The Second Mrs Darcy

Octavia rose and dressed, and before she went downstairs, she sat down at the rickety writing table under the window and penned a letter to Messrs. Wilkinson and Winter, informing them of her arrival in London and requesting them not to attempt to contact her in Lothian Street; she would come herself to their premises in King’s Bench Walk as soon as possible.

How to post the letter, that was the question. Normally, she would have asked one of the footmen to take it for her, or handed it to the butler to post, but she knew Theodosia made it her business to inspect all the post, inwards and outwards, and as soon as her sister saw the name on the letter, her suspicious mind would tell her these were Octavia’s lawyers and the information would be passed to Arthur. Then goodbye to any hopes Octavia had of keeping her inheritance secret.

No, she would have to contrive so that she went out alone. If Theodosia and Penelope were going out shopping, it was unlikely that Theodosia would ask her to accompany them, so if she lurked in her room until she heard the sounds of their departure, then she might slip out without being interrogated.

Half an hour later, she heard the sound of a carriage drawing up outside, the front door opening, Theodosia’s imperious voice telling Penelope she looked a fright in that hat, the door closing, hooves clattering away down the street. In a moment she had her pelisse on and was running down the stairs to the hall.

Coxley was still there. “Are you going out, ma’am? Shall I call a footman to accompany you, or your maid?” he enquired in what Octavia considered a most officious way.

“No thank you, I am perfectly all right on my own.”

“Mrs. Cartland would prefer—”

“Yes, but I would not.”

“Shall I tell Mrs. Cartland where you are gone?”

“I shall no doubt be back before Mrs. Cartland returns, but should anyone enquire for me, I am gone to the circulating library.”

And before he could ask which of the several libraries patronised by the upper echelons of society she intended to visit, she was out of the house and walking rapidly away down the street.

Like the admiral’s wife mentioned by Penelope, it had taken her a while to find her land legs after being so many months at sea, but she thankfully noticed that the pavement no longer seemed to be coming up to meet her, and she relished the chance to stretch her legs in a brisk walk. She had taken endless dutiful turns around the deck of the Sir John Rokesby, whenever the weather permitted, but it was not the same as walking in London; she had not realised until now how much she had missed London, with its bustle of traffic, the shops, the noise; even though the day was grey, there was a hint of spring in the air.

She was acutely aware of all the smells and sounds around her, so different from her surroundings of the last few years. Instead of the streets crowded with bullock carts and rickshaws, with the slap of the rickshaw wallah’s bare feet on dusty ground, here were elegant curricles and a footman walking a pair of pugs. The pungent odours and vivid colours of a hot Indian city, of spices and sweating bodies, of ebullient vegetation and fetid water, were replaced by the evocative smell of rain on paving stones, and the scentless yellow petals of the early daffodils planted in a window box.

She was used to hearing the endless chatter of a dozen different languages, of women dressed in bright silk saris, men in turbans, robes, dhotis, or swaggering in white uniforms. Here the cockney cries of London sounded in her ears, “Carrots and turnips, ho! Sweet China oranges, sweet China! Fresh mackerel, fresh mackerel!” Newsmen bawled out the latest scandal, muffin men held their trays about their heads, shouting their wares, while the road was busy with carriages dashing past, men on horseback trotting by, carts and drays rumbling along at a slower pace.

People in this smart part of town were dressed in the height of fashion, the men in long-tailed coats, pantaloons, and tall hats, the women in morning dresses of muslin and fine silk, with deep-brimmed hats decorated with flowers. She noticed that the women wore no pelisses; how did they not feel the cold? Well, she would have to pass as dowdy, her blood was thin after her time in a hot climate, she thought it folly to shiver for the sake of a fashionable appearance.

She had not forgotten her geography, and she went first to the post-office in North Audley Street, where she entrusted her letter to the two-penny post. She came out from the receiving office, and hesitated. She had intended to go to Hookham’s library, which was in Old Bond Street, but it now occurred to her that Theodosia might be in that area, since she had taken Penelope shopping, and if so, she might be seen …

She laughed at herself and set off down the street. What if Theodosia did see her? She might go where she chose and do what she chose, within the bounds of common civility owed to one’s hosts, and these would not be one whit transgressed by her visiting a circulating library. She would not allow herself to be oppressed by Theodosia’s habit of wanting to take charge of everyone’s doings and movements; she was no longer a girl under her sister’s care. She would go boldly to Old Bond Street, and let Theodosia mind her own business; it was hard on Penelope, who was the business of the moment, but there was nothing that she, Octavia, could do to alter that.

It didn’t take her long to reach Hookham’s library. She had inscribed her name there when she was in London for her season, and now she wrote down her married name, Mrs. Darcy, paid her subscription, and was free to choose her books.

This was a special delight; she had been starved of new books in India, and had promised herself a subscription as soon as she reached London. It was an indulgence, circumstanced as she was, but she must just hope that the Worthington inheritance would be enough that she could spare the trifling sum.

