The True Darcy Spirit (29 page)

“You are a cynic, Miss Griffin.”

“We governesses see our charges grow up, and we know them better than they know themselves. Belle would never do as the wife for such a man as Mr. Wytton, for instance, while he and Camilla are admirably suited.”

Cassandra’s brief encounter with Mr. Wytton had not prepossessed her in his favour, but she said she would take Miss Griffin’s word for it, “and Camilla does seem to be exceedingly happy in her marriage.”

To her surprise, as May passed into June, Cassandra found that she was beginning to enjoy her new life. The memory of her time with James was fading, and no longer haunted her with that aching sense of loss. She admitted to herself that she was glad that he was off on the high seas. She wished him well, but there was a sense of relief in knowing that she would not meet him by chance; what was past was past, and it was better that no chance encounter could kindle old feelings. Probably he had already forgotten her; hadn’t Lord Nelson said that every man was a bachelor once past Gibraltar? James would no doubt find solace in the arms of a sultry Spanish girl.

She didn’t want to find solace in any man’s arms. She felt that James was an inoculation against love, and furthermore, she didn’t need solace of any kind, she was working hard all day long. Once absorbed in painting and drawing, all the daily cares and worries fell away, and nothing existed or mattered but the forms and images growing under her hand. And, thanks to Henry Lisser, she was meeting new people and making new acquaintances among the community of artists and writers and musicians, and finding that the life of artistic London suited her well, very well indeed. She was invited to join Henry Lisser and several of his friends who met and dined in a private room in a coffee-house, off the Strand, where she was accepted in a way that she would never have thought possible.

She had attended the remaining lectures given by Turner, and every one of these was discussed and thrashed out in the evening sessions. Henry introduced his friends, the family of silversmiths, where, to her surprise and delight, two of the daughters were following in the family tradition, and producing work of a quality that made her stare. She did a design for a silver cup, based on the figures she had painted for Mr. Wytton, and the finished vessel was greatly admired and sold quickly, much to Cassandra’s pleasure and gratification.

Miss Griffin shared some of her new acquaintances, particularly those in the writing line, and now that she had such an efficient household manager in Petifer, she ventured on some dinner parties of her own, where Cassandra found herself sitting next to John Murray, the publisher, Byron’s publisher in fact; and a small, intense man, a poet, one John Keats, just making his name.

There were some hostile voices, of course there were. Given her youth, talent, and beauty, tongues were going to wag, as in the parallel world of polite society, and Cassandra knew that sharp remarks were passed behind her back by some of the men who were most agreeable to her face. One or two were open in their dislike of any woman having the impertinence to muscle in on the masculine world of painting, but Henry Lisser was quick to point out to them that two women had been among the founding members of the Royal Academy in the last century, and that in France it was quite taken for granted that women could paint.

“How come you to be so generous about our sex?” Cassandra asked him.

“I have a younger sister who is an extremely talented artist, who am I to say that women cannot be painters or any kind of artist? It is absurd. And as for writing, the presses would fall silent if women such as Miss Griffin did not set their pens to paper as they do.”

She had an uneasy moment or two, when her Darcy looks threatened to reveal her identity; at one pleasant dinner party, she met a Mr. Silvestrini, a musician of some distinction, who eyed her thoughtfully and said she put him much in mind of a pupil of his, a girl with a wonderful voice, the former Miss Alethea Darcy.

She was quick to respond that others had mentioned her likeness to some members of that family, they came from Derbyshire, did they not, and some of her family also came from that county, perhaps there was a remote connection that she was unaware of, likenesses were a strange thing, did not he think so? And she adroitly turned the conversation to portrait painting, and in fact ended up painting his beautiful wife, although she insisted that Mrs. Silvestrini come to her studio, rather than her go to the Silvestrinis’ house in Bloomsbury; she didn’t want to risk running into Alethea.

Belle’s portrait had done its work, and she had two or three commissions in hand, apart from the one of Mrs. Silvestrini, which was done for only a small fee as Cassandra found her looks so inspiring that she would have painted her for nothing, had not Henry Lisser intervened.

“Charge less, but charge. Otherwise you will not be taken seriously, and you do your fellow artists no favours if you undercut the market!”

