Читать книгу The Second Mrs Darcy - Elizabeth Aston - Страница 7

Chapter Four

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.