The True Darcy Spirit (22 page)

It was at an unfashionably early hour that Camilla stood on the doorstep of Miss Griffin’s house. A boy admitted her, and showed her into the room on the ground floor where Miss Griffin was already seated at her desk.

She pursed her lips at being interrupted at her labours.

“I am sorry to come at this hour,” Camilla said, casting off her hat and making herself comfortable. “I would not do so, except that I need your help.”

“In some scrape, are you?” Miss Griffin rose and gave the bell-pull a tug. The boy appeared, and she ordered him to bring coffee.

“Not I, no, but another member of my family is.”

Miss Griffin frowned. “Not Belle again? Or has Alethea come to her senses, and jilted that man?”

“Unfortunately not. No, this time it is none of us. It concerns a cousin, Cassandra Darcy. Do you remember her?”

“I do indeed. It always astonished me that her mother could ever have had such a daughter. I suppose she takes after her father.”

“Tell me about him, he died some while ago, did he not?”

Miss Griffin had been with Camilla’s family for most of her working life, looking after the five sisters as they grew up at Pemberley. A discreet, sensible woman, she was regarded by all the Darcy family as
utterly trustworthy, and there was little she didn’t know about them or their tribe of relations.

“He was a Thaddeus Darcy. His father was your grandfather’s younger brother, so your father and Mr. Thaddeus were first cousins. I don’t know if you ever heard that Lady Catherine de Bourgh had always intended that her daughter, your cousin Anne, should marry your father—”

Camilla burst out laughing. “Papa marry Cousin Anne? Oh, you cannot be serious. She is such a fading-away, wilting kind of person, she would never have done for Papa, even if he hadn’t fallen in love with Mama!”

“That’s as may be, but it came to nothing, and Lady Catherine was extremely annoyed. Her daughter, who was cross and sickly, I will agree, didn’t take, and I suspect her ladyship was getting desperate to find her a husband. Word has it that Mr. Collins, as he was then, suggested that if one Mr. Darcy wasn’t available, then another might do.”

“Oh, that dreadful Mr. Collins! Only no longer plain Mr. Collins, now that they’ve made him a bishop. What had it to do with him?”

“He held the living at Hunsford, and was highly regarded by Lady Catherine, I believe. Mr. Thaddeus Darcy, who was a younger son and a poet, but by all accounts a very amiable man, was summoned, and Anne de Bourgh fell in love with him—he was very good-looking, I heard—and they were married. However, he was never strong, he had a weakness to his chest from a child, and was carried off after catching influenza one winter. Cassandra Darcy must have been about five, then; I remember your mother and father putting on their blacks for him.”

“And so Cousin Anne married again, this time to the very disagreeable Mr. Partington, who has made Cassandra’s life so difficult.”

“He was a clergyman, who held the living at Hunsford after Mr. Collins. Lady Catherine was not best pleased, she considered him to be much beneath her daughter in rank. However, all that was forgiven when, after two more daughters, your cousin gave birth to a son.”

“Thus putting Cassandra’s nose quite out of joint.”

“That is the usual way of it, especially when there is a stepfather in the case.”

The coffee came, and was poured, and drunk. Miss Griffin sat very upright in her chair. “So your cousin Cassandra has been up to mischief, has she? I heard something about that from Belle. I’m not altogether surprised; she struck me as being a very lively, determined child, although I haven’t seen her for a good many years.”

Camilla had no scruples about laying bare Cassandra’s sad story to her old governess. The story would go no further, and if she were to enlist her help, then Miss Griffin must know the whole.

“So that’s your plan, is it?” said Miss Griffin at last. “A Miss Darcy earning her living as a painter. I never heard of such a thing.”

“You earn your living by your pen.”

“That is quite different, I come from quite another order in life.”

“She no longer goes by the name of Darcy, as I told you. She has to earn her bread, I do not see that you can criticise her because she is well-bred.”

“No, no, we women must stick together when we can. Send your carriage for her, Camilla, for I know I will have no peace unless I go along with what you want.”

“I am sure your stepfather would disapprove of this part of London,” Camilla said to Cassandra as she and Petifer alighted from the carriage, “for any number of painters and writers and artists live here. The great Mr. Lawrence has his studio not far away, in Greek Street.”