Camilla and Mr. Wytton were away at this time; caring little for the social round of the season, they had gone to Paris, to visit Camilla’s sister Georgina, Belle’s twin, taking Belle with them. She hadn’t wanted to go, Camilla had told Cassandra when she came to take her leave of her; Camilla suspected a man in the case.

Cassandra thought that more than likely. She hadn’t seen her cousin since she had come to Henry Lisser’s studio to see her portrait, and he never mentioned her name. She sincerely hoped that Belle’s fancy had now alighted on a more suitable object for her affections.

The weather grew hotter, and London emptied of all those who could escape the heat and smells for a spell by the sea or in the country. Cassandra missed the glory of summer days at Rosings, with a fleeting pang of loss, but she wasn’t affected by the warmth, and found that if she propped her windows open, her studio was more or less tolerable. In the afternoons, she would often take her sketchbook, and a novel portable water-colour set that she had bought from Mr. Rudge, out to Green Park, where she would sit in the shade and capture the people sitting and walking there.

It was a calm life, and she felt with pride that she was achieving at least a sense of tranquillity, when this new-found peace was shattered in the place where she had come to feel safest, in the first-floor room of the coffee-house.

They were a reduced party that evening, since various of the regulars were away, and Henry Lisser told her, when she arrived, hot and happy after a successful day’s work, that he was expecting an acquaintance that he would be glad for her to meet, a John Hopkirk, a writer. “He is a clever, droll fellow, I think you will like him. He is only recently come back to London; he has been travelling abroad for some months. And he is bringing a friend, I do not know anything about him.”

Horatio Darcy was finding the weather hot, but his spirits were unaccountably raised by the sense of freedom that the summer months had brought him, on account of his separation from Lady Usborne. There had been a difficult scene, when she realised that he meant what he said, and that he was not proposing to come to Brighton.

“In that case, I hardly think you need trouble yourself to call upon me when we return,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “It is clear that you use work as an excuse to avoid my company.”

“I have neglected the law shamefully these last busy weeks, and now I must catch up.”

“I never heard of a gentleman being so pressured with work that he abandoned the ordinary civilities of the world into which he was born.”

“I was born into a world where younger sons must make their own way; it is not a matter of civility or incivility.”

She shrugged. “I believe I am not slow-witted, I am sure you could come to Brighton if you would.”

He half hoped that she would find herself a new interest while at the seaside. A few weeks ago, such a thought would have been a fear, would have sent a stab of jealousy through him; now he found he did not care at all whether she did or not.

He stood on the road and watched Lady Usborne’s carriage bowling
away, spurts of dust rising behind its wheels; it hadn’t rained for more than two weeks, and the London streets were as dusty as they were usually dirty. He gave himself a mental shake. For the next weeks, he would put all thoughts of the fair sex from his head. He would devote himself virtuously to his work, dine at his club, and look up such of his cronies as were still in town.

Yet none of this really pleased him. Something was nagging at him. On a whim, he decided to look up an old friend from school and college days, who had been abroad, in Italy, but who had, he had learned, just returned to London. They had not seen much of one another these last few years, despite the close friendship that had sprung up between them; they had taken different paths and each was making his way in the world, Horatio in the law, John as a man of letters.

John opened the front door of a neat house in Paddington and greeted his erstwhile college friend with enthusiasm. “You are looking sleek and prosperous, the law suits you.”

“Nonsense, I am worn down by my labours, and envy men like you, who live in a much more interesting world than mine, which is full of dusty law tomes and equally fusty and dusty judges.”

The house was full of life and colour, and Horatio Darcy realised that he was comparing it, favourably, with the large and handsome house where he had spent so much time these last months, the Usborne house in Berkeley Square. That was formal, elegant, and fashionable. John’s house was none of these things, but it was welcoming, and, Horatio felt, was a happy home.

Part of the reason for this soon appeared. A small woman with a trim figure and a firm chin came out to greet the visitor, wiping her hand on a cloth and saying that she was so sorry, she couldn’t shake his hand, for her own hands were covered in oil.

“Oil?”

“This is my wife, Louisa,” John said, affection and pride flowing out of him. “She is a painter.”

Horatio was taken aback, stunned into silence, in fact, on two counts. First, he had no idea that John was married. And then, could
this composed young woman, with her well-bred air and manners, be a painter? What kind of a painter?

