Читать книгу The True Darcy Spirit - Elizabeth Aston - Страница 11

Cassandra went to bed on the night of her arrival in Bath tired after the journey, and no longer in good spirits. Mrs. Cathcart was worse than she remembered her: officious, disapproving, and moralising. Cassandra had had to endure a lecture over supper on her folly, how grave could be the consequences of any straying from the true path of virtue, and how her aunt, if she might call herself so, expected conduct of the most correct kind while she was in Bath.

“For bad news travels fast, you know, and we cannot count on word of your shocking behaviour in Rosings not having already reached Bath.”

Cassandra, endeavouring not to yawn, felt quite sure it had, Mrs. Cathcart would have seen to that, if she were any judge. And it was all so absurd, over an embrace in the garden that had never in fact taken place. You would think she had attempted to run off with a groom; almost she wished she had, if it had spared her the prospect of several weeks in Mrs. Cathcart’s company.

“And there is to be none of that drawing and sketching and painting while you are here. My brother is strongly of the opinion that you have been allowed too much freedom in that direction, and what should be one of many accomplishments has taken on too much importance in your life.”

Cassandra, before she went to bed, asked Petifer to hide the sketchbooks and crayons and water-colours and brushes she had brought with her; she wouldn’t put it past her aunt to remove them if she knew about them.

The next morning, with the natural ebullience of youth, Cassandra awoke feeling that things weren’t so very bad. True, there was the oppressive Mrs. Cathcart, but then there was also Bath: new sights and scenes, shops and people, and the sun was shining, and who knew what the day might bring?

The first thing the day brought was the sturdy, thin-lipped Miss Quail, come at her mother’s bidding, to take Miss Darcy out for a walk, and show her something of Bath.

“Of course,” said her mother, “Mrs. Cathcart will go with her to write her name in the visitors’ book and all that kind of thing, but first she may learn her way around with you, for it is to be understood that she may never go out unless under supervision.”

Mrs. Cathcart had, the previous evening, relieved Cassandra of the sum of money which Mr. Partington had bestowed upon her when she’d left Rosings. Since she knew to the penny how much this was, it was clear that it had been arranged beforehand. “It is not suitable for a young girl to have so much money”—it was, Cassandra thought, a miserly sum, to last her for a long stay—“so I will take care of it, and you may ask me for such small sums as you may need to disburse while you are here. There cannot be many expenses, you know, while you are my guest.”

Now she gave Cassandra exactly enough to pay for a subscription at the circulating library. “I do not approve of novels, and you are not to bring any into the house”—how like her brother, Cassandra thought—“but you may borrow works of an improving nature. It is quite the thing to go to the library to exchange your books, it would be thought odd if you did not do so.”

Along with her sketchbooks and paints, Cassandra had carefully hidden some money that her aunt knew nothing about. Her mother had given her ten pounds—guilt money, Cassandra thought bitterly—with an injunction not to tell her stepfather about it, it was for those little fripperies that a girl might need, which Mr. Partington didn’t precisely understand.

In addition, Mrs. Croscombe had pressed a note on her, via Emily. “Mama says she is sure that Mr. P. will send you off with very little money—no, it is a present, she will be offended if you do not accept it.”

And then she had some money of her own put by; although she spent most of her allowance on her materials, she had some money left to her by her godmother, paid quarterly; not a large sum, and one that Mr. Partington insisted on seeing accounts for, but accounts need not be strictly accurate.

How odd it was that strict morality led to deception and less than openness, Cassandra said to herself as she put on a straw bonnet trimmed with cherries.

The cherries did not meet with Mrs. Cathcart’s approval. “Cherries? This fashion for fruit on hats is most unsuitable. Still, if you have nothing else to wear, I suppose it is not possible to remove them just now.”

“Not without tearing the straw away,” said Cassandra, determined at all costs to keep her cherries.

Cassandra did not take to Miss Quail, who had a solemn way about her, and a great deal of satisfaction at being an engaged woman. She brought the phrase into her conversation at every opportunity, as they walked across Pulteney Bridge and into the main part of town. “As an engaged woman, I’m sure you will allow me to tell you how one should go on in Bath. I understand you have led a very retired life until now.”