Her first sight of Miss Griffin made Cassandra’s heart sink. This severe-looking woman, clearly a person of the strictest morals and the most old-fashioned notions, would never accept such an one as Cassandra Darcy into her house. Yet, there seemed to be a gleam of humanity in her eye, and was she not the authoress of such stirring tales as
Spectre of the North
and
Mrs. Fenman’s Letter
?

And she greeted Camilla with real affection, before running her
eye over Cassandra and uttering a daunting
humph
sound. “This is your maid?” she said to Cassandra, when Petifer bobbed a curtsy.

“Not precisely, you see…”

“Do not stand at the doorstep, come in.” Miss Griffin held the door open wide, and they entered, Camilla bestowing a swift wink and an encouraging smile on her cousin. Miss Griffin led them through the hall to a small room, painted in a cream wash that made it light and pleasant, Cassandra thought, and which overlooked a tiny scrap of garden to the rear of the house.

“I have no maid at present,” Miss Griffin said, when they were all seated, Camilla and Cassandra side by side on a sofa, Petifer perched on the edge of an upright chair, and Miss Griffin presiding in a throne-like chair with gilt arms.

“My girl left at the end of the month to get married, and I have not replaced her. That is why I opened the door to you myself. Now, Miss Darcy, I have heard such of your story as I need to know from Mrs. Wytton, and a sorry tale it is, too, with an uncommon twist on the usual outcome of such adventures. That is now behind you, and I can have nothing but sympathy for a young woman who has to make her way in the world. I suppose you do not feel called to be a governess? It can be a rewarding or a thankless job, I know from my own experiences, but it provides a living and a roof over one’s head.”

“I have the greatest respect for any woman who takes up such a position,” said Cassandra at once. “I owe a great deal to my own admirable governess, Miss Wilson, but I am afraid that despite her best efforts, I am ill-equipped to teach any young person. At least, I feel I am qualified to instruct in painting and drawing, but as to languages and music and needlework, or history and geography, I have little to offer.”

“Self-knowledge is a good beginning,” said Miss Griffin. “So you propose to set yourself up as a drawing mistress, in a town overflowing with talented artists of every description.”

Cassandra flushed. “It will not be easy, but I believe some mamas will prefer to have their daughters taught by a woman rather than
some of the masters in town. And you yourself must have felt that the chances of a publisher agreeing to publish your first literary efforts were remote.”

Miss Griffin smiled at that, for the first time, and it changed her whole appearance. I should like to paint her, Cassandra said inwardly, looking at the lean, intelligent face with sudden interest.

Miss Griffin’s smile vanished. “Have you any examples of your work with you? Is that a portfolio under your arm? Did you imagine that you were angling for a commission, to bring it with you?”

“Stop being so fierce, Griffy,” cried Camilla. “I told Cassandra to bring some paintings and drawings to show you, because you are well able to judge how much skill she has. Come on, Cassandra, for I, too, should like to see some of your recent work.”

Cassandra rose and laid the portfolio on the round table under the window. She untied the ribbons and opened it, to reveal the water-colour portrait she had done of Belle, while they were together at Rosings.

It was quite unintentional, to have that picture lying on top, for Cassandra had tucked her paintings and sketches in quite randomly, not thinking about any particular order. But a portrait of a person known to the viewer always has an extra charm, and this one, which was a quite remarkable likeness, caused Camilla to exclaim out loud, and Miss Griffin to cast a look of surprise at Cassandra.

“Why, it is Belle, Belle to the life. Look, Griffy, it is an amazing likeness; Cassandra, you have caught to perfection that wilful look she has when she thinks some scheme of hers is going to be thwarted.”

“And her beauty and charm besides,” said Miss Griffin, holding it up to see it in a better light. “I congratulate you, Miss Darcy; if this is not an aberration, if the rest of your work is of this quality, it is quite out of the common run. I know many artists of some years standing who could not have painted such a revealing portrait of this young lady.”

Camilla was turning over the other pages. “Here is Rosings, do you remember our visit there? And, Lord, it is Great-Aunt Catherine, to the life; how very terrifying! Here are children, are these your little
brother and sisters? And who is this ravishing creature, with such intelligence and humour in her face, goodness, any man who saw this would fall instantly in love with her.”

