

Privately, her half sisters laughed at her prospects. “If she had a fortune … but even then, she is so very rustic.”

Neither of them had had any great fortune, but they had been so beautiful as girls that each of them had swept more than one eligible man off his feet the moment she had come out, and had married, in turn, the richest and most influential of her suitors.

At first, Octavia felt sorry for their husbands, at least for Theodosia’s husband. Augusta’s spouse, Lord Adderley, was a dark, brooding, unpleasant man, who looked at Octavia as though she were an insect; he and Augusta deserved each other, she soon decided. But Henry Cartland, Theodosia’s husband, was a kinder man, who seemed to have a gleam of sympathy in his eye when he heard her being harangued by one or other of her family. However, he made no attempt to intervene or stand up for her; he had been married to Theodosia for long enough to know that it would be a wasted effort.

The season had passed in a whirl of dances and parties, with Octavia hating every moment of it, making no friends, and certainly attracting no parti, eligible or otherwise.

“Perhaps we should have sent her to Dublin after all,” said Theodosia, in irritated tones. “Perhaps she would be better off in Ireland.”

“In that company, in the house of a mere physician? She is our half sister, and is known to be so. No, no,” said Augusta. “I shall get Adderley to see about a passage to India, where let us hope she may snare a Company man or an army officer.”

“Augusta is right, it’s the only thing to do with her,” Arthur had said. “The girl’s a liability. She’ll never get herself a husband here in England, unless some curate can be persuaded to take her on, to help in the parish. She may have an honourable name, but everyone knows her mother was a nobody; she can’t expect a good match, no looks, no fortune, nothing to recommend her to any man. And she makes no effort to attract, she is a hopeless case.”

“And there is one great advantage to this plan,” Octavia overheard Theodosia say, “at the very least she will be gone two years, for the voyage takes many months, and we shall oblige her to spend at least a year there, to give herself a chance of finding a husband.”

“The voyage may be dangerous, severe weather, you know, many ships are lost at sea in bad weather.”

“And there are pirates, I believe, in some parts of foreign oceans.”

“Yes, although it is not so hazardous a journey as it was during the war.”

The sisters thought with regret of the years when enemy frigates bearing down on the East Indiaman, guns firing, passengers taken away and never seen again, were a common occurrence.

It had indeed been a long and often stormy crossing, the voyage out, but the ship had suffered neither shipwreck nor attacks by pirates, and the time at sea had brought Octavia a kind of happiness. The routine of the ship suited her; it allowed her to grow back into her own skin after her disastrous season in London. She made one or two friends among some of the girls in the fishing fleet, as they were uncharitably known, although her frank ways earned disapproval from others, and from most of the mamas who were accompanying their daughters.

One of the girls had become engaged on board, to a ship’s officer, and had indeed been married by a disapproving captain. As they had anticipated the wedded state, it was uncertain whether the fruit of their love would arrive before the vessel sailed into harbour in Bombay, a topic that kept all the female passengers agog with interest, and among the men, led to a book being opened as to the chances of the baby being born on board or ashore—despite the often expressed disapprobation of a clerical gentleman on his way to convert the heathen of Bengal.

Octavia had gone overland to Calcutta, where a distant cousin had agreed to look after her and launch her into such society as existed in that crowded, noisy, lively city. He and his wife had turned out to be pleasant enough people, and, to Octavia’s joy, Harriet Thurloe was a keen horsewoman, with whom she could go out riding every morning on the Maidan, before the scorching heat made any outdoor activity impossible.

And then a Royal Navy frigate had called at Calcutta, on an unscheduled visit for urgent repairs: spars broken, a mast sprung in a gale. A dance had swiftly been arranged for the naval officers, and Octavia had found herself partnered in the quadrille by a handsome man in his early forties, a Captain Darcy, who wasn’t in command of the Wentworth moored at Howrah, but on his way out to his own commission.

They were eye to eye in height, and he was a grave man, but with a sense of humour that Octavia appreciated. A week after they had met, and a week before he was due to sail, he had proposed, and Octavia, liking him, if not swept off her feet, had accepted.

It had been the talk of the town: all the young ladies and their mothers or aunts or cousins had had their eye on Captain Darcy.

“He is very well connected,” Harriet had said. “Of an excellent family. The Darcys are very rich; his cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy, is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, you know.”

“Christopher Darcy has a neat estate in Wiltshire,” Mr. Thurloe added.

“He is a widower,” Harriet told Octavia. “His first wife was a great beauty, and the granddaughter of an earl. He was heartbroken when she died. It was an accident of some kind, I seem to remember, her horse bolted, and she was thrown. Or did her carriage overturn? I can’t exactly remember. That was five years or so ago, and people said he was so grief-stricken he would never marry again. However, once a man has had a wife, I find he likes to have another, so I’m not surprised that he wishes to marry again. Although …”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but Octavia knew what she was thinking. Why should a well-bred, well-off man, formerly married to the descendant of earls, pick Octavia for his second wife?

Captain Darcy told her why. “You laugh a lot,” he said, after giving her an affectionate kiss. “You have a smile on your lips, and your eyes dance. We naval men have a hard time of it at sea, and it will be a joy to come home to a warm smile and laughter.”

In the brief time they had together, it had been a happy marriage. He wanted a son, he made no bones about that, but he was kind and considerate when she lost a child early on, more concerned for her than for the loss of his hopes. “It’s difficult in this climate,” he said, having decided to leave her in Calcutta with Harriet while he was on his commission. “Plenty of time yet.”

Only he hadn’t had time. A keen botanist, he had taken the opportunity on his next visit to Calcutta to go up country with a naval friend. There, he had been bitten by an insect, a poisonous insect, and had, so the stricken lieutenant reported on his return to Calcutta, died soon afterwards.

Lady Brierley rose to take her leave. “You must take care of yourself, my dear, and if there is anything we can do—the Admiral was an old friend of Captain Darcy, as you know; they served together in the war on several occasions, and we in the service do not forget the families of our fellow officers.”

Octavia was touched by her kindness, and indeed by the kindness of her cousins, the Thurloes, who had taken her back into their household and were concerned for her future.

“It is all round Calcutta,” Harriet exclaimed, when she came in from a drive out to Tollygunge.

“What is?” said Octavia, helping her cousin with the ribbons of her straw hat. “You have just missed Lady Brierley.”

“No doubt calling to find out if it is true that you are penniless, thanks to that dreadful entail! To think of George Warren inheriting!”

“Not quite penniless.”

“As good as.”

The Thurloes returned to the subject of Octavia’s fortune that evening at dinner. Octavia, feeling hot in her black dress, although it was made of muslin, fanned herself vigorously. She wished that the punkah wallah, sitting peacefully in his corner and working the overhead fan by means of a string attached at one end to his big toe and at the other, via some pulleys, to the centre of the revolving wings, were more energetic in his task.

Although why should he be? It was one of the unexpected pleasures of India, she had found: the contrast between the cool mornings, the time for brisk exercise, for riding and for clear thinking, and the languorous heat of the day, giving way to the ease of the evening.

The weather was cooler now, in September, with the hot season and the rains over; the monsoon had come late that year, meaning that the baking sultry days of the early summer months had seemed to go on for ever, finally breaking in a stupendous thunderstorm which sent sheets of water on to the dusty streets, transformed in a flash into foaming streams and even rivers, causing many of the inhabitants to be virtual prisoners in their houses until the floods subsided, leaving a muddy, stinking detritus beneath still-brooding skies.

Octavia loved the drama of the weather, she loved the energy and vitality of a city thronged with people, mostly desperately impoverished, but still loud with talk and colour and life. How dull distant England seemed, although she knew that the Thurloes were endlessly homesick for green fields and hedges, for villages with church spires, for the mists of autumn mornings when the huntsman’s horn rang out over the fields.

“Or London, how much I envy you returning to London!” said Harriet. “And you will be pleased to see your brothers and sisters again,” she added, without conviction, having a very good notion of just how pleased they would be to have Octavia turning up on their doorstep again.

“It is such a pity that Darcy’s heir should turn out to be George Warren,” Robert Thurloe said, not for the first time, as he ate a mango and then dipped his fingers into the water bowl. “No one, except his mother and the Prince Regent, with whom he is on very good terms, one understands, has a good word to say for the fellow. My advice, Octavia, if you decide to return to England, is to write to Mr. Darcy, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire. He is not a close connection of your late husband’s, but he is a man of considerable wealth and influence. He has a fine estate, and has done very well out of mineral rights, I understand. He may be able to advise you as to the best course with regard to approaching George Warren.”

Octavia had no intention of contacting any of her Darcy connections, however rich and influential. She suspected that their reaction to the arrival of an impecunious widow, even one bearing their name, would be much the same as that of her own family. They would compare her unfavourably with that paragon of breeding and beauty, the rich, aristocratic first Mrs. Darcy, whose memory had haunted her marriage. And from all she had heard of George Warren, the chances of his providing for her in any way seemed remote; he was not that kind of a man.

The lawyer in Calcutta who had laid out for her just how Captain Darcy’s affairs were arranged had expressed his own doubts about Mr. Warren in no uncertain terms. Mr. Dyer was a small man with round, red cheeks, which he blew out in a disparaging way when the subject of George Warren came up. “Mr. Warren has a reputation for doing nothing which is not of immediate benefit to himself. You must make the attempt, of course, I would not advise otherwise, but you should not hang any great hopes on a favourable outcome.”

Well, she, Octavia, wasn’t going to go cap in hand to any George Warren. She would ask Christopher’s lawyers in London to write to him, and if, as she expected, the answer was a flat refusal, then she would take it no further.

“Have you made up your mind when you will return to London?” Harriet enquired, as she and Octavia left the table and went to sit on the verandah.

Octavia listened to the sounds of an Indian night, the yelps and yowls of the pi dogs, the unearthly howls of the hyenas, a baby in a neighbouring house crying, then being hushed, the hoot of an owl, that harbinger of doom, according to the Indian servants, although Octavia liked those big birds of the night, with their huge, unblinking eyes and feathered wings. She didn’t care so much for the bats, visible against the last trails of yellow left from the abrupt tropical sunset, squeaking and flitting to and fro. And the frogs had started up in their steady nighttime chorus.

How she would miss it all; how would she cope with life in Cheltenham or Bath, or whatever genteel town her tiny income would take her to?

“The Sir John Rokesby sails on the twenty-fifth, and I dare say you could get a cabin. Oh, how I envy you, how I wish we were going back to England.”

Harriet’s plump face looked quite distressed, and Octavia leant over to pat her hand. “Well, you will be returning in two years, will you not?”

“Two years! Two more years of this, I do not know how I will bear it.”

“You could return sooner.”

“And leave Robert on his own? That would be unkind, unchristian, unwifely. And besides,” she added wisely, “it is never a good idea to leave one’s husband on his own in such a place, there are temptations, and I have seen it all too often, the handkerchief waved at a departing wife, and within hours the desolate husband has found comfort in a pair of willing arms. For the women here are uncommonly beautiful, and Robert is no different from any other man in that. No, I must serve my time out, but you—I cannot imagine why you hesitate. Time has passed, you know, I dare say you will find yourself on better terms with your family than you imagine; it is different, being a married woman—that is to say, a widow, but it is not the same as when you were a girl.”

Better terms? Well, she could hope so, but she had a strong suspicion that none of her family would be pleased to see her. Had she been a rich widow, the case might be different, but she knew they would be annoyed by her circumstances.


Chapter Two (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)

“A caller, at this hour?” said Harriet.

She and Octavia had just returned from their morning ride, and were still in their riding habits.

“Tell him to return later,” Harriet said to the bearer.

The bearer looked grave. “It is a lawyer sahib, for Mrs. Darcy. Upon an urgent matter.”

“Oh, well, in that case.”

“Mr. Dyer?” said Octavia. “What can he want that is urgent? Ask him to come in, Chunilal.”

But it was not Mr. Dyer who came into the room. This was a stranger, a perspiring, red-haired, red-faced young man, freckled and hot.

“Beg pardon, ma’am, for calling so unconscionably early in the day,” he said. “However, this news has just reached us, it came overland, you know, and London never sends overland unless it’s urgent. I thought you might be out later on, so I took the liberty of calling early. If it is inconvenient, I shall return later, at any hour you care to name; however, I believe you will wish to hear what I have to say.”

Octavia was intrigued. Overland from London? “I assume it is to do with the estate of my late husband, Captain Darcy.”

“Late husband …? Captain Darcy? Oh, no, not at all, nothing to do with Captain Darcy.”

“Are you not a colleague of Mr. Dyer, who handled my husband’s affairs here in Calcutta?”

“No, not at all, nothing to do with Mr. Dyer, I know him, of course, it is a small world, but this is an entirely separate matter.”