“I live in the country, but I suppose I shall go on in Bath much as I would anywhere else.”

“No, indeed, for within the privacy of a country estate, behaviour passes without comment, whereas in Bath, let me assure you, as an engaged woman with some knowledge of life, this is not the case at all; one cannot be too careful about one’s reputation.”

She lowered her voice, as if Cassandra’s reputation were in danger from the mere mention of the word.

“A young girl, a young single girl, cannot be too careful,” she reiterated.

They walked up Milsom Street, Miss Quail prosing on, while Cassandra’s eyes were everywhere, delighting in the busy streets and shops. Somehow, she must contrive to slip out on her own, and make some purchases, which she knew her hostess would not permit.

“There are a remarkable number of people in chairs and on crutches,” she observed. “That must be depressing after a while, to live in a place with so many people in poor health.”

Miss Quail bristled. “It is only a small number, I assure you, there is nowhere in the whole kingdom less depressing to the spirits than Bath. At this time of day, you know, the invalids come out to go to drink the waters, or take the hot bath.”

“Where will you live when you are married?” said Cassandra, not wishing to goad Miss Quail any further.

“In Bristol, my dearest Mr. Northcott lives in Bristol. Well, not in Bristol itself, not in the city, of course, he has an estate at Clifton, a house with a park around it. And we are to have two carriages,” she added with pride. “I suppose you keep a carriage at your home in Kent? Mrs. Kingston tells us that Rosings is a considerable property.”

Cassandra stared at her; what was this talk about carriages? “We keep a carriage, yes,” she said.

“And I dare say a great many horses? Mr. Northcott has a pair of carriage horses, in addition to his own horse. Some people merely hire them, you know, but we are to have our own pair.”

“Is there always such a glare from the buildings? I think Bath is very hot in summer, I wonder that people choose to come.”

“Indeed, it can be rather warm, but that is partly the hot waters, you know. People say there is positively a miasma hanging over the city on some days, but I have never noticed it, I find it a very good climate. Not as good as the air of Clifton, of course, we shall be in a very good air in Clifton. Now, here we are at the library. If you put your name down, I will show you where the books are that you will want to borrow.”

As she led the way to a shelf full of very dull-looking essays and sermons, she felt that here was another reason for slipping out on her own, so that she might borrow the kind of books she wanted to read.

“Why, you have chosen nothing,” said Miss Quail, clutching a fat volume. From the way her hand hid the title, and she sidled away from Cassandra to have the book written down for her, Cassandra had a strong suspicion that the chosen book was a far cry from being a worthy tome such as had been recommended to her. So Miss Quail was hypocritical as well as tiresome; it didn’t surprise her.

They walked to the Pump Room, where they joined Mrs. Quail and Mrs. Cathcart, and Cassandra was introduced to their numerous acquaintance, a tribe of women all very much the same as themselves, all holding themselves quite stiff in the presence of a Miss Darcy, for however much Mrs. Cathcart might talk about her brother Partington as though he were the master of Rosings, they knew that he had been a mere clergyman, whereas Cassandra was the granddaughter of a Lady Catherine, and related to an earl and other members of the nobility.

Altogether, Cassandra reflected, as she stood, head bowed, at the dinner table, while Mrs. Cathcart intoned an interminable grace, an interesting day. Not interesting in itself, but in the information it provided as to the likely course of her stay in Bath. The first, and most important, thing was to find some time to herself. Were she always to find herself in the company of Mrs. Cathcart and the Quails, she would go mad.

Cassandra, although she had learned to be careful about keeping some of her artistic pursuits out of sight of her stepfather, was not, by nature, a dissembler. Her frank and open manners were one of the characteristics that Mr. Partington disliked, and she was not entirely sure how she might go about achieving any degree of independence for herself. She felt uncomfortable being under scrutiny all the time; there must be a way to be alone.

The next day was Sunday, and here she saw an opportunity. Although Mrs. Carthcart’s brother was a clergyman of the Established Church, she had married a Methodist, and she herself chose to worship among the small group who gathered at the chapel of the Countess of Huntington, feeling that the aristocratic foundations of the Methodist sect gave it extra lustre. She rather hoped that she could require Cassandra to go with her, but here Cassandra felt on sure ground. She was a member of the Church of England, her mama would be upset to learn that she had not attended divine service at a suitable church.

