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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.
“However, Mr. Portal seems to like it well enough, one cannot expect a man who has made his own fortune to have much taste, perhaps. Mrs. Rowan holds a salon there in the afternoon, and soirées, and I don’t know what else. I admit that society flocks to her parties, she is considered a notable hostess, although for the life of