“Well, then,” said Octavia, gesturing to the harassed-looking young man to take a seat. “What has it to do with, Mr….?”

“Oh, Lord, I never introduced myself, and I do not think your servant caught my name. I am Mr. Gurney, Josiah Gurney.”

Mr. Gurney had a sheaf of papers with him, and he began to sort through them in a hasty way. “Yes,” he said. “Now, your mother was Susannah Worthington before her marriage, is that correct?”

“My mother?” Octavia was nonplussed. Her mother, the woman she had never known, who had died when she was born? What had she to do with anything, let alone urgent missives from London?

“Daughter of the late Mr. Digby Worthington, of Yorkshire? Who was your grandfather?”

“Yes, he was my grandfather.”

“And you have papers to prove it, I suppose.”

“I have some papers—but what is all this, Mr. Gurney? You are nothing short of mystifying, and I do not see what my mother’s family nor my grandfather can have to do with anything here in Calcutta.”

“Ah, what it has to do with is you, Mrs. Darcy. You were the only child of the late Lady Melbury, she was the second Mrs. Melbury, I think?”

“Yes.”

“And she was an only child, she had no brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

“Exactly so. That is exactly the case as stated here.”

Octavia didn’t know whether to laugh at this absurd parade of paper shuffling and the air of suppressed importance evident in Mr. Gurney’s freckled face, or whether to ring the bell for the bearer to escort him out. She decided on a compromise. “It is growing warmer and you have had a hot journey, I think. Allow me to call for refreshments.”

The bearer arrived with tall glasses of nimbu pani, a refreshing drink made with fresh limes and sugar. Mr. Gurney mopped his brow with a large spotted handkerchief.

“I am afraid I am not making myself clear, but I am obliged to ascertain the facts, to make sure that everything is as is stated in these papers from London. It has all taken a deal of time, but with her passing away in India and her lawyers in London, it doesn’t make for easy communication.”

“What are these papers you mention? Who has passed away?”

Mr. Gurney looked surprised. “Did I not say? I refer to the estate of the late Mrs. Anne Worthington, who died, I regret to say, some months ago. In Darjeeling. She lived in England, had done so since she became a widow, but she had made the trip to India to visit her tea plantations.” His cheerful face assumed a look of sudden gravity, then he brightened. “She was, however, a very old lady, well into her eighties, a remarkable age, you will agree.”

“And a redoubtable woman, to be making the journey to India at that age. But there is some mistake,” said Octavia calmly. “I’m not related to this Mrs. Worthington. There is obviously some confusion because the name is the same as my mother’s. My grandfather was Mr. Digby Worthington, as we have agreed, but his wife, my grandmother, was an Amelia Worthington, who died many, many years ago. I have no other Worthington relations; my grandfather was an only son.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Gurney. “Not so, Mrs. Darcy, not so. If you are unacquainted with the fact that your grandfather had a younger brother, then I can understand your confusion.”

“A younger brother?” said Octavia; this really did startle her. “You are mistaken, I would have known about it had such a person existed.”

“Would you? He was, perhaps, something of a black sheep, a ne’er-do-well, in the eyes of his family, and when he left the shores of England never to return … Such people often drop from memory, and I believe that your grandfather died before you were born. Exactly so. Your mother, sadly, died when you were born, and as you yourself said, you have no other Worthington relatives, so how should you be aware of the existence of this other brother, who left England so many years ago?”

“I still find it impossible that there could be any such person.”

“Ah, you find it hard to believe, but I assure you, Mrs. Darcy, the papers are all in order, there is no question about it. I represent a firm of lawyers in London, Wilkinson and Winter, a firm of the very highest repute, anyone will vouch for them. If they say a thing is so, with regard, that is, to wills and ancestors and descendants and so forth—then you may take it that they are right. And since this is no mere trifling legacy at stake, they will have been most particularly careful to ascertain—in short, you can take it that you had such a great-uncle, that his widow was Mrs. Anne Worthington, of Leeds in Yorkshire, who recently left this mortal round.”

“Yes, very well, I believe you, but what has it to do with me? I never knew Mrs. Worthington; as I did not know of her existence, I scarcely could have known her. I am sorry to hear of her death, but it hardly seems an urgent matter. Has she no other living family? I assume there is some problem to do with her estate, and you seem to think that I may be able to assist you in some way, but you have come to the wrong person, I cannot help you at all.”

“No, no, I do not ask for your help, except in the matter, the pure formality, of my needing to see that you are indeed who you are. No, I have the honour of being the bearer of what I am sure you will find good tidings, for Mrs. Worthington names you in her will as her sole heir; you inherit everything she owns.”

“But I am no blood relation of hers! She never knew me, how can this be?”

“She had no family of her own, you are her husband’s closest living relation, and since her fortune came to her from him, on his death, it is quite right and proper that it should come to you.”

Octavia’s head was in a whirl. She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again. No, she wasn’t dreaming. She was sitting here, with this strange young man, in Harriet Thurloe’s large drawing room, with its double doors leading on to the verandah beyond. There, outside, just whisking out of sight was Ferdie, the mongoose, encouraged to live in the garden as a deterrent to and scourge of snakes … She pulled herself together. “Precisely what, Mr. Gurney, do I inherit from this supposed great-aunt of mine?”

Mr. Gurney looked alarmed. “As to precisely, that is something I can’t say. These are confidential matters, and the overland route, although swifter than the sea journey, is fraught with potential hazards. I merely have the information I have given you. However, I think I may say that it will be a substantial inheritance, Mrs. Worthington had property in India, and …”

“Tell me, how came she to have property in India?”

“Did I not explain? Mr. Worthington made his fortune in India, so I am informed. He was a nabob, as we say, and he never returned to England once he had quit the country of his birth, when he was a young man of twenty or so. He was sent out to India by his family. He met his wife here, and they lived in Darjeeling. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Worthington returned to England. To the north of England; there is, I understand, a property in the north of England, in Yorkshire. Again, I have no details.”

Octavia could hardly believe her ears. A house? Yorkshire was the county where her third half sister Drusilla resided, but it was a large county, there was no likelihood of her having been a neighbour of the late Mrs. Worthington’s. Not that, from the sound of it, her great-aunt would have been the kind of person that Drusilla would call upon.

“In the circumstances,” said Mr. Gurney, frowning, “of course, I do not know what your plans are, but I would urge you to consider returning to England as soon as it can be arranged. There is a vessel, an East Indiaman, the Sir John Rokesby, which is due to sail; it might be difficult to obtain a passage at this late stage, but if it were possible, I most strongly advise you to make the voyage to England. You need to consult with our firm in London, that will be much the best thing for you to do.”

“My cousin, Mr. Thurloe, is with the Company. I think there would be no problem with obtaining a berth. I was contemplating going back to England in any case, it was only the expense—”

“Oh, Mrs. Darcy, expense is no consideration at all. I am empowered—directed, I should say—to make available to you whatever sums you might need to defray the expenses of the journey—of any expenses you might incur. You have only to name a sum; there is no problem with that, none at all.”

Octavia smiled, and Mr. Gurney blinked. The tall young woman suddenly looked years younger, not that she could be so very old, and there was a colour in her cheeks; he had thought she looked sad and pale when he arrived, but now she was transformed.

“May I take it that you will go to London?” he asked, after several minutes’ silence.

“Yes. If I could have some money, that would be …” She hesitated, fearful of asking too much. “Perhaps fifty pounds.”

“Fifty? Let us say a hundred, or more if you wish it. I assure you, you can draw on us for a much larger sum than that.”

“No, no thank you, I shall need very little on the voyage, and I should not like to carry too large a sum on my person.”

“Very wise, very wise. I shall send a clerk round with it this afternoon.”

He rose, perspiring more than ever; however did he manage in the really hot weather?

“One thing, Mr. Gurney, I would request of you.”

He looked enquiringly at her.

“Pray, can you keep the news of this inheritance to yourself? Calcutta is a small place, and until I have the details—well, I would prefer that no one knows about it.”

“Of course, of course. No, I am as capable of discretion as the next man, more so, for in my profession one has to keep mumchance, you know. No danger of this getting out, I assure you.”

He bowed himself out, the door closing behind him as Harriet, looking cool and neat in a pale green dress, came in through the other door.

“Was that Mr. Dyer? What did he want?”

“It was a colleague of his, some papers that needed attending to.”

“Is it something that Robert can help with?”

“Oh, no, it is nothing, nothing at all.”

Why didn’t she want to tell Harriet, to spill out the good news that she knew would delight her friend? Was it caution, for after all, she had only Mr. Gurney’s word that there was any substantial inheritance? The house in Yorkshire might be a tumbledown cottage, and the fortune in the end a few hundred pounds. Or the will might be disputed, some natural child of her great-uncle might appear to make a claim on the estate; her great-uncle must have been a wild young man to be packed off to India in such a fashion.

“Did you ever hear of a Mr. Worthington, Harriet? He lived in India, in Darjeeling, but died some years ago. He was survived by his wife.”

Harriet shook her head. “We have only been here for six years, you know. I do remember someone talking of a Mrs. Worthington, perhaps that was his widow. I believe she was very rich, and went back to England. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, merely that Mr. Gurney wanted to know if I had been acquainted with either of the Worthingtons.”

“Her money came from tea, I seem to remember.”

Before Harriet could ask any more questions, Octavia told her that she had decided to go back to England on the Sir John Rokesby. “If Mr. Thurloe can arrange it for me.”

“My dear, of course he can. How I shall miss you! But it is for the best, I truly think so, you must go back before you lose your looks in this horrid climate, and then you may see if anything can be got out of Mr. Warren.” She paused. “I know you will accept nothing from us, but it did occur to Robert and me that perhaps the cost of your fare was a concern to you. We should be so happy if—”

“No, no, it is not a consideration, I have the money for that and a little more besides. Which reminds me, I shall need some clothes, some half-mourning for when I arrive back in England. Will you please send a servant to Madame Duhamel for me?”

Madame Duhamel was a Frenchwoman who had come to Calcutta with her husband, only to be left a widow when he was carried off by the cholera. She had set to making her own living, and employed several local derseys to make up the fashionable clothes she designed. With good contacts in Paris, she had the fashion dolls and the plates only a few months behind the modistes in London; Octavia knew she would dress her in style.

“Madame Duhamel!” exclaimed Harriet. “She is wickedly expensive, you know.”

“But I shall not need so many clothes, and it will not do for me to arrive in London black and dowdy; my sisters are very smart, and will abuse me for a provincial if I do not take care.”

“Oh dear, you are quite right, first impressions are so important. Well, if you have the wherewithal, you cannot do better. I shall send to Ballygunge at once, there is no time to be lost. Indeed, I may ask her to make a gown for me, my blue is looking sadly shabby, I thought, when I wore it to the Lawrences the other night.”

When Octavia retreated to her room that night, lying under the muslin draped over the posts of the bed to keep insects at bay, she found sleep elusive. In a day, her world had been turned upside down. Hope sprang in her breast, hope that Mr. Gurney had not been exaggerating, that her inheritance would provide her with at least a modest independence. In which case she would no longer be a poor relative, no longer obliged to put up with her sisters’ patronising ways. Perhaps there would even be enough money to rent a house in a quiet part of town; if the house in Yorkshire could be sold, she had no desire to live in Yorkshire …

Fortune, Mr. Gurney had said. What constituted a fortune? To her, an income of a few hundred a year would be a fortune beyond her wildest dreams. How pleased Christopher would have been for her. Dear Christopher, with his kindness and sense of amusement. Tears slid through her closed eyelids as she finally fell asleep, her mind filled with memories of her husband, and the inheritance quite forgotten.


Chapter Three (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)

Octavia lay in her narrow berth in the tiny cabin she occupied on the Sir John Rokesby. She wasn’t asleep, but listening to the sounds around her that had become so familiar to her over these last six months: the creak of the ship as it hit the waves and rolled up and then back, the shrill bosun’s pipe, the noise of the sails and rigging singing in the wind, running bare feet on the deck, orders bellowed out, the slap of halyards against the three masts, and, more often than she would have liked, the scuttle of rodents’ feet as these unwelcome fellow passengers went about their ratty business.

Tonight, even in the early hours that were the quietest on board, the hours she had come to know as the dog watch, there was an expectancy in the air. The long voyage was nearly at an end. Today, with the wind in the right quarter, which the captain had assured her it would be, the ship would be making land, and then it would sail up the Thames to berth at Tilbury docks, in the heart of London.

It was more than five years since she had sailed from Tilbury, on a soft June day, alone; none of her half brothers or sisters had felt inclined to take the time to see her off.

Her brothers and sisters. Half brothers and sisters; at least she had some hope of not turning out like them. She shifted in her bunk, too short for her long legs, and gazed into the darkness, seeing them in her mind’s eye.

