The Second Mrs Darcy (7 page)

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.

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!”

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.”

Sophronia shrugged. “Have it your way, Mama. For myself, I should be quite happy in the Dower House, or Yorkshire. It is all one to me. Where I would most like to be is London, but of course you won't go there, and Sholto wouldn't have you if you wanted to.”

“And of what importance is it where you want to be? Since when do your opinions and wishes have anything to do with anything?”

Sholto suppressed a grin. Sophronia was a constant source of delight to him. She had inherited none of her mother's faults, instead being blessed with her father's tolerant nature. Her mother's attempts to marry her off to a series of men she had taken in dislike had failed; what in her mother was obstinacy was in her resolution, and in the end, her mother had been obliged to give in.

A weaker character would have become her mother's slave, a mere footstool for such an imperious woman, but Sophronia had too much character for Lady Rutherford to care to have her dancing in attendance on her, her daughter's intelligence was too keen and her sense of humour and of the ridiculous too strong to make her comfortable company. So Sophronia spent her spinsterhood in her own way, painting and walking, and with her own circle of friends; Sholto liked her much the best of his family, and would have felt sorry for her, if she had not on more than one occasion informed him in her forthright way that he might spare himself the emotion, she was perfectly happy in the life she had made for herself.

But in this case, her tongue and her reasoning could not prevail against her mother's stubborn determination to thwart Sholto's plans. So he had ordered his carriage, and frowned at Sophronia when she came out to bid him farewell.

“There is no doing with her at present,” Sophronia said. “I will try to make her see sense, and if the wind sets in the east, I may contrive to have the chimney smoke so badly that even she understands that something must be done.”

“I doubt if you'll succeed,” said Sholto, his frown giving way to his more usual smile.

“Damn it,” he said aloud, as he passed through Meryton. “Let the house tumble about her ears, and I hope she may be buried in the rubble.”

He had no great liking for Chauntry, and not just because his younger years there had not been altogether happy ones. He found the house uncomfortable. It had the reputation of being haunted, and although he didn't believe in ghosts, there was no question but that the house had an atmosphere. He had asked Sophronia if she felt it, and she had said at once that it was clearly a house where some very unpleasant things had happened, which seemed to linger in the rooms, but she wasn't especially affected by the supernatural, and since she contrived to spend a good deal of time out of doors, and had her own sitting room and bedchamber in the most recent part of the house, an addition made by his grandfather in the last century, she took no notice.

“Of course, it is difficult to keep servants, as you know, for they are very superstitious; however, any fear of ghosts is assuaged by the higher wages we pay.”

Sholto arrived back at his London house in the early afternoon, thirsty and dusty after his drive, but with the fidgets shaken out of him by the cracking pace he had taken. The door opened as he drew up; a footman sprang forward to take his coat as he went into the house and his butler surged towards him with offers of refreshment, and the news that Mr. Poyntz was waiting for him in the library.

Sholto peeled off his gloves, handed them and his hat to the footman, and went directly to his library. Henry Poyntz was one of his oldest friends; they had been at Eton and the university together, and although their worldly fate was very different, they had remained fast friends. He greeted Henry with real affection, asked after his parents and numerous siblings, and told the hovering footman to bring a bottle of claret.

Henry was the youngest of five brothers, all exceptionally able men, the sons of a clergyman. His father had a good living, but with
three daughters to provide for as well as his sons, the boys all had to find careers for themselves. And they had; choosing the army, the navy, the law, the academic life, and the Church. Henry had been in the army for the long war with Napoleon, serving in Spain and fighting at Waterloo. After he had recovered from the wound he had received on the battlefield, he decided he had had enough of war and killing and sold out, announcing his intention of taking holy orders.

Sholto sat down on the window seat and raised a glass to his friend. He was a good fellow, and Sholto was delighted to see him. Henry wasn't one of your puritanical, hellfire clergymen. Tall and handsome, with a witty tongue and a good deal of charm, he was liked by all his acquaintance; you would be hard put to find anyone with a bad word to say about him. His was just the company Sholto needed after his unsuccessful trip into Hertfordshire, he would rouse the dullest man out of the glooms, not that Sholto was gloomy, his was not a melancholy nature, as Henry told him when he recounted his mother's implacable refusal to see sense over the chimneys.

“Luckily,” Henry added, “or you'd be in a constant state of the black dog, with Lady Rutherford to deal with. What a time Newsome has of it with her, I wouldn't be in his shoes for anything.”

“I can't think what she wants with a chaplain in any case,” said Sholto. “She never goes to church, nor attends household prayers; I never knew a more ungodly woman.”

“The Reverend Newsome is useful to you,” said Henry, suddenly serious. “He takes good care of your library there, and is bringing it into some degree of order, which it needs. Your ancestors not having been of a bookish disposition, it's gone to wrack and ruin.”

Sholto raised his hand in a gesture of surrender. “I know, I know, and he has turned up some fascinating volumes, a first folio of Shakespeare, for example, apart from sorting out the family papers. You'd be surprised what he has dug up about the doings of the Rutherfords in the seventeenth century.”

“No, I wouldn't,” said Henry at once. “The house was besieged by Cromwell, wasn't it? I bet the Lord Rutherford of his day was just
such a man as you. I can see you in a sash and a feathered hat, manning the cannons and defying the Roundheads.”

“You are out there. My great-great-grandfather was away when the house was attacked, fighting with the King. It was his wife who defied the parliamentary forces.” He paused. “I sometimes think it's a pity she was successful, it might have made my life much easier if the house had been slighted then. They nearly lost the place, of course, during the Commonwealth, and it fell into some disrepair; however the new King made amends, for once, and restored the family fortunes, and the house was put to rights. Now, though—”

“Is it so serious?” Henry asked. “These stewards can make a fuss about a small matter, blowing it up out of proportion to justify their wages.”

“Finlay is not that sort of a man. I have looked at it with him, and talked to the builders; there is no doubt that it needs a great deal of work done on it, and soon. My mother should not be living there, she should not have roaring fires going day and night as she does; but there is no reasoning with her. Now you've put me back in a bad mood, thinking of the house and her. I looked for you in Meryton, by the way, but they told me you were in Lincolnshire.”

“So I was, visiting the family, but now I plan to spend a few weeks in town, if you can put me up.”

“Do your clerical duties permit you to be away so long?”

“Dr. Rawleigh is glad to see the back of me. He says I rattle through the services and he would prefer to manage on his own. He has no need of a curate, you know, he would not have one if you hadn't obliged him to take me on.”

Dr. Rawleigh was the Rector of Meryton, a living in Lord Rutherford's gift, a living that he planned to present to Henry as soon as the Rector, an elderly scholar with more interest in books than people, saw fit to retire.

“What he means is that you are active in the parish, and show up his scholarly indolence to the parishioners. Once you are out of the way, it will be to the devil with the souls in his care and back to his books.” Sholto rang the bell. “Berwick,” he said to his butler, “Mr.
Poyntz will be staying for a while, he will have his usual room.” He turned back to Poyntz. “So what brings you to London?”