“That is Emily Croscombe, my greatest friend—who was my greatest friend when…And the next one is her mother.”

“You can see the family resemblance,” said Camilla.

“Both of those were studies for oils, but I didn’t have time even to begin work on the painting of Belle before—”

“I should like to know more about that whole incident,” said Miss Griffin, severe again. “I heard a garbled version from Belle, and I don’t for a moment believe it was the truth. Belle never does tell the truth unless it suits her, I’m afraid my best efforts never persuaded her that there is a difference between true and false. She merely sees it as a difference in focus, which is quite wrong. I very much like this pencil drawing of a young man.”

“A remarkably handsome young man,” said Camilla.

“That is Henry Lisser, the artist,” said Cassandra, taking it and laying it under her other drawings. “I did not intend to put it there.”

“Is that not the young man who…?”

“He is the reason I was sent away from Rosings, yes,” said Cassandra. “And, no, despite anything you may have heard to the contrary, I did not have an affection for him. This is my mama, at her embroidery, and here are some drawings I made of Petifer, who has always been a most patient model.”

It brought a lump to her throat, to see the familiar faces and figures from Rosings piling up on the table. She hadn’t realised that Emily had put those in; had she done it from kindness, as a memento of the home she had lost?

“My dear,” said Miss Griffin, after a swift look at Cassandra. “There is never any point in looking back. And with your ability, your extraordinary skill with brush and pen, I see no reason why you should not indeed establish yourself in London. People are so very ready to have their portraits done, you know, and you have a rare gift for it. Of course, there are those who will only consider a fashionable name, and are prepared to pay the fee demanded, but there are many
on the lower rungs of society who would, I believe, be very happy to have their portrait painted by you.”

Camilla gave Miss Griffin a swift hug. “You see, I knew you would like Cassandra, and I am delighted to have a cousin who has such a genius.”

“First things first,” Miss Griffin said. “Miss Darcy should see the rooms, she may find them not quite to her taste.”

Cassandra didn’t like to say that any room that was more than a hutch in the garden would probably be to her taste. “Miss Griffin, I go at present under the name of Kent. I do not wish to bring disgrace on those members of the family who bear my own name.”

“Yes, yes,” said Camilla, “but if you don’t want that unpleasant Lord Usborne to know where you are, not that I think he will waste a moment thinking about you, fortunately you never fell into his clutches, then the name of Kent will have to disappear.”

“I will not live under my real name.”

“Then you shall choose another, like stage actresses do.”

Miss Griffin took them up the narrow but graceful stairs to the top floor. Although it was the attic floor, the ceilings were of a good height, and the central room that she showed them into made Cassandra catch her breath. It was full of light, from two good-sized dormer windows, and ran nearly the length of the house.

“You need natural light for painting,” said Miss Griffin. “Or so my last lodger told me. He, however, was not a painter, but a musician. He has gone to Italy for two or three years, to Rome. But I believe that in the past the room has been used as an artist’s studio.”

“It is in every way perfect for such a purpose,” said Cassandra, looking about her in delight.

“No, it isn’t,” said Camilla. “Oh, yes, you may paint in here, but who will climb two flights of stairs to view your paintings, and do you want to have strangers in your house, Griffy? I had not thought of this before.”

Camilla was right, yet it was hardly as though there would be a troop of clients up and down at all hours. “It might be possible to put paintings on view elsewhere,” Cassandra said hesitantly.

Miss Griffin opened a door to one side of the room. “This is a tiny bedchamber, and there is another, even smaller, off the landing, which is the maid’s room.”

“Are you sure you do not mind, Petifer?” Cassandra asked, as they walked home. “Will not the duties be too onerous for you?”

“Onerous? Looking after you and a writing lady, who I’ll be bound, once she has a pen in her hand, wouldn’t notice if a dust cloud rolled through the house? What’s onerous about that? I can keep that house tidy and trim with one hand tied behind my back, most girls would give an eyetooth for such a position. She isn’t a grand lady, I grant you, and it isn’t a smart part of town, such as you should be in, but if you don’t care for that, nor do I.”