Octavia heard the sounds of the morning watch going on deck, followed by the steady thump as the lascars washed and dried the decks, the sound of the chants as sails were furled or unfurled. She sat up, shivering slightly. She missed the warmth she had grown used to in India; a voyage that had started in brilliant sunshine was ending on a chill March day.

The Sir John Rokesby slid up the grey Thames in the mist. They could have been coming into port anywhere; for a wild moment Octavia imagined they had taken a wrong turn and were arriving in America, or Canada. Anywhere but London, where she would be greeted without enthusiasm by her brothers and sisters, a black sheep making an unwelcome return.

There was no one waiting for her on the dockside; of course there wasn’t. She looked out at the forest of masts around her, for a moment wishing she was setting sail and not arriving. Then she squared her shoulders and, wrapping her cloak about her as a gust of cold air struck her, snatching at her hat, walked down the gangplank to set about the business of making sure her few boxes and trunk were despatched to Theodosia’s house in Lothian Street. A kindly officer helped her into a hackney carriage, and she was off along grey London streets.

Home, Octavia said to herself. All the passengers had talked enthusiastically of coming home, even the disappointed girls for whom a season or two or three in India had failed to produce the requisite husband. They had families, she supposed, people who might even be glad to see them, whereas she— Well, she wasn’t going to allow herself to fall into a fit of the dismals. This might turn out to be a far different homecoming from any she had imagined, should what Mr. Gurney had told her in Calcutta turn out to be even half true.

She stared out at the warehouses, a hive of industry as goods were loaded on and unloaded from the immense number of ships in this busiest of ports, and drew her cloak more closely about her.

Harriet, kind Harriet, who had made sure that she had warm clothes for her return to England: “One forgets how cold it is at home.” They were, thankfully, the clothes of a matron, of a married woman, velvets and silks; even though in mourning colours, they suited her much better than the light dresses of her girlhood.

She sincerely mourned her late husband. She had never been deeply or passionately in love with him, but she had liked him, found comfort and even pleasure in his arms and bed, and had enjoyed his company. Had they been given more time together, it might have grown into a very happy marriage.

What was to become of her? What kind of a life could she make for herself? If she had money, then the prospects were far more cheerful, the choices greater. It would be hard to make decisions for herself, after the in-between time of her early widowhood, and the out-of-times days on board. She hadn’t been bored on the Sir John Rokesby; with far more assurance than she had had on the voyage out, she had found it easier to make friends and play her part in the social round of the small world of a ship.

She had her sketchbooks with her, and paints, and had whiled away many hours building doll’s houses. That was something that happened by chance, when the small daughter of a fellow passenger, fretful after an illness, had wanted something to play with. Octavia, remembering how much pleasure she had had as a girl from the doll’s house that she had made with the help of a friendly joiner, acquired some balsa wood from the ship’s carpenter and set about modelling a stately home for little Emily. The carpenter had offered to do it, he could run her up a house in a jiffy, but Octavia was eager for an activity to soothe her restless mind. Busy fingers were, she had long ago discovered, a very good remedy for troubled spirits, and so she had set about it herself, creating a fine Palladian house which was the admiration of her fellow passengers.

“Amazingly clever,” said one of the officers. “And you a woman, I’d hardly have believed it possible.”

The doll’s house had aroused suspicions in some of the less amiable among her fellow passengers. Did they imagine she didn’t hear their whispers?

“She was lucky to catch Captain Darcy, she was indeed, a very good catch for her, if not for him, poor man.”

“Wasn’t she a Melbury before her marriage?”

“Yes, indeed, but only a half sister to the baronet and his brother and sisters. Her mother was a nobody, daughter of a tradesman.”

“Only imagine, and when you think who the first Mrs. Darcy was.”

“Oh, perfection, such a beauty and a handsome fortune with her, which, however, they say he went through in no time.”

“You’d think he’d have found himself another rich wife, of equal standing, instead of marrying Miss Octavia Melbury, who after all has no looks, is far too tall for a woman, and has no fortune, and if you say she’s of low origin, too—Well!”

Octavia couldn’t help feeling a spurt of temper when she heard people singing the praises of the first Mrs. Darcy. Christopher never spoke of her after the time when Octavia had asked him, hesitantly, whether he had, as the saying went, buried his heart with his first wife. He had looked startled, and then laughed.

“No, indeed, I did not, no such thing. Don’t listen to what all the old tabbies have to say about the first Mrs. Darcy, it is none of their business, nor, indeed,” he added, more serious now, “of yours. I don’t mean that in any unkind way,” he said quickly, seeing the look on her face; she was all too used to rebukes from her family, but not from Christopher. “I merely mean that all that is in the past, and to tell you the truth, I do not care to remember my first marriage. I assure you I am as happy now as I ever was then, more so.”

His words were meant to reassure her, and she had been grateful for them, although she didn’t believe him. How could she compare to the first Mrs. Darcy, the rich, well-born, beautiful Mrs. Darcy?

Unwanted tears prickled Octavia’s eyes as his voice came back to her, as though he were with her, speaking those words. She was going to miss him, she wished he were here at her side, rejoicing in her sudden increase of fortune, making plans for the future.

All too soon, the hackney cab was turning into Lothian Street. The cab driver drew up outside the familiar house with its red-brick façade and handsome front door; she had arrived. She opened her purse for the coins to pay the cab driver, then stepped down on to the pavement. She paused, looking up at the windows of the house, then took a deep breath, went up the three shallow steps, and lifted the knocker.


Chapter Four (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)

The door was opened by the butler, Coxley, whom Octavia disliked, not merely because he had a face like a fish, but because he had always shown his disdain for her. He recognised her, welcomed her with chilly civility, and said that he would inform her ladyship that Miss—that Mrs. Darcy had arrived.

A cold kiss from Theodosia, accompanied by an uncomplimentary, “How tanned you are,” and then, “I’ve told them to put you in the Blue Room on the second floor, I am sure you will be comfortable there.”

Octavia went unsteadily up the familiar stairs, finding, as she had done from the moment she stepped ashore, that the ground under her feet seemed to be swaying. The Blue Room was on the second floor up a further flight of stairs, and as she went into the familiar room, she felt as though she had never been away. It was far from one of the best bedchambers in the house; it had been considered quite good enough for a mere Miss Octavia Melbury, and was clearly still good enough for a widowed Mrs. Darcy. The carpet was a little worn, the furniture made up of items that had done earlier duty elsewhere, the curtains the same as when she had inhabited the room before, only a little more faded.

A maid had been sent to wait on her, a country girl judging by her rosy cheeks, not yet grown pale in the sooty, dank air of London. Upon enquiry, Octavia discovered that the girl’s name was Alice, she was fifteen last month, and had newly come up from Wiltshire, where her mother was in service on Sir James Melbury’s estate.

Octavia washed her hands and face in the water that Alice brought up. She stood in front of the glass to tidy her hair. Yes, she was slightly tanned, no surprising consequence of a long sea voyage, but fair as she was, she had kept her complexion, the worst effects of the sun being a few pale freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had never gone very brown in India and hadn’t been there long enough to take on the sallow look that so many English people had, nor had her skin ever burned in the hot sun.

“We dine at home tonight,” said Theodosia when Octavia went downstairs. From the sound of her voice, she considered this a great condescension. Octavia felt a flash of anger; her sister might at least put on an appearance of welcome. There were no enquiries about the voyage, nor condolences for the loss of her husband. At least her brother-in-law Henry Cartland seemed glad to see her, welcoming her with something like affection, and even venturing a few words of sympathy on her recent loss.

His wife swiftly put him in his place. “Don’t be absurd, Henry. Octavia had hardly been married five minutes when she lost her husband”—she made it sound as though the loss had been due to some carelessness on Octavia’s part—“she can really have barely known him. Wasn’t he away at sea for most of your married life?” she went on, addressing Octavia.

“Yes,” said Octavia.

“It is the most unfortunate thing you didn’t bear him a son,” her sister said in her forthright way. “It is a thousand pities that his heir should be George Warren, you can expect nothing from him, he is an out-and-out Whig and will grudge you a single penny.”

“Entailed estates make for many problems,” Mr. Cartland said with a sigh.

“It is a most unfortunate arrangement in this case,” said Theodosia. “Quite unnecessary, in my opinion; what business had Captain Darcy to have an entail?”

It had never occurred to Octavia, when she accepted Captain Darcy’s hand, to enquire about his fortune or estate. But Mr. Thurloe had done so, and, on the whole, he said, it was quite satisfactory. “He has a good estate in Wiltshire, worth some two or three thousand a year, and then there is his navy pay, although of course these days there are not the opportunities for prize money as there used to be; why, in the war, a mere master and commander could sail away in penury and come back a rich man after a lucky encounter, able to set up his carriage and buy himself a house and land. Of course, those days are behind us, but still, Captain Darcy does not do so badly. However, the estate is entailed, you understand the nature of an entail?” he had added, seeing Octavia’s puzzled look.

He had explained it to her. Captain Darcy’s estate was entailed upon the male line. He could not leave it to her, nor to anyone else; it would pass, in the absence of an heir of his loins, into the hands of a second cousin. “A man with no very good name, a rakish fellow,” Mr. Thurloe said with a frown. “It is your duty to be brisk about breeding, my dear, because then your own future is secure in the case—well, that is, life at sea is always uncertain, and should anything befall Captain Darcy, if you have a son, you will be provided for, you will be able to live on the estate in comfort during the boy’s minority, and then of course, he will take care of you.”

“And if I don’t have a son, but only daughters, or no children at all?”

“Then, my dear, you will have nothing but whatever the captain should leave as his personal fortune. Which is nothing very much; it seems that the fortune his first wife brought with her was unwisely invested. I did hear she was an expensive creature, so maybe that was the truth of it. However, let us be sanguine, he is a healthy man who has no idea of taking risks at sea, and the entail will be soon cut off by the birth of a son, if you do your duty.”

The marriage had taken place quickly, in light of the captain’s imminent departure. Octavia had hesitated, feeling it might be wiser to postpone the ceremony until Captain Darcy’s return, but Robert Thurloe would have none of it. “A bird in the hand, my dear,” he said bluntly to Harriet, who was inclined to agree with Octavia. “Who knows whom Captain Darcy may not meet on his travels? No, no, they must tie the knot as soon as may be, and then Octavia will be sure of him.”

“So is it true that his private fortune was practically nothing?” Theodosia said now.

Her husband attempted to remonstrate with her. “My dear, here is Octavia only just arrived, tired after her long journey; it is hardly the time to ply her with questions of this nature.”

“Nonsense,” said Theodosia. “There is no point in beating about the bush. We are all family here, we dine alone, and the sooner we know just what Octavia’s circumstances are, the better.”

“I was left enough to buy some clothes and to pay my passage and a little put by,” Octavia told her sister. “When everything is settled, I shall have an income of about a hundred and fifty pounds a year.”

“Well, that is something, in any case,” said Mr. Cartland, who would have found it hard to manage on less than his own income of fifteen thousand a year.

“It is barely enough to live on. I am really annoyed with Captain Darcy for having so little foresight, for making so little provision for her.” And then, to Octavia, “Why did you come back? I should think it was easier to live in India on very little money, surely everything is cheaper there.”

Her husband made a tsking noise and shook his head at his wife’s ill breeding.

“I had no particular reason to stay in Calcutta.”

“No reason? You had every reason; in London you were unable to find a husband, whereas in India you made a perfectly respectable match—except for this tiresome entail, of course.”

“Mr. Thurloe felt that my best course would be to return to England and approach Mr. Warren, to see if he can be persuaded to give me an annuity, or an allowance. I know he has a reputation of being a close man—”

“He is simply a man who knows how to take care of his money,” said Theodosia. “Which is more than can be said for your late husband, I might point out. Yes, Warren must be approached, must be made to see that he has to do his duty by you. And meanwhile, we must put our heads together and decide what is to be done with you.”

Octavia caught Mr. Cartland’s shocked eye, and had to make an effort not to burst out laughing. She knew whose heads were to be brought into service on this matter, and it would not include her own; her views were of no interest to Theodosia, nor would they be to Augusta and Arthur.

“Naturally, you are our guest here,” Henry Cartland said quickly. “You are welcome to stay for as long as you like.”

“Be quiet, Henry,” said Theodosia. “Octavia is my sister, this has nothing to do with you.” She looked at Octavia with narrowed eyes. “I will say that you are improved in looks since you went away, despite being burned by the sun. It is an extraordinary thing; for the most part women return from India with any trace of beauty gone.”

Octavia was startled at this compliment, coming as it did from such an unexpected quarter; she was used to nothing but criticism from her sisters.