He had to say something, for they were both looking at him expectantly. He chose the easier option first.

“I am overwhelmed, and so very honoured to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Hopkirk. The thing is, I had no idea, that is to say…I saw no announcement.”

“Oh, there was none,” said Mrs. Hopkirk gaily. “I am of age, and I have known John forever, we grew up in the same village. And so, when we decided to marry, we simply did so.”

“Without undue ceremony,” added John. “Much the best way. Our wedding was attended only by my dearest Louisa, and myself, with two witnesses we called in from the street. One turned out to be a musician, so as soon as the ceremony was over, out came his oboe, and he danced us out of the church to a merry jig. He has become a good friend since then. The other witness wasn’t quite so amiable…”

“He was positively grumpy,” said Louisa with a smile. “He told us that people didn’t ought to go getting married, it led to nothing but trouble.”

“However, he cheered up when we gave him a guinea for his time,” finished John. “And, unlike Jessop, the musician, he will not be coming round later. Horatio, I do take this very kindly, it is so good to see you. Now, first, you must come and see Louisa’s paintings, for I can tell by your face that you are thinking, ‘A woman painter, that is like Dr. Johnson’s woman preaching,’ but Louisa is no dog on its hind legs, I assure you.”

Louisa’s paintings were a revelation to Horatio. She specialised in flower paintings, which he had never given much thought to, but as he took in the exquisite detailing and rich, vibrant colours, he felt a rare sense of balance and harmony come over him, and found himself revising his views.

“What do you do with them all?” he asked, as they returned to the tiny front parlour—the larger rear room being entirely given over to Louisa’s work.

“Why, she sells them, and very glad we are of the income, I can
tell you. For writing is a hard way to make a living, if you aren’t Walter Scott, and even he, I hear, has money troubles. Anyhow, we are fortunate, for Louisa can sell all she paints, and it’s a steady, comfortable income for us.”

“But as a married woman, surely—”

“Oh, there is a prejudice about that,” said Louisa cheerfully, “because it is assumed that upon marriage any woman ceases to have an identity, and must hang up her brushes or whatever—although I notice that no one criticises a woman for writing novels when she is Mrs. this or that. However, I work under my own name, the one that I had before I was married; after all, it is not a question purchasers ask, they do not say, ‘I very much like this picture and wish to buy it, but are you a married woman?’ And they sell through some shops and dealers also, who know and trust my work under that name, so we go on very well.”

“You will dine with us, Horatio?” John said.

“Please do,” Louisa seconded with a smile. “It will be pot-luck, for I have been working hard all day, but we shall contrive a tolerable meal for you. It would please John so much; he has often spoken about you, and your times at Westminster and Oxford.”

It was an invitation Horatio couldn’t refuse, and as the evening went on, he found himself feeling more relaxed and at ease than he had for a long while. Various friends of John and Louisa’s dropped in, including the musician from their wedding, who was a tall man with long, thin hands and a dry wit; he held a position as a court musician, and had several amusing anecdotes to tell about his experiences.

“Although, much as I deplore Prinny—I think I can speak my mind in this company without fear of being hauled off to gaol—our Prince Regent is a musician, he does have a genuine feeling for music and a very good understanding of it.”

The talk flowed from politics to books and paintings and science and foreign lands, and Horatio Darcy felt that the evening had passed in a flash when he finally found himself outside the house, bidding farewell to his hosts before setting off back to his rooms.

The renewal of the friendship with John was not confined to that
single evening. He dined there again, being careful on these occasions to take an offering of fruit, a packet of tea, or anything else he could think of to augment what he suspected was a frugal level of house-keeping.

The couple made no secret of the fact that they lived off what they earned. “If we don’t work, we don’t eat,” said Louisa, shooing the men out of the house to dine elsewhere on an evening when she had a picture that had to be finished, and delivered the next morning. “Off you go, I shall do very well for myself with whatever is in the larder that I may eat while I work.”

“I know what we shall do,” said John, as he and Horatio stood outside the house. “Are you at all acquainted with a painter called Henry Lisser? Louisa greatly admires his work. He tells me that two or three nights a week, he dines with other artists and friends at a coffee-house, in a private room, I believe, and that I am welcome to join them. He will not mind my bringing a friend, I know he will not, for I said that I might look in with you.”