“Such as the Abbey,” she suggested. “I shall go to the Abbey.”

And, she thought, sit at the back, and slip out while no one is looking, and have at least a chance of a walk by myself.

Mrs. Cathcart had to agree. She could not foist either of the Quails on to Cassandra, for they were also Methodists. “You must take your maid, it will not do for you to be out unaccompanied.”

Nothing could suit Cassandra’s purposes better, and she sallied forth to attend the service, with Petifer beside her, both of them pleased to be out of the house. “For a more witless set of servants I never saw,” she told Cassandra.

They duly slipped out of the Abbey, Petifer shaking her head when she realised what Cassandra was about. They walked swiftly away from the Abbey, into one of the smaller, quieter streets on the other side of Union Street. There, after a short tussle, they parted, Petifer agreeing to spend an hour looking around the town, while Cassandra spent some time on her own.

“Don’t look so put out, Petifer; you have seen for yourself how many young ladies go about alone. There won’t be so very many people about at this time, they will be at home or in church until after twelve.”

“Where are you going?”

“Only up Milsom Street and from there up into the Broad Walk, the air will be pleasant up there.” Cassandra went briskly off, very pleased of the opportunity to stretch her legs and have the pleasure of her own company for a while. She had a small sketchbook tucked in her reticule, and after a stroll along the Broad Walk, she sat herself on a bench and became absorbed in drawing the details of the scene around her.

She felt, rather than saw, a hovering presence, and looked up. A young man was standing a few feet away, watching her intently. As she saw him, he bowed, and apologised for disturbing her.

“You do not do so, and you will not do so if you walk on,” she said. He was a gentleman, by his voices and clothes. A good-looking man, with dark red hair and a pale complexion that spoke of Celtic ancestry. She wondered if he were going to make a nuisance of himself, try to scrape her acquaintance, but he took off his hat, bowed once more, and apologised again for disturbing her, then strode away.

Her work interrupted, she made an impromptu sketch of the redheaded man she had just encountered, for there was a liveliness about him that she liked. Then she returned to her earlier sketch, working diligently and, as so often when absorbed in a picture, losing all sense of time.

She was jolted out of her work by Petifer’s indignant voice sounding in her ears: “I knew how it would be, once you sat down and took out that sketchbook. The service finished a good while ago, everyone is out of church now.”

“We were to meet in the lower part of town,” said Cassandra, as she tucked away her sketchbook and pencil.

“I knew I would still be there waiting for you an hour hence, so I came to find you.”

“What time does Mrs. Cathcart return from church, do you suppose?” Cassandra asked as they set off down the hill and back towards Laura Place.

“It’s a long service at that chapel she goes to, from what the servants say, and I think they talk together afterwards.”

“If we hurry, we shall be home before her,” Cassandra said, and quickened her pace.

Which they were, by a few moments, but that was enough for Petifer to vanish into the basement, and for Cassandra to run upstairs and whisk off her hat. As they ate a nuncheon of cold meats, Mrs. Cathcart interrogated Cassandra on the sermon she had heard, which questions Cassandra was hard put to answer, falling back in the end on memories of one of the Hunsford parson’s less dull sermons. However, Mrs. Cathcart wasn’t really interested in what passed for a sermon in the Church of England, and instead bored Cassandra with a detailed account of the excellent sermon that the Reverend Snook had preached.

Cassandra was startled by Mrs. Cathcart’s enthusiasm for fire and brimstone and the tortures of the damned, and she wondered whether her aunt felt that she was numbered among the sinners and likely to pay for those sins in the world to come.

“Tomorrow,” Mrs. Cathcart informed her, “I have arranged a treat for you.”

Cassandra’s heart sank.

“We are to go for a picnic, on Lansdowne. Bath is very stuffy just now, and it will do us good to breathe a fresher air for a few hours. Mrs. Quail and her daughter will accompany us, and some others. We shall be quite a little party.”