“It is all to the good. One marriage can lead to another, even though you are now past your prime, at four or five and twenty you have lost your bloom—but even so, it may be possible. It will be best for you to stay in London, I think, and we shall see if we can find you another husband.”

“But I don’t want to marry again!” exclaimed Octavia, furious at the heartlessness of her sister’s words. “It is less than a year since Christopher died, I am in mourning, I have no wish to be looking for another husband.”

“You can’t pretend any great grief for a man you hardly knew. You did very well to catch him, very well indeed, and it is a great pity that things turned out as they did; whatever did the man have to go plunging into the jungle for?”

“He was very interested in natural philosophy, and he had heard news of a rare plant that he had long wanted to see—”

“Natural philosophy, my—” Theodosia caught her husband’s eye, and the words died on her lips. “Well, as to that, the past is the past, and we must look to the future, and since you have no fortune, just as you didn’t have when you left, the only course open to you is marriage.”

“Or I could seek employment as a governess,” said Octavia, still angry, and yielding to an impulse to annoy her sister.

As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Her sister’s eyes flashed, and Mr. Cartland, after giving her a quick, despairing glance, fixed his gaze on the ceiling.

The abuse washed over all, all her sister’s pent-up rage: the disgrace. Octavia was born a Melbury, even if she had never been worthy of the name; what would people say if her sister went out to be a household drudge; how could she, on her first day home, come up with such a crack-brained scheme and upset her own sister so greatly?

Mr. Cartland called for his wife’s smelling salts; Icken, her maid, stalked into the room and waved a vinaigrette under Theodosia’s nose. Octavia could hear her hissing under her breath, “Shameful, upsetting the mistress like that, her own sister, she should know better.”

“Theodosia suffers from her nerves,” Mr. Cartland said, a smile flickering to his face and then vanishing again.

It was as though the intervening years had never happened, as though Octavia were a nineteen-year-old girl once again, expected to be obedient and to listen to her elders and betters.

She had had enough of this. She was a grown woman, a married woman, if now a widow; what right had her sister to treat her in this way and lay down the law about what she should and shouldn’t do?

She rose from the table. “Theodosia is unwell, I think my presence upsets her, I shall go to my room,” she said, flashing a smile at her brother-in-law before she fled upstairs.

It was inevitable that Theodosia, when she had recovered from her equanimity to some degree, should send for her other sister and brother. “Let us see if they can talk sense into the wretched woman, let us see if they can’t make Octavia see reason,” she said to her husband with grim satisfaction.

Mr. Cartland, who knew that the combined forces of his wife and her sister and his brother-in-law were more than he could stomach, beat a hasty retreat to his club, murmuring that he had business to attend to in town, might not be back for some hours.

Octavia wasn’t at all surprised, as she sat sipping a cup of chocolate the next morning, to be told by a bright-eyed Alice that she was wanted downstairs as soon as ever might be, that Mr. Melbury and Lady Adderley had called and were waiting to see her.

Octavia had heard the door knocker, knew perfectly well that it was far too early for any but members of the family to be at the front door, and had correctly guessed what was in store for her.

She didn’t hurry her toilette, and indeed took unusual care over it. She put on a dark grey bombazine morning dress, trimmed with black silk rosettes on a flounced hem, which the clever fingers of Madame Duhamel’s derseys had made for her from a not-too-out-of-date pattern in the book of plates which had arrived in Calcutta on the last ship. It was modish enough, if not bang-up-to-the-minute—her sisters’ sharp eyes would at once spot last year’s trimming and the set of the sleeve that no modish London lady would dream of being seen in, but Octavia knew it suited her. The awareness of looking her best heightened her courage, so that, with the tinge of colour in her cheeks from the apprehension that she was trying so keenly to quell, she made a striking picture as she entered the room.

Her brother Arthur rose from his seat. “Well, upon my word,” he exclaimed. “I never saw you in better looks, Octavia. I should have thought—”

A formal kiss from Augusta. “That’s as may be, Arthur,” she said in her brisk way, “and we must be pleased to see Octavia looking tolerably well, but nothing alters the fact that she is several inches taller than any woman has any right to be, and what is more, several inches taller than any Melbury female has ever been. Of course, she gets her height from her mother.”

From the contempt in her voice, you would have thought Octavia’s mother had been a giantess; it was a familiar insult, and one that Octavia knew how to ignore. She was, in some obscure way, proud of her height; it was an inheritance from her despised grandfather and as such, she treasured it. If it set her apart from her brothers and sisters, so much the better.

“Now,” said Theodosia. “We have been discussing your situation while we were waiting for you to come down—what an age it took you to dress—and this is what is to be done.”

Octavia listened with half her mind. Did her sisters and brother imagine she would have nothing to say in the matter? Did they expect her to accept being treated simply as an object to be dealt with as they might a horse or a long-standing servant who had become a problem?

Their decision was clear cut. Arthur was to approach Warren and represent to him in the most forceful and persuasive terms how very bad it would look for his late cousin’s widow to be seen to be destitute. By this means, it was to be hoped, they might squeeze some money out of him, which would go towards Octavia being able to support herself, if not in comfort, at least not in penury.

“Until such time as we can find you another husband,” Augusta finished in a definite voice.

“You weren’t able to when I was last in London, why should it be any different now?” said Octavia.

“Well, upon my word, Octavia,” said Arthur, looking down his long nose at her. “If you are going to take that tone with us, I shall consider you ungrateful. Your sister is only—”

“Meanwhile,” went on Theodosia, as though Octavia hadn’t spoken, an old trick and one that always reduced Octavia to seething if helpless fury, “you will go down to Hertfordshire, where you may stay with our cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Ackworth. I wrote to them first thing this morning, so it is all arranged. We don’t want you drooping about town in your weeds, there is nothing more depressing or off-putting to the male sex than a widow in her weeds. Your year of mourning will shortly be over, fortunately before the end of the season. You are no longer a green girl; we shall see if there is not some older man, a widower who wishes for more sensible company than a debutante would provide. You do not want for sense, when you are not being wilful and obstinate, and some country squire, who is not too nice in his …”

Octavia considered. Her first reaction was to refuse all their suggestions, to insist that she was going to make her own way in the world and that they need not bother themselves with her at all. On the other hand, almost anything would be preferable to spending these next few weeks in London, in Lothian Street, incarcerated within doors except when her sister condescended to take her out in the carriage, or demanded her company while she took her morning constitutional in the park.

“Very well,” she said. “I shall go to the Ackworths, if they will have me.”

“No question of that,” said Theodosia.

“Not for a few days, however. I have a few things to attend to, lawyers to see—”

“Oh, as to that, you are not to be dealing with lawyers, I shall arrange all that,” said Arthur.

“No,” said Octavia. “I will not authorise you to act on my behalf, indeed, I shall write to the lawyers and say quite clearly that they are to deal with no one but myself. And don’t puff up like that, Arthur. I am of age, well past my majority, as you all remind me, a married woman, and more than capable of seeing a lawyer, any number of lawyers.”

“Hoity-toity,” said Arthur. “You may write to them—who are they, by the way?—and tell them to call at Lothian Street. Of course you cannot see them by yourself, it is out of the question, quite improper, in fact. Theodosia will tell me when the man is to call, and I shall make myself available.”

There was no point in arguing with Arthur, he never took any notice of any view that was not his own, and considered that nothing Octavia said was worth listening to. She would counter his interference with cunning, it was the only way.

That settled to his satisfaction, he took his leave, his sister Augusta staying behind to support Theodosia in her attack on Octavia for showing herself, yet again, to be the most obstinate, unnatural creature in the world.

“I wish the Ackworths joy of you,” were Augusta’s parting words. “And I hope they talk some sense into you, so that we see an improvement when you return to London.”

To the best of Octavia’s recollection, she had never met the Ackworths, who were her cousins on her father’s side of the family. Perhaps she had done so when she was an infant, when her father was still alive, but Augusta’s assurance that they were sensible people and her confidence that they would be in agreement with the rest of the Melburys made her fear the worst.


Chapter Five (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)

The next morning Octavia received an early visitor. She was still in bed, drinking a bowl of thick hot chocolate while Alice bustled about laying out her clothes for the day. Her visitor was a lively young woman, with a head of dark curls, roguish brown eyes, and a determined little chin.

“Do you remember me?” she said, swirling into the room and perching herself on Octavia’s bed. “I’m your niece, Penelope.”

“Heavens,” said Octavia, looking at the modish young lady. The last time she had seen Penelope was when she was a baby.

“When you were in London doing the season, I was away in the countryside at a stuffy old boarding school,” said Penelope. “I’m eighteen now, and this year is my come-out, did Mama tell you?”

Theodosia had mentioned it, saying that it was going to be a busy season for her and Augusta, with daughters to bring out. Where was Penelope? Octavia had enquired, to be told that she was paying a brief visit to the country, staying with Lord and Lady Osterby, in fact, whose daughter was Penelope’s friend. And now here she was, very grown up and assured.

“Lady Adderley’s daughter Louisa is coming out as well, is she not?”

Penelope frowned. “Yes. It’s a pity, since she is a great bore, apart from being so very beautiful, which I am not. That annoys Mama, although not Papa”—her face lit up—“who says he likes me just as I am, and so will any man of discernment and sense. Only,” she added, “I’m not sure I want to marry a man of discernment and sense. Your husband was a naval officer, was not he? It must be so exciting to go to sea!”

“Yes, however I never did so, except to and fro across the ocean to India on East India Company vessels, which is not quite the same.”

“I am sorry you lost Captain Darcy,” said Penelope, suddenly serious. “And when you had been married only two or three years, Mama said, and hardly seeing him all that while; that is the disadvantage of being married to a naval man, of course, although I know that Admiral Verney’s wife goes everywhere with him, she says her sea legs are better than her land ones. Oh dear, there I go again, mentioning legs, which Mama says I ought not to do.”

“Why ever not?”

“There are all kinds of things I mustn’t say and subjects I may not talk about. You’re going to stay with our cousin Ackworths, are not you?”

“I am.”

“I was there, in the autumn.”

She fell silent, and Octavia wondered whether her experience of Hertfordshire had been a good or a bad one.

Penelope soon told her, her face alight with the memory. “Oh, it was the greatest fun, although I had been ill and that was why I was sent there, to recover my health and spirits; Mama thought I would simply sit indoors and do nothing and go nowhere until my cough went. It was a shocking cough which irritated Mama’s nerves; in fact, that was why I was sent away, not really from any concern for my health. Mr. and Mrs. Ackworth are excellent people, very kind and not at all stuffy.” She gave Octavia a swift look from beneath her eyelids. “You do not know them, Papa says, and I dare say you are wondering if they are like—well, like Uncle Arthur or Aunt Augusta, but you need not fear, they are not. They go about a good deal, they know everyone, and I met … oh, such interesting people.”

“In a small town in Hertfordshire? Is not society there somewhat—I should have thought it would be a limited circle.”

Penelope was blushing. “Oh, there were not so many people there, but it was agreeable company, and I went to the assembly ball, which made Mama extremely cross when she heard of it, for I was not officially out, however Cousin Jane said a small-town assembly was neither here nor there and it would do me good to practise my dancing in company, for it is not the same as with the dancing master, not at all. And I danced every dance, it was delightful.”

“So your cousins—our cousins—do not lead such a quiet life as your mama supposed?”

“Oh, well, in comparison to London, of course—but I prefer the country. I would rather live in the country than in town.” She paused, biting her lip, then smiled. “Cousin Jane was used to be fond of dancing when she was young. She took me through the steps of the quadrille, again and again, so that I am now quite an expert. She said she and Cousin Hugh loved to dance, and she only wished they had had the waltz when she was a girl, as she thought it looked most exhilarating, much more enjoyable than minuets and country dances.”

Octavia blinked. Why was Theodosia suggesting she go to Hertfordshire, to be out of the way, if the Ackworths were as Penelope said?

“Mama and Aunt Augusta have no notion of what they are like,” Penelope confided. “They never visit there, for they think Meryton provincial and our cousins countrified and unfashionable. They are useful, to send us young ones down into the country when our mamas want to be rid of us, but they don’t realise what fun it is there. Louisa only went once, and she didn’t like it at all, she says the cousins are provincial, but I do not think they are, not at all.”

So Penelope had a mind of her own, did she? And, although she said nothing that went beyond the line of what was acceptable, she clearly had no illusions and judged for herself. Octavia warmed towards her niece, with her blushes and her eyes bright with the memory of dancing and pleasure.

Penelope slipped off the bed. “I can hear Grindley’s steps, she’s my maid. I expect Mama wants me to go out shopping or some such thing, and has left instructions as to what I am to wear. I have a new hat I bought myself, which I like very well, but she will say it is hideous, I dare say, and will be angry for me spending my allowance without her permission.”

