The Second Mrs Darcy

He couldn’t refuse, and, he consoled himself, he wouldn’t have to put up with her company. He didn’t intend to spend more than a few weeks there each summer; he was not planning to rusticate.

He rose thankfully as soon as the half hour was up. What a tiresome woman Mrs. Cartland was, eyeing him in that way; he knew that scheming look, the automatic assessment of every matron with a marriageable daughter. Well, he wasn’t in the market for a bride, and if he were, Penelope Cartland, who was looking at him with a wide-eyed dispassionate stare that he found disconcerting, would not be on his list. Her mama had better teach her a few manners, or she’d end up on the shelf. Men did not care to be looked at in quite that way; what with her and Octavia’s self-possession, he felt quite put out.

And Mrs. Darcy had nothing in the way of a pretty foot, he remarked to himself, as he walked off down Lothian Street, twirling his cane. That came of being so damned tall; whatever had Christopher Darcy seen in her to want to marry her?

Mrs. Cartland was not pleased with George Warren, and she expressed her dissatisfaction almost before the door had closed behind him. “He has a very insolent air to him, and after all, his father’s title is a new one; he is only the second baron. However, I should like to see a little more civility from you, miss, when we have a gentleman to call”—this to her daughter.

“He is a horrid man, I do not like him at all,” said Penelope.

“What is this word, horrid? Anyone would think you were living in the pages of those novels you read. And it is not for you to set up for liking or disliking anyone, let me tell you. You will be guided by your mama and papa as to whom you may like or dislike.”

She turned to Octavia. “I think him very remiss not to— Well, I believe there is nothing to be got out of George Warren, he has the reputation of being very tight with his money.”

Arthur called a few minutes after Warren’s departure, and was shown into the room where the ladies were sitting. He pursed his lips and looked grave. “I have to tell you now, Octavia, that Theodosia is right. I took up the matter of an annuity for you with Warren, for your income is so very small, and in the light of what you might have expected, disappointing. However, he would have none of it, said the estate was encumbered, that the house and land are in a bad way, and will need a great deal spent on it to bring it into order, so that nothing can be spared for you. Nor does he feel any obligation to you.”

“There was no point in your asking him, then, was there?” said Octavia, wishing Arthur would keep his long nose out of her business. “And you had no right to talk to him without consulting me first. I didn’t want to ask George Warren for a single penny, thank you!”

Octavia spoke more sharply than she had intended, but she was alarmed. Arthur’s interference now was as nothing compared to how he would behave when he knew about her inheritance; he would immediately do everything in his power to take control. He couldn’t, in the eyes of the law, but where family was concerned, law didn’t enter into it. Another dreadful thought occurred to Octavia. This Mr. Portal, so inconveniently travelling abroad, what if he were a crony of Arthur’s, an habitué of the same clubs? Men were all the same; they all had the idea fixed in their minds that a woman, particularly a young woman, and one who had hitherto always been at the bottom of the family pile, would of nature be incapable of looking after money, land, or in any way taking care of her own affairs.

Mr. Portal and Arthur might very well be of one mind—although, how much power did an executor have? The lawyer had said executor, not trustee. Octavia tried to remember the lawyer’s exact words, for there was a world of difference, she felt sure, between the one and the other.

“Tell me, Arthur,” she said, cutting across his grumbles. “An executor is what, precisely?”

“An executor?” He stared at her. “There you are, fancying you can deal with things yourself, and as simple and basic a concept as that is beyond you. Who is the executor of Darcy’s will?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s a lawyer. I only want to know what the powers of an executor may be.”

“Give me his name, and I will go and see him, as I already told you that I would.”

“No, Arthur, you will not.”

“I know what an executor is,” said Penelope. “For a good friend of mine was left a legacy and the executor sorted it all out. But once it was done, he had no say in how he was to use the money, that was entirely up to him.”

Arthur gave his niece a quelling look. “The word gives the meaning, Octavia. He executes, that is to say, carries out what is specified in a will. It will hardly be an onerous job in your case, with so very little— I dare say the lawyer’s fees will swallow up more of the very little you have, that is why you need me to see to it all for you, I will make very sure they don’t take a ha’pporth more in fees than is right.”

“I wanted information, merely, Arthur, not assistance.”

“If you are going to be so headstrong, then I shall take my leave. It was always the way, you have always been obstinate and difficult, refusing to see what is best for you. You do not deserve to have the family you do, taking care of you and looking out for your best interests.”

“And he is quite right,” said Theodosia. “Shocking behaviour, a shocking way to speak to your brother. Penelope, I did not like to hear you speaking up so pert just now, it is not for you to open your mouth on subjects about which you know nothing, less than nothing.” Octavia, noting the stormy look in her niece’s eye, quickly asked if she might be spared to help her with her packing.

“Packing? Alice will pack for you,” said Theodosia.

“But Penelope knows the household in Hertfordshire, she will be able to advise me on what I shall need. In the way of evening dresses and so on.”

“I do not think the advice of a girl can be of any use to you, and as to evening dresses, I hardly believe that there will be any need for anything special, and besides, what do you have?”

The change of subject had, however, as Octavia had hoped, taken the edge off her irritation at her sister’s treatment of Arthur and reminded her that her tiresome guest would be departing in the morning.

“Go with your aunt, then, Penelope, and see if you may make yourself useful.”

“Do you really require my services?” Penelope enquired, as they went upstairs.

“No, Alice will have seen to everything, but it occurred to me that you might have been tempted into an argument with your mother, and in her present mood, it would be unwise.”

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.

Chapter Eight (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)

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.”