Of course, it might be that her cousins, who sounded modern in their outlook, from what Penelope had said, had plenty of books, including the newest novels, but she would take a good selection with her, in case their taste didn’t coincide with hers, or perhaps they might not be great readers. Her stepmother hadn’t been, she took an age to read even a single volume, and complained that reading made her head ache and her eyes water; now, no longer a child, Octavia suspected that Lady Melbury’s indifference to books probably had more to do with poor eyesight than anything else. Perhaps her physician husband would notice and obtain a pair of spectacles for her; Octavia tried to visualise her stepmother with spectacles, but couldn’t; she had always been a trifle vain about her appearance and youthful looks.

Octavia spent longer than she had intended at the library, and when she got back to Lothian Street, it was to be greeted by the information that Mrs. Cartland was awaiting her return in her private sitting room.

Octavia went upstairs to take off her hat and pelisse, and then went to see what Theodosia wanted. She found her sister was seated with a tray of cold meats and fruit on one side of her, and on the other a small table with a letter placed exactly in the centre of its round top.

“This came for you,” said Theodosia, picking it up.

“Thank you,” said Octavia.

“Not so fast, if you please. Who is writing to you?”

“Until I open the letter, I have no idea. And whoever it may be, it is no business of yours, Theodosia.” Before Theodosia realised what her sister’s intention was, Octavia had tweaked the letter from her fingers.

“Upon my word!”

Octavia glanced at the letter. It was addressed in a man’s hand, but not one she recognised. It bore a frank, so it wasn’t likely to have come from Christopher’s lawyer, nor yet from Wilkinson and Winter. She was as mystified as Theodosia, but wasn’t going to say so. She would take it upstairs and open it in private, she decided, but then, seeing the steely look in her sister’s eye, she sighed and reached for the paper knife which was on Theodosia’s writing desk.

“It is from a Mr. Portal,” she said, turning the page over to read the signature.

“Well, that is something to have the great Mr. Portal write to you, a mere relict—”

Octavia knew she was about to add “a person of no account,” but for once her sister restrained herself.

“Why, what is so strange about it?” Octavia had turned to the beginning of the letter and was running her eyes down the page. “It appears that he knew my husband and wishes to express his condolences.”

This was true enough, but there was more to the letter than that, some sentences which she did not quite understand, but which she wasn’t going to pass on to Theodosia. Mr. Portal, it seemed, had also been acquainted with her great-uncle and -aunt, and from what he wrote, although it was couched in discreet terms, he was well aware of her inheritance. Presently in France, he looked forward to having the honour of meeting her on his return to England, and meanwhile she could have every confidence in Mr. Wilkinson.

How odd, what did it mean? Who was this Mr. Portal?

“I suppose you have no idea who the great Mr. Portal is, being away so long, and not moving in quite those circles when you were a debutante. He is known everywhere as Pagoda Portal, you may have heard the name.”

“Like the tree in India?”

“I have no idea why he is called Pagoda, it is an outlandish name, although I believe it is something to do with his having made a great deal of money in India. He is a nabob, but a well-born, extremely well-connected nabob; nobody can say he is any kind of a mushroom.”

“So he is great because he is rich?”

“Now, do not be putting on those false missish airs. You have lived long enough and enough in the world to know that a great fortune commands a good deal of wholesome respect. Especially, as I say, when combined with belonging to such an ancient family—the Portals have been landowners and members of Parliament for ever, and they are related to quite half the House of Lords.”

She hesitated for a moment, seeking her words with care, which was unusual for her.

“However, his life is somewhat irregular, it would not do for you, in your position, to become more than a mere acquaintance, it would do your reputation no good at all if you were to be drawn into his set.”

“What set is that?”

“Oh, a very ramshackle, mixed set of persons, artists and poets; here a banker and there a politician, and women novelists and musicians, not at all the kind of people who would be admitted into my drawing room.”

Octavia thought they sounded rather charming.

“However, that is part of his eccentric way, a man so rich may be as eccentric as he wishes, you know. The difficulty comes in his—what shall I call them? His domestic arrangements. Now you are a married woman I can speak freely: Mr. Portal is not married, and it seems has not the least intention of entering that happy state. Instead, it is openly known that he and Henrietta Rowan, a tiresome woman if ever I knew one, have a liaison that goes far beyond what is proper. She is a widow, who seems to think that such a state allows her perfect liberty; she declares she will never marry again, and certainly there appears to be no inclination on either party to regularise their union.”

“Have they set up house together?”

“Good gracious no, whatever are you thinking of?”

“From the way you spoke—”

“It is a liaison, as I said, and one of which the whole polite world is aware. Mrs. Rowan, who is very well off in her own right, has her own house, done up in the most extraordinary style, I have to tell you, in the Turkish mode; it is a fancy of hers to admire the Turks, and therefore she has carpets and cushions and all kinds of hangings which are entirely unsuitable for one in her position. And in London! She spent years abroad, in Turkey, which is where she acquired the taste for such nonsense.”

Theodosia looked around her own sitting room with great complaisancy; in Octavia’s opinion, the room was overfilled with furniture, much of it downright ugly.