She whisked herself out of the room, leaving Octavia with her chocolate grown cold and her thoughts in a whirl. That chit had met someone she cared for in Hertfordshire, that was obvious, although she doubted if Theodosia had any inkling. But what she had to say about her cousins cheered her no end; she had been afraid of another Augusta, another Theodosia, and was relieved that they sounded quite unlike her sisters.

Octavia rose and dressed, and before she went downstairs, she sat down at the rickety writing table under the window and penned a letter to Messrs. Wilkinson and Winter, informing them of her arrival in London and requesting them not to attempt to contact her in Lothian Street; she would come herself to their premises in King’s Bench Walk as soon as possible.

How to post the letter, that was the question. Normally, she would have asked one of the footmen to take it for her, or handed it to the butler to post, but she knew Theodosia made it her business to inspect all the post, inwards and outwards, and as soon as her sister saw the name on the letter, her suspicious mind would tell her these were Octavia’s lawyers and the information would be passed to Arthur. Then goodbye to any hopes Octavia had of keeping her inheritance secret.

No, she would have to contrive so that she went out alone. If Theodosia and Penelope were going out shopping, it was unlikely that Theodosia would ask her to accompany them, so if she lurked in her room until she heard the sounds of their departure, then she might slip out without being interrogated.

Half an hour later, she heard the sound of a carriage drawing up outside, the front door opening, Theodosia’s imperious voice telling Penelope she looked a fright in that hat, the door closing, hooves clattering away down the street. In a moment she had her pelisse on and was running down the stairs to the hall.

Coxley was still there. “Are you going out, ma’am? Shall I call a footman to accompany you, or your maid?” he enquired in what Octavia considered a most officious way.

“No thank you, I am perfectly all right on my own.”

“Mrs. Cartland would prefer—”

“Yes, but I would not.”

“Shall I tell Mrs. Cartland where you are gone?”

“I shall no doubt be back before Mrs. Cartland returns, but should anyone enquire for me, I am gone to the circulating library.”

And before he could ask which of the several libraries patronised by the upper echelons of society she intended to visit, she was out of the house and walking rapidly away down the street.

Like the admiral’s wife mentioned by Penelope, it had taken her a while to find her land legs after being so many months at sea, but she thankfully noticed that the pavement no longer seemed to be coming up to meet her, and she relished the chance to stretch her legs in a brisk walk. She had taken endless dutiful turns around the deck of the Sir John Rokesby, whenever the weather permitted, but it was not the same as walking in London; she had not realised until now how much she had missed London, with its bustle of traffic, the shops, the noise; even though the day was grey, there was a hint of spring in the air.

She was acutely aware of all the smells and sounds around her, so different from her surroundings of the last few years. Instead of the streets crowded with bullock carts and rickshaws, with the slap of the rickshaw wallah’s bare feet on dusty ground, here were elegant curricles and a footman walking a pair of pugs. The pungent odours and vivid colours of a hot Indian city, of spices and sweating bodies, of ebullient vegetation and fetid water, were replaced by the evocative smell of rain on paving stones, and the scentless yellow petals of the early daffodils planted in a window box.

She was used to hearing the endless chatter of a dozen different languages, of women dressed in bright silk saris, men in turbans, robes, dhotis, or swaggering in white uniforms. Here the cockney cries of London sounded in her ears, “Carrots and turnips, ho! Sweet China oranges, sweet China! Fresh mackerel, fresh mackerel!” Newsmen bawled out the latest scandal, muffin men held their trays about their heads, shouting their wares, while the road was busy with carriages dashing past, men on horseback trotting by, carts and drays rumbling along at a slower pace.

People in this smart part of town were dressed in the height of fashion, the men in long-tailed coats, pantaloons, and tall hats, the women in morning dresses of muslin and fine silk, with deep-brimmed hats decorated with flowers. She noticed that the women wore no pelisses; how did they not feel the cold? Well, she would have to pass as dowdy, her blood was thin after her time in a hot climate, she thought it folly to shiver for the sake of a fashionable appearance.

She had not forgotten her geography, and she went first to the post-office in North Audley Street, where she entrusted her letter to the two-penny post. She came out from the receiving office, and hesitated. She had intended to go to Hookham’s library, which was in Old Bond Street, but it now occurred to her that Theodosia might be in that area, since she had taken Penelope shopping, and if so, she might be seen …

She laughed at herself and set off down the street. What if Theodosia did see her? She might go where she chose and do what she chose, within the bounds of common civility owed to one’s hosts, and these would not be one whit transgressed by her visiting a circulating library. She would not allow herself to be oppressed by Theodosia’s habit of wanting to take charge of everyone’s doings and movements; she was no longer a girl under her sister’s care. She would go boldly to Old Bond Street, and let Theodosia mind her own business; it was hard on Penelope, who was the business of the moment, but there was nothing that she, Octavia, could do to alter that.

It didn’t take her long to reach Hookham’s library. She had inscribed her name there when she was in London for her season, and now she wrote down her married name, Mrs. Darcy, paid her subscription, and was free to choose her books.

This was a special delight; she had been starved of new books in India, and had promised herself a subscription as soon as she reached London. It was an indulgence, circumstanced as she was, but she must just hope that the Worthington inheritance would be enough that she could spare the trifling sum.

Of course, it might be that her cousins, who sounded modern in their outlook, from what Penelope had said, had plenty of books, including the newest novels, but she would take a good selection with her, in case their taste didn’t coincide with hers, or perhaps they might not be great readers. Her stepmother hadn’t been, she took an age to read even a single volume, and complained that reading made her head ache and her eyes water; now, no longer a child, Octavia suspected that Lady Melbury’s indifference to books probably had more to do with poor eyesight than anything else. Perhaps her physician husband would notice and obtain a pair of spectacles for her; Octavia tried to visualise her stepmother with spectacles, but couldn’t; she had always been a trifle vain about her appearance and youthful looks.

Octavia spent longer than she had intended at the library, and when she got back to Lothian Street, it was to be greeted by the information that Mrs. Cartland was awaiting her return in her private sitting room.

Octavia went upstairs to take off her hat and pelisse, and then went to see what Theodosia wanted. She found her sister was seated with a tray of cold meats and fruit on one side of her, and on the other a small table with a letter placed exactly in the centre of its round top.

“This came for you,” said Theodosia, picking it up.

“Thank you,” said Octavia.

“Not so fast, if you please. Who is writing to you?”

“Until I open the letter, I have no idea. And whoever it may be, it is no business of yours, Theodosia.” Before Theodosia realised what her sister’s intention was, Octavia had tweaked the letter from her fingers.

“Upon my word!”

Octavia glanced at the letter. It was addressed in a man’s hand, but not one she recognised. It bore a frank, so it wasn’t likely to have come from Christopher’s lawyer, nor yet from Wilkinson and Winter. She was as mystified as Theodosia, but wasn’t going to say so. She would take it upstairs and open it in private, she decided, but then, seeing the steely look in her sister’s eye, she sighed and reached for the paper knife which was on Theodosia’s writing desk.

“It is from a Mr. Portal,” she said, turning the page over to read the signature.

“Well, that is something to have the great Mr. Portal write to you, a mere relict—”

Octavia knew she was about to add “a person of no account,” but for once her sister restrained herself.

“Why, what is so strange about it?” Octavia had turned to the beginning of the letter and was running her eyes down the page. “It appears that he knew my husband and wishes to express his condolences.”

This was true enough, but there was more to the letter than that, some sentences which she did not quite understand, but which she wasn’t going to pass on to Theodosia. Mr. Portal, it seemed, had also been acquainted with her great-uncle and -aunt, and from what he wrote, although it was couched in discreet terms, he was well aware of her inheritance. Presently in France, he looked forward to having the honour of meeting her on his return to England, and meanwhile she could have every confidence in Mr. Wilkinson.

How odd, what did it mean? Who was this Mr. Portal?

“I suppose you have no idea who the great Mr. Portal is, being away so long, and not moving in quite those circles when you were a debutante. He is known everywhere as Pagoda Portal, you may have heard the name.”

“Like the tree in India?”

“I have no idea why he is called Pagoda, it is an outlandish name, although I believe it is something to do with his having made a great deal of money in India. He is a nabob, but a well-born, extremely well-connected nabob; nobody can say he is any kind of a mushroom.”

“So he is great because he is rich?”

“Now, do not be putting on those false missish airs. You have lived long enough and enough in the world to know that a great fortune commands a good deal of wholesome respect. Especially, as I say, when combined with belonging to such an ancient family—the Portals have been landowners and members of Parliament for ever, and they are related to quite half the House of Lords.”

She hesitated for a moment, seeking her words with care, which was unusual for her.

“However, his life is somewhat irregular, it would not do for you, in your position, to become more than a mere acquaintance, it would do your reputation no good at all if you were to be drawn into his set.”

“What set is that?”

“Oh, a very ramshackle, mixed set of persons, artists and poets; here a banker and there a politician, and women novelists and musicians, not at all the kind of people who would be admitted into my drawing room.”

Octavia thought they sounded rather charming.

“However, that is part of his eccentric way, a man so rich may be as eccentric as he wishes, you know. The difficulty comes in his—what shall I call them? His domestic arrangements. Now you are a married woman I can speak freely: Mr. Portal is not married, and it seems has not the least intention of entering that happy state. Instead, it is openly known that he and Henrietta Rowan, a tiresome woman if ever I knew one, have a liaison that goes far beyond what is proper. She is a widow, who seems to think that such a state allows her perfect liberty; she declares she will never marry again, and certainly there appears to be no inclination on either party to regularise their union.”

“Have they set up house together?”

“Good gracious no, whatever are you thinking of?”

“From the way you spoke—”

“It is a liaison, as I said, and one of which the whole polite world is aware. Mrs. Rowan, who is very well off in her own right, has her own house, done up in the most extraordinary style, I have to tell you, in the Turkish mode; it is a fancy of hers to admire the Turks, and therefore she has carpets and cushions and all kinds of hangings which are entirely unsuitable for one in her position. And in London! She spent years abroad, in Turkey, which is where she acquired the taste for such nonsense.”

Theodosia looked around her own sitting room with great complaisancy; in Octavia’s opinion, the room was overfilled with furniture, much of it downright ugly.

“However, Mr. Portal seems to like it well enough, one cannot expect a man who has made his own fortune to have much taste, perhaps. Mrs. Rowan holds a salon there in the afternoon, and soirées, and I don’t know what else. I admit that society flocks to her parties, she is considered a notable hostess, although for the life of me—I consider that she is not quite the thing. But since it appears that you don’t know Mr. Portal and this letter is written as a mere courtesy call, made as much on my account as yours, I dare say, then any question of you pursuing the acquaintance of either him or Henrietta need never arise.”

How like Theodosia, laying down the law on whom Octavia might be permitted to know, and asserting the rightness of her own moral judgement.

Octavia returned to her letter. “Mr. Portal sounds an amiable man,” she said. “He writes that he will do himself the honour of calling upon me when he is back in London.”

“Oh, that is only form, simple politeness, it means nothing, why should he call on you?”

“If he should do so, do you wish me to say I am not at home?” Octavia asked with deceptive meekness.

“That will hardly be up to you. It won’t arise, but if it did, it would never do to cross him, not with him being so rich and influential—although he sits as a Whig, please remember that. Your brother Arthur will hardly speak to him, they have crossed swords in the House too often for him to find Mr. Portal in the least bit agreeable. No, he must always be accorded every courtesy, but it is quite unnecessary for you to pursue the acquaintance.”

Which opinion made Octavia determined to become acquainted with Mr. Portal, and also with the interesting Mrs. Rowan.


Chapter Six (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)

Octavia had a swift reply from the lawyers: Mr. Wilkinson would be at her disposal whenever it were convenient for her. By great good luck, the letter had been delivered into Mr. Cartland’s hand. “You will not wish everyone to be aware of your affairs,” he said, with a kind smile, when he found her alone in the drawing room. Her sister would have demanded to know the contents of the letter, but he simply passed it to her and went back into his library.

Octavia decided that she would slip out to see the lawyers the very next morning. And she would have to exercise her skills of subtlety again; were she to announce that she was going into the city, there would be questions and deep disapproval—a woman on her own to venture into that part of London, it was not to be thought of. There would follow disagreeable, probing questions as to what business she had there. She could lie, which she found hard and disliked, but any hint of the truth would bring the conclusion she most feared: her sister or brother summoning the lawyers to Lothian Street, where Arthur or Mr. Cartland or Lord Adderley must be present to take the entire business out of her hands and put to rest for once and for all her obstinate insistence on managing it for herself.

Theodosia had ordered the carriage for later that morning. She summoned Octavia to tell her that she was to accompany her. “For I am going to the library; you will want to join the library, if you can afford the subscription, and if not, you may take out a volume or two on my account. I shall have no objection to that.”

“Thank you, Theodosia, but I took out a subscription at Hookham’s library when I went out yesterday, and borrowed some books.”

“I was told you had gone to the circulating library, but I did not realise you were entering your name there. You did not tell me that. You should have consulted me first; Hookham’s is by no means the most fashionable library at present. I would have advised you to take out a subscription at Earle’s, in Albemarle Street. However, you may wait while I change my books and then I shall pay one or two calls, on the Miss Watsons, for instance. Do you remember them from when you were last in London? No? Well, they are an unremarkable pair, to be sure, but their salon is fashionable, everyone goes there, and they know everything that goes on in town, one hears all the latest ondits there. They know you are staying in Lothian Street, they will expect me to bring you.”

Why? Octavia wondered. What possible interest could they have in Theodosia’s poor relation?

“And it is important that they like you, for in due course, not so long now, when you are out of mourning, and if something can be done about your clothes, you will be going to one or two parties, and they know just how everyone is situated, which eligible men are looking out for a bride. We cannot hope for too much, but they understand the situation, they will be inclined to help, not on your account, but because I and Augusta take care to remain on good terms with them, there is no one whose good opinion is worth more …”

Theodosia’s voice tailed off, even her supreme self-confidence faltering in the light of the smile on Octavia’s face, her half sister’s look of amusement, of positive merriment.

“Well, you may find it amusing although I can’t for the life of me think why you should do so, but let me tell you, the only hope for you, if you are not to live in genteel poverty, is to catch yourself another husband.”

“Yes,” said Octavia. “You have told me so.”

“Then I tell you again, and will do so until you listen; you are so stubborn, there is no doing with you.” Theodosia went towards the door. “Please be ready within half an hour, and you should wear that hat with the feather, it is the best of your hats.”

“I have the headache,” said Octavia. “I prefer not to go out in the carriage.”

“Of course you do not have the headache, you are perfectly well.” Any hint of an indisposition in anyone but herself always roused Theodosia’s ire. “And if you think you do, all the more reason to come out in the carriage. It will do you more good than remaining cooped up indoors all day long.”

“Perhaps I may take a walk later, but I assure you I would be dull company this morning.”

Theodosia persisted for a while, but Octavia stood her ground, and had the satisfaction, an hour later, of seeing her sister and Penelope drive away in the open carriage. They would be gone at least two hours, with luck; now she must hurry about her own affairs.

She told the butler to call her a hackney, and for a moment it looked as though she was going to have a fight with him as well, but she looked him in the eye. “A hackney cab, if you please.”

“And where shall I tell the jarvey you wish to go?” said Coxley.

“I shall give him my direction,” said Octavia, knowing that her reticence would be reported back to Theodosia; she would have to concoct a good reason for her expedition, with all the necessary corroborative details; no, it was simple, she needed to see Christopher’s lawyers; that would bring reproaches, but it would be believable.

The offices of Wilkinson and Winter were situated at the river end of King’s Bench Walk, near the Temple. It was a handsome building of the last century but heavily begrimed with soot, and once admitted, Octavia found herself in a dimly lit passage, lined with boxes and papers. However, she was not kept waiting there for more than a few minutes before being ushered into the presence of Mr. Wilkinson, a cadaverous individual in sombre clothes as befitted his profession, who rose to his considerable height as she came into the room, offered her a chair, and said, in a gravelly voice, that he was honoured by Mrs. Darcy’s visit.

“Do you come alone?” he said, looking at the door as though an entourage were lurking outside.

“Yes, I’m on my own.”

He raised an eyebrow, and gave a thin smile. “I had expected your brother, Mr. Arthur Melbury, to accompany you.”

“Mr. Melbury knows nothing at all about this.”

“Nothing about your coming here?”

“Nothing about that, certainly.” Octavia sat straight in her chair, a glint of defiance in her eyes. “Also, nothing about this inheritance. It seems so improbable that I have come into my great-aunt’s fortune, if it is what might be called a fortune. Mr. Gurney, in Calcutta, spoke of a substantial inheritance, but, really, I am quite in the dark as to what it all means. So I prefer not to speak of it, to my family nor anyone else, until I have the truth of it.”

Mr. Wilkinson gave her a look of approval. “You are perhaps right, although a brother— However, let us get down to details. A substantial inheritance is not quite how I would describe the estate of the late Mrs. Worthington.”

Half an hour later Octavia came out of the lawyer’s office, almost missing the two shallow steps down to the street in her agitation and excitement. Mr. Gurney had not been wrong when he had used the word fortune. Fortune! It hardly described the wealth that Octavia, in that brief time, had found herself to be in possession of.

The hackney cab that had brought her from Lothian Street drew up beside her; after taking another fare, the jarvey had returned, judging that Octavia would want to make the return journey, which might mean another good tip.

“Back to Lothian Street?” he asked as he shut the door on her.

“No,” said Octavia. “I want to walk. Take me to— I shall go to Green Park.”

She could not possibly go back to Theodosia’s house yet, not until she had calmed her nerves and composed herself, and begun to come to terms with this extraordinary change in her circumstances.

She gave the hackney cab driver a tip that made him stare, and touch his forehead with a deeply appreciative “And a very good morning to you, ma’am,” before whipping up his horse, and guiding it back into the traffic.

Unlike Mr. Gurney, Mr. Wilkinson had been precise, precise almost to the last guinea; his words were still ringing in Octavia’s ears. “The house in Yorkshire, Axby Hall, is a considerable property, a fine building from the middle of the last century, in good order, and with the farms and land forms an estate altogether of some five thousand acres. It also includes most of the properties in the nearby village of Axby, which are all at present occupied by good tenants.” There was no private house in London, the late Mrs. Worthington didn’t care for London, but she had owned several commercial premises in London as well as in York and Leeds, which were bringing in rents that made Octavia stretch her eyes.

“However, that is the least of it,” Mr. Wilkinson had continued. “There are the tea plantations in India, which bring in a considerable annual income, the figures are all here, and although of course the profits are dependent on the crop and the hazards of shipping, the plantations are well managed, and you will find the figures for the last five years on this sheet.

“In addition, there is the sum of ninety thousand pounds in gilts; Mrs. Worthington was always a conservative investor—and, held at the bank, there are her jewels.” He lifted yet another sheet of paper covered in lists and figures. “This is the inventory with the valuation that was made a year ago.”

Octavia’s eyes flickered unbelievingly down the page: a diamond necklace, a pair of rose diamond drop earrings, a number of large uncut rubies, an emerald necklace with matching bracelets … It was a long list, and the words floated in front of her eyes.

“Good heavens, what use had she for all these?” she cried. “And what should I do with them all?”

“I do not believe she ever wore most of them,” said Mr. Wilkinson, pursing his lips. “Although she may have done so when Mr. Worthington was alive, when they were in India. She kept them as an investment, I dare say, and a good one, for they are unquestionably worth a great deal more than she or Mr. Worthington paid for them, as you will see. The jeweller who valued them, who knew her and looked after her jewellery for her, remarked that she was extremely knowledgeable; they are all stones of the highest quality. Should you decide to sell any of them—although I hardly think you would need to—he would be glad to have the handling of the sale, he asked me to say.”

Octavia looked down at the papers that Mr. Wilkinson had handed to her, barely taking in the columns of figures, still unable to comprehend the extent of her inheritance.

“And all this comes to me?”

“Yes. You are named in her will, there is no mistake. She left some small legacies, annuities for her servants, that kind of thing, but the rest comes to you—you see, born Octavia Susannah Melbury, daughter of the late Sir Clement Melbury and Lady Melbury, now Mrs. Darcy, of Alipore, Calcutta. Now, it is fortunate, extremely fortunate, that she died after your late husband—since that removes any complications that might otherwise have arisen.”

“What complications?”

“As a married woman, your inheritance would have come under your husband’s control, and could have formed part of his estate. I understand there was an entail? Yes. Well, it would not have formed part of the entailed property, and should have come to you in the event of your husband’s death—but it might have been, as I say, a complication—not one we need consider in this case. I have from Calcutta copies of the documents relating to your husband’s sad and premature demise, please accept my deepest sympathies—and I am sure everything will be quite in order with regard to that.”

Christopher would have rejoiced in her good fortune, Octavia reflected, as she watched the cows who grazed in Green Park lying comfortably on the grass, chewing the cud, looking, she couldn’t help feeling, very much like one or two of Theodosia’s acquaintances, with their bland, bovine expressions.

Had Christopher survived, he would undoubtedly have put quite a lot of her inheritance into his house in Wiltshire, a place that seemed to eat up money. She went pale at the thought of the Worthington money passing into the grasping hands of Mr. Warren; well, there was no point in dwelling on might-have-beens; Christopher, God rest his soul, was gone, Mr. Warren had Dalcombe, and she had her own immense fortune from her mother’s despised family. She gave a little skip, startling a stout man hurrying past.

She had pledged Mr. Wilkinson to secrecy.

“It will get about in due course,” he said. “Such things always do, although not from me or anyone in my employ, we know our business too well for that, discretion is essential in our profession, Mrs. Darcy. Now, I am one of the executors of the will, and the other is a Mr. Portal—ah, I see you know the name. He is presently abroad, travelling in France, I believe, but that need not hold us up, although, as a lifelong friend of your great-uncle and -aunt, I know that he is very eager to make your acquaintance.”

“He wrote to me, from France, but I did not quite understand his position. So he is an executor?”

“Yes. Meanwhile, you will want someone to advise you; your brother, Mr. Arthur Melbury, would be the proper person, for I understand that Sir James Melbury is rarely in town. I can be in touch with Mr. Melbury at his earliest convenience to discuss—”

Octavia cut in swiftly. “I forbid you, I absolutely forbid you to have any contact with Mr. Melbury about this or anything to do with me.”

Mr. Wilkinson’s grave face took on a look of astonishment.

“I am twenty-five, and as a widow I believe I have full control of my financial affairs, is not that so?”

“In law, yes, but as a practical matter, I beg of you to consider what a responsibility such a fortune is. Mr. Melbury is known as an astute man, he will be better able to—”

“No. If I decide to run wild and sell out of the gilts and gamble the money away at the card table, I shall do so; it is entirely my own business.”

“But, Mrs. Darcy,” he began in appalled tones.

“I joke, Mr. Wilkinson. I am not a gambler, and I have been too poor for most of my life not to know the value of large sums in gilts. But I mean what I say. Whom did Mrs. Worthington rely on to advise her?”

He looked doubtful. “We were her lawyers, and she had a man of business in Yorkshire, but as to investments and so forth, and the plantations—well, I believe she saw to all that herself.”

“Then so shall I.”

“But, Mrs. Darcy, the cases are quite different. Mrs. Worthington was a woman who—”

“I shall make mistakes, I am sure, but my mind is quite made up.”

She could see that he was going to argue, and could watch his mental processes as he thought better of it. She knew just what was going through his mind, that in no time at all, she would be married again, and her fortune would pass into the hands of a man, someone who would take care of everything for her.

“Not so,” she said to the nearest cow, who gazed at her with huge, soft eyes. “I am a woman of independent means, definitely in possession of a good fortune, but I am not in the least in want of a husband!”


Chapter Seven (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)

Arthur called early the following morning, when his sisters and niece were still in the breakfast parlour. Penelope was toying with a piece of toast, looking out of the window, and, while her mother was attending to her morning coffee and arranging everyone’s day for them, letting herself give way to a heavy sigh. She rose politely as her uncle came into the room, dropping a neat curtsy, and presenting a dutiful cheek for his avuncular kiss.

“You are not in looks, Penelope,” he said. “You need to get some roses into your cheeks. I saw Louisa yesterday, and she is blooming, quite blooming; you will have to look to your laurels.”

“What have Louisa’s looks to do with me?” Penelope muttered as she sat down again.

Arthur greeted his sisters, Theodosia with enthusiasm, Octavia less so, and sat himself down, calling for a fresh pot of coffee. “I have just time for a cup, but I shan’t stay. I have called on Octavia’s account, as it happens. I met Lady Warren last night, at the Batterbys’ rout—I didn’t see you there, Theodosia. It was a sad crush, you did well to avoid it.”

“We called in early, probably before you arrived, for we were going on to the Tollants’ ball.”

“Oh? Well, as I say, Lady Warren was there— Octavia, are you paying attention?”

“I?” said Octavia, who had been looking out of the window and watching a pair of quarrelsome sparrows perched on the parapet of the house opposite.

“You, ma’am. I said, I have taken the time out from my own affairs entirely on your account, the least you can do is to listen to what I have to say.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur, but what have these routs and balls and Batterbys and Tollants to do with me?”

“Nothing at all, but Lady Warren does. She is George Warren’s stepmother, as it happens. And a connection of your late husband’s, now I come to think of it.”

Another connection? What an entwined world it was, with the upper ten thousand woven into a spider’s web of marriages and consanguinity. Here was she, with a large family of half brothers and sisters, cousins, now even more connections through Christopher’s family—and yet, in truth, she was still an orphan, with no close ties of feeling to any of them.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed; he loved tracing family links. “Caroline Warren was a Bingley before she married, and her brother married the eldest Bennet daughter, a family of no importance, it was not a good match, she brought him hardly a penny, but what is more to the point, her next sister, Elizabeth, had the very good luck to snare Fitzwilliam Darcy and so she became the mistress of Pemberley; my word, she did well for herself there! Now of course, Captain Darcy was a cousin of that family, not a close cousin, but the connection is there.”

Octavia spread a generous portion of strawberry jam on a piece of toast. The connection seemed more remote than most, and while Lady Warren might be the most amiable creature, she had not heard a good word spoken about her stepson.

“And George Warren is, of course, unfortunately, Christopher Darcy’s heir. So I took it upon myself to mention to Lady Warren that you were returned to England. She expressed surprise, had no idea of it, but at once said that she would call upon you at the first opportunity and knew that George would also do himself the honour of waiting upon you.”

* * *

Lady Warren had lied to Arthur. Lady Warren knew perfectly well that Octavia was in England; she made it her business to know most of what was going on in London society, and in such a case, when the news was of direct interest to her or to her stepson, George, upon whom she doted, she made sure she had all the details. She had known to the day, almost to the hour when Octavia arrived in Lothian Street, and sent a note round to George’s lodgings, summoning him to her house.

“You will call upon her, of course,” she said, sitting at her elegant writing desk, while George lounged in the most comfortable chair near to the fire.

“The devil I will.”

Caroline Warren knew him too well to pay any attention to this. “The widow of your cousin, from whom you have inherited a very pretty estate; of course you must call. It would look odd if you didn’t, in the circumstances.”

“What business had Christopher Darcy to be marrying again, at his age? And to pick a woman with no fortune, and from what I remember of her, nothing much else to recommend her. Regular maypole, ain’t she? I never thought him to have a goatish disposition, he should have stayed a widower, or found himself a rich woman to marry if he had to put his neck into the hangman’s noose a second time. Although his first marriage don’t seem to have done him much good, for all she was considered a good catch; Lord knows what happened to the first Mrs. Darcy’s fortune.”

“I thought he ploughed every penny he had into his house and land, prize money, her portion, everything.”

“Well, I shall find out by and by, now I’m installed there and have all the accounts and papers to hand. A few extra thousand would have been worth having, but you say the second Mrs. D is landed safely on these shores, so she lives to enjoy her share of the inheritance. I dare say I’ll have her or that prosy brother of hers coming round begging me to give her an annuity or some such thing. I shan’t, of course, that family of hers can’t let her starve, and she’s no responsibility of mine if she can’t live on what her husband left her.”

“Which was little enough. I suppose he expected her to bear him a son and heir, what a mercy he was carried off before that could happen. It is fortunate for you that India has such a very unhealthy climate, where insect bites and the like can finish you off; that doesn’t happen in Wiltshire that I ever heard.”

“No, down there you die of boredom instead.” He raised a languid hand. “No need to remonstrate with me. It’s a devilish neat property, and will bring me a tidy little income, which I can do with.”

“Have a word with Arthur Melbury before you pay your duty call on Mrs. Darcy, so that she has no expectations of any kind, knows that your visit is purely a matter of form.”

“Lord, how tedious duty is. She’s only a half sister to the rest of that Melbury lot, ain’t she?”

“Yes, Sir Clement married her mother in an aberrant moment; she was from a family in trade, not in any great way, neither. At least she had the grace to expire in childbirth, and the third Lady Melbury was unexceptionable, if dull.”

George Warren was surprised by Octavia when he paid a visit to the house in Lothian Street. There was a glint in her eye, as though she were laughing at him, which he didn’t care for, and an air of confidence about her; what right had a poor widow to look as though she hadn’t a care in the world? And for all her half-mourning grey dress—not badly cut, either; George was a connoisseur of women’s clothes—she looked far from full of grief. But she had the decency to look more sombre when he spoke of Christopher; in flattering terms, although the truth was that he and Captain Darcy hadn’t got on well together, chalk and cheese.

The matter of money, of his inheritance, of her slight income, was not raised. And the only reference she made to Dalcombe House, the house where she might have expected to spend many years of her married life, was when she said that if she were at any time in Wiltshire, she would like to see the house where Christopher had been born and grew up, and which he loved so much.

He couldn’t refuse, and, he consoled himself, he wouldn’t have to put up with her company. He didn’t intend to spend more than a few weeks there each summer; he was not planning to rusticate.

He rose thankfully as soon as the half hour was up. What a tiresome woman Mrs. Cartland was, eyeing him in that way; he knew that scheming look, the automatic assessment of every matron with a marriageable daughter. Well, he wasn’t in the market for a bride, and if he were, Penelope Cartland, who was looking at him with a wide-eyed dispassionate stare that he found disconcerting, would not be on his list. Her mama had better teach her a few manners, or she’d end up on the shelf. Men did not care to be looked at in quite that way; what with her and Octavia’s self-possession, he felt quite put out.

And Mrs. Darcy had nothing in the way of a pretty foot, he remarked to himself, as he walked off down Lothian Street, twirling his cane. That came of being so damned tall; whatever had Christopher Darcy seen in her to want to marry her?

Mrs. Cartland was not pleased with George Warren, and she expressed her dissatisfaction almost before the door had closed behind him. “He has a very insolent air to him, and after all, his father’s title is a new one; he is only the second baron. However, I should like to see a little more civility from you, miss, when we have a gentleman to call”—this to her daughter.

“He is a horrid man, I do not like him at all,” said Penelope.

“What is this word, horrid? Anyone would think you were living in the pages of those novels you read. And it is not for you to set up for liking or disliking anyone, let me tell you. You will be guided by your mama and papa as to whom you may like or dislike.”

She turned to Octavia. “I think him very remiss not to— Well, I believe there is nothing to be got out of George Warren, he has the reputation of being very tight with his money.”

Arthur called a few minutes after Warren’s departure, and was shown into the room where the ladies were sitting. He pursed his lips and looked grave. “I have to tell you now, Octavia, that Theodosia is right. I took up the matter of an annuity for you with Warren, for your income is so very small, and in the light of what you might have expected, disappointing. However, he would have none of it, said the estate was encumbered, that the house and land are in a bad way, and will need a great deal spent on it to bring it into order, so that nothing can be spared for you. Nor does he feel any obligation to you.”

“There was no point in your asking him, then, was there?” said Octavia, wishing Arthur would keep his long nose out of her business. “And you had no right to talk to him without consulting me first. I didn’t want to ask George Warren for a single penny, thank you!”

Octavia spoke more sharply than she had intended, but she was alarmed. Arthur’s interference now was as nothing compared to how he would behave when he knew about her inheritance; he would immediately do everything in his power to take control. He couldn’t, in the eyes of the law, but where family was concerned, law didn’t enter into it. Another dreadful thought occurred to Octavia. This Mr. Portal, so inconveniently travelling abroad, what if he were a crony of Arthur’s, an habitué of the same clubs? Men were all the same; they all had the idea fixed in their minds that a woman, particularly a young woman, and one who had hitherto always been at the bottom of the family pile, would of nature be incapable of looking after money, land, or in any way taking care of her own affairs.

Mr. Portal and Arthur might very well be of one mind—although, how much power did an executor have? The lawyer had said executor, not trustee. Octavia tried to remember the lawyer’s exact words, for there was a world of difference, she felt sure, between the one and the other.

“Tell me, Arthur,” she said, cutting across his grumbles. “An executor is what, precisely?”

“An executor?” He stared at her. “There you are, fancying you can deal with things yourself, and as simple and basic a concept as that is beyond you. Who is the executor of Darcy’s will?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s a lawyer. I only want to know what the powers of an executor may be.”

“Give me his name, and I will go and see him, as I already told you that I would.”

“No, Arthur, you will not.”

“I know what an executor is,” said Penelope. “For a good friend of mine was left a legacy and the executor sorted it all out. But once it was done, he had no say in how he was to use the money, that was entirely up to him.”

Arthur gave his niece a quelling look. “The word gives the meaning, Octavia. He executes, that is to say, carries out what is specified in a will. It will hardly be an onerous job in your case, with so very little— I dare say the lawyer’s fees will swallow up more of the very little you have, that is why you need me to see to it all for you, I will make very sure they don’t take a ha’pporth more in fees than is right.”

“I wanted information, merely, Arthur, not assistance.”

“If you are going to be so headstrong, then I shall take my leave. It was always the way, you have always been obstinate and difficult, refusing to see what is best for you. You do not deserve to have the family you do, taking care of you and looking out for your best interests.”

“And he is quite right,” said Theodosia. “Shocking behaviour, a shocking way to speak to your brother. Penelope, I did not like to hear you speaking up so pert just now, it is not for you to open your mouth on subjects about which you know nothing, less than nothing.” Octavia, noting the stormy look in her niece’s eye, quickly asked if she might be spared to help her with her packing.

“Packing? Alice will pack for you,” said Theodosia.

“But Penelope knows the household in Hertfordshire, she will be able to advise me on what I shall need. In the way of evening dresses and so on.”

“I do not think the advice of a girl can be of any use to you, and as to evening dresses, I hardly believe that there will be any need for anything special, and besides, what do you have?”

The change of subject had, however, as Octavia had hoped, taken the edge off her irritation at her sister’s treatment of Arthur and reminded her that her tiresome guest would be departing in the morning.

“Go with your aunt, then, Penelope, and see if you may make yourself useful.”

“Do you really require my services?” Penelope enquired, as they went upstairs.

“No, Alice will have seen to everything, but it occurred to me that you might have been tempted into an argument with your mother, and in her present mood, it would be unwise.”

Penelope gave a rueful smile. “You are right, it never does to argue with Mama. Subtlety is the only way. If you don’t need me, then I shall go to my room for a while, I have some letters to write, and Mama won’t bother me if she thinks I am with you.”

Once inside her own room, Octavia had to laugh at the duplicity of her niece. If only she’d ever learned to handle Augusta the way Penelope did, her time in London as a girl would have been much easier. The more she saw of Penelope, the more she liked her, and the more apprehensive she felt about Penelope’s future. There was a resolution to the girl, a strength of character that meant she would fight for what she wanted, for what she thought was right, and how could she come off best in any such contest?

She’d need all Penelope’s resolution herself once the family knew of her inheritance. It wouldn’t be long now before she came into possession of her fortune. Mr. Wilkinson had given no precise date, but assured her that she might draw funds to the tune of whatever she wanted. A line to him at any time and he would be at her service. He thought she might reasonably expect everything to be settled soon after she was returned from the country, for by then Mr. Portal would be in London, and would finish off his duties as executor of the will.


Chapter Eight (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)

Octavia enjoyed the first part of her journey, as the coach left the Spread Eagle in Gracechurch Street and made its way northwards through the busy London streets, even though her eyelids were drooping.

The night before, she had finally fallen into a fitful sleep shortly before dawn, to be roused after what seemed like minutes by her maid: the stagecoach left at eight o’clock, she must be up and about. Theodosia had almost brought herself to apologise for not sending her to Hertfordshire in one of their carriages; they would be needed, they could not spare the horses. Octavia was not to know that Mr. Cartland had expostulated with his wife.

“Damn it, you can’t pack her off on the stagecoach! She is your sister, our sister, that is no way for her to travel. If she is not to travel in our carriage, then she should go post!”

“There is no point in her growing used to comforts which she will not be able to enjoy in her situation. I have paid for a good seat, and she is no miss to be frightened by the journey, she has travelled in India where there are bandits at every corner, I dare say, and snakes and who knows what other dangers besides; going on the stagecoach—and only as far as Hertfordshire—is a mere nothing in comparison.”

Mr. Cartland gave up the argument as a lost cause. Once Theodosia had made her mind up, there was no dealing with her, particularly when, as in this case, she knew herself to be in the wrong.

“Mr. Ackworth will be very shocked when he discovers she is travelling on the stage,” Penelope said to her father. “If he had known what Mama planned, he would have sent his own carriage all the way to London for her, you may be sure, but I suppose Mama took good care, when announcing the time of Octavia’s arrival in Meryton, not to mention her mode of travel.”

Octavia would have preferred to travel in her brother-in-law’s carriage, as who would not, but going on the stage was not such an ordeal, and she was thankful for any conveyance that took her away from London and from Theodosia and Augusta. Augusta had called on the previous evening, to add her own instructions to her about how she was to behave and what she was to spend her time doing, which was polishing her social skills—“For what will pass in Calcutta will not do in London; to be a provincial is bad enough, but to have a strange foreign touch will not do at all. The Ackworths are sensible, practical people who know how things are; they will put you in the way of acquiring some polish before you return to town.”

“And there is the matter of clothes,” Theodosia said. “Perhaps there is a dressmaker, some local woman, who could provide the elements of a wardrobe, then I am sure Icken could add a touch of modishness as needed. You will want morning dresses and carriage dresses and two ball dresses. Riding clothes will not be necessary, you will not be riding, you do not have a horse.”

“Surely such little money as I have must be carefully hoarded for other expenses than fashionable clothes, don’t you think?” Octavia said drily.

Theodosia’s mouth tightened, and she shot a meaningful glance at Augusta. “We are well aware of how you are circumstanced, but it is essential that you present a good appearance once you are out of mourning. It would reflect badly on Augusta and myself, and indeed on your brothers, were you to be seen to be poorly dressed. Your wardrobe, a minimum wardrobe, will be our present to you. And should you catch the fancy of a man of some fortune, well then, you may pay us … However, that need not concern us now.”

Octavia had a corner seat and so could look out of the window. Once they reached the open country, and rattled past neat dwellings interspersed with market gardens, the sunny spring morning raised her spirits. She had forgotten how pretty the English countryside was, even in the frozen, pre-blooming stillness of March, with the trees still gaunt and leafless. The hedges and fields, the villages with the church and manor, the men and women working the land, were all so different from the landscape and colours she had grown used to in India.

Yet she felt a pang of loss for that hot and mysterious country. Would she ever return there? Would she ever again watch the sluggish, murky waters of the Hoogly slide past, enjoy the startling dawns and sudden sunsets, hear the endless cawing of the crows, watch the vultures and hawks circling overhead, taste the hot, spicy food that Christopher adored?

It was difficult to imagine that this English scene was part of the same world; that in Calcutta the bazaars would be alive with people and colour and sound, while here a housewife would be tripping through the door of a village shop, no bustle or noise or wandering cow to interrupt her leisurely purchases.

Her attention was caught by a fine modern house, situated half way up a hill, facing south, an elegant building with a Grecian façade, and the Indian scene faded from her mind.

“Mr. Mortimer’s house,” a burly man in a green coat sitting beside her said, with a nod towards it. “He’s a gent who made a fortune in the city, and like all such, he wanted to buy a country estate. However, none was available, or none that took his fancy, so he set about building a house for himself. And a neat job he’s made of it, too. Mr. Quintus Dance was the man who designed it, an up-and-coming young man, who will make a name for himself, I am sure.”

Octavia, instead of quelling the man with a glance, as her sisters would instantly have done should they ever have had the misfortune to find themselves travelling on the stagecoach, at once entered into conversation with her fellow passenger, who was in the building trade, he told her. They discussed buildings, the modern as opposed to the classical style, and Octavia listened with lively attention to his disquisition on the importance of guttering and downpipes. “I take a keen interest in all aspects of building,” he said apologetically, fearing he might be boring her.

But she wasn’t bored, not at all. He was a most interesting man, an importer of fine marbles, and supplier to nearly all the great houses now building. “That house of Mr. Mortimer’s,” he said with a backwards jerk of his thumb, as the coach swung round a corner and the house disappeared from view. “I provided a mort of marble for that house, for fireplaces, panelling in the library, and even a bathroom. Very up to date is Mr. Mortimer, he has a contrivance for running water which is quite remarkable. Carrara marble for the pillars and travertine for the hall floor.”

They chatted on; Mr. Dixon, as he turned out to be called, was a well-travelled man. “For we don’t have much marble in this country, and that’s a fact. And what there is isn’t always of the best quality; no, I look to Italy for my best marble, and Turkey, too. During the war with France, when that Boney was rampaging about the Continent, well, I tell you, it was hard to keep my head above water. I inherited the business from my father, and he had it from his father before him, but with not being able to travel nor trade with Italy nor anywhere else in Europe, life was hard. I went further afield, to Greece, even, but bringing the marble back all that way is uncommon expensive, and then, with folk being so nervous about the outcome of the war, there wasn’t as much building going on as one would like to see.”

Mr. Dixon had travelled to India as well, and on the very vessel that Octavia had just sailed back to England on, the Sir John Rokesby.

“A commodious, comfortable vessel, and with a good turn of speed under a good captain.”

Octavia was fascinated by what he had to say, and was soon questioning him eagerly about styles of architecture now in fashion—Mr. Dixon wasn’t enthusiastic about the Gothic, not much call for marble in those kind of houses, and who in their right mind would choose to set up home in a place that looked like it was out of the Middle Ages? “Give me a modern style any day, elegant lines, spacious, light, that’s the kind of house a gentleman and his family can live in.”

In no time at all, they had reached the first stage, at the Salisbury Arms in Barnet, and as soon as the coach turned into the yard, the passengers tumbled out to try to swallow a cup of coffee in the few minutes allowed to them while the horses were changed.

“I’ll see to that for you,” said Mr. Dixon, surging across the inn yard. “It’s no place for a young lady like yourself to be jostling and shoving just to get a cup of coffee.”

In fact they had a few minutes’ grace, time for him to return with a cup of dark, steaming coffee and for her to drink it without scalding her throat, for a handsome equipage arrived at the inn, and the ostlers and boys leapt to the horses’ heads. “A prime team,” observed Mr. Dixon, watching with keen eyes.

The innkeeper came running out in his leather apron. “Good morning, my lord,” he said to the tall man in a many-caped coat, who had swung himself to the ground from the curricle. A waiter hurried up with a pewter mug, which the driver of the curricle took with a smile.

He was a striking-looking man; Octavia, while trying not to stare, could hardly take her eyes off him. There was a vitality about him that almost seemed to crackle, and his lean face, with keen eyes set above a long, aristocratic nose and a mobile mouth, promised both intelligence and wit.

A new pair of horses were in the shafts, the man was back in the driving seat; he called to the ostler to let go of their heads, and with a swift manoeuvre he was out of the yard and bowling along the road.

Then the post boy was tootling his horn, the passengers scrambled back on board the stagecoach, the last of them only just making it before the powerful team of four fresh horses leapt forward, and they were on their way again.

“That was Lord Rutherford,” Mr. Dixon said, settling himself into his place and saying politely that he hoped he wasn’t taking up Octavia’s room. “He has a house near Meryton, not his principal seat, of course. That’s Rutherford Castle, up Richmond way, and a gloomy pile it is, to be sure. This house of his in Hertfordshire isn’t much better, his mother lives there mostly. It’s Elizabethan, all chimneys and fancy brickwork, and not worth the upkeep if you ask me. Still, his lordship is rarely there, spends most of his time in London. A Whig, you see, and the Whigs don’t go in for being country gents, not like the Tories, who take their landowning very seriously.”

“Does his wife also prefer to live in London, is she a political hostess?”

“He ain’t married, though it’s not for want of the young ladies and their mamas trying, from what I hear. He’s as rich as can be, but he don’t care for the married state too much. Likes the females, I beg your pardon, but not in the matrimonial way.” He paused and shook his head. “His mama’s not quite right in the head by all accounts, so perhaps he doesn’t take too cheerful a view of the married state.”

Mr. Dixon was going on to Grantham, and it was with real warmth that Octavia bid him good day as she jumped down from the steps of the coach at Meryton. He saw to her boxes, and looked about him with a worried air, even as the coachman was warning him to “Look lively there, if you don’t want to get left behind.”

“Where’s this person who’s meeting you?” he demanded, hesitating with his foot on the step.

“My cousins are sending a man and their carriage; look, I believe that is it over there. Thank you for your concern.”

“That’s all right, and remember, when you take it into your head to go building a fine new house, you just get in touch with Ebenezer Dixon of Grantham, you only have to mention my name, they all know me there, well, so do all the architects, and you’ll have such marble as will make you stretch your eyes!”


Chapter Nine (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)

Sholto Rutherford noticed Octavia as he swept in and out of the inn, but it was no more than a passing glance, his eye caught by her height and graceful carriage, rare for so tall a woman to hold herself with quite that pride, part of his mind noticed, but the rest of his mind was elsewhere, and the image of her was lost seconds later in the cloud of dust sent up behind his curricle as it sped on its way towards London, even as the slower stage was lengthening the distance between them, heading in the opposite direction.

Sholto was quite out of temper, unusual for him, but his mother, Lady Rutherford, was tiresome enough to try the patience of a man with twice as calm a temperament as his. The truth of it was that Sholto and his mother didn’t get on, and had been at outs ever since he was a small boy. There was affection there, but such a vastly different outlook that they puzzled one another extremely.

Sholto sometimes wondered why his father had ever married his mother, for there again, there seemed little similarity in their characters. Of course, his mother had been a beautiful woman; the portrait of her painted by Romney when she was at the height of her looks showed that well enough. And his father had been an easy-going man, not much irritated by the little things of life—but had his mother’s growing strangeness been such a little thing? Of course his father had the option of taking up his residence separately from his wife, which was what he had done, dividing his year between London, when the House was sitting, and Yorkshire, when it wasn’t, while she lived the year round in Chauntry, the Hertfordshire house that had been in the family since the time of Queen Bess; a sprawling, inconvenient place with, Lord Rutherford had been heard to remark, more chimneys than bedchambers.

Sholto had long suspected that Lady Rutherford had never wanted children, and that the strain of having a twin son and daughter had in some way set her apart from them and from their father. As he grew up, he saw her drifting further and further into a world of her own, a world that his sister, Sophronia, seemed able to take in her stride, but which continued to irk him.

He didn’t mind his mother being unconventional—his family came from that part of the aristocracy that never gave a moment’s attention to what anyone else thought of them—but he did mind her refusal, once his father had died, to take any interest either in the vast northern pile which was the seat of the earldom or in the other family houses. Excellent stewards and housekeepers ran the Rutherford houses with perfect competence, but it was not the same as having a proper mistress for at least one of them.

And there was Sophronia, his twin, thirty-five years old and still unmarried, who resolutely declined to take on her mother’s role. She lived in bickering amiability with Lady Rutherford at Chauntry, but was perfectly happy to leave all the details of looking after the house to the staff. “Running a house is nothing but a bore,” she said. “I have no more desire to attend all day long to household trivia than you have. Simply being born a woman does not mean that I am naturally domestic, all women are not that way inclined, however convenient it is for the male sex to believe it is the case.”

Sholto’s father had died when he was sixteen and still at school. He finished his education at Cambridge, and had since then spent most of his time in London, at his large house in Aubrey Square.

He had driven out of London the day before with the purpose of informing his mother that she must move out of Chauntry while necessary repairs were carried out on the house.

“It is essential, Mama,” he said for the tenth time, exasperation creeping into his deep voice, “that the hall chimney and several others be rebuilt.”

“It is out of the question,” she said, waving an airy hand at him. “I am not to be banished from my house on any whim of yours. I can see perfectly well what you are about, I am not so foolish as not to know what you want. You are attempting to edge me out of here, with this fanciful talk of brickwork and fire hazard. This house has stood perfectly well for more than two hundred years. I will not have the great hall pulled about and filled with workmen. I can imagine nothing more inconvenient than having a pack of stonemasons and carpenters in the house. They will upset the animals.”

“I would postpone the works until the summer if I could, when you might go to Brighton; however, Mr. Finlay informs me that the matter has now become a matter of urgency.”

“Mr. Finlay!” said Lady Rutherford, dismissing Sholto’s estate manager with another wave of her hand. “What does he know about anything? I am not to be moving on the word of that man. Besides, I dislike Brighton, it has become unspeakably vulgar ever since our fat prince—oh, I beg his pardon, fat King—constructed his monstrous pavilion.”

“You can go to Yorkshire if you prefer not to be here while the house is in the upheaval of building works, and if the Dower House—”

The mention of the Dower House seemed to bring her to the brink of a spasm, and her daughter, Sophronia, after exchanging a speaking glance with Sholto, waved a vinaigrette under her mother’s nose, and begged her, in a brisk voice, not to upset herself, it was bad for her system.

“And what does Sholto care for that. I am not upsetting myself, he is upsetting me. Summon Dr. Gibbons this instant, he will tell Sholto that I am not to be teased in this way, that I shall be out of sorts for days as a consequence of his coming here with his mad schemes.”

“If the chimneys are in danger of catching fire, Mama, you will possibly be more than out of sorts, you will be smoked out, kippered, I dare say,” Sophronia said. “Not all Dr. Gibbons’s medical care will help you then.”

Lady Rutherford gave her daughter a dark look. “How dare you use such language in my house, Sophronia, and to me.”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/elizabeth-aston/the-second-mrs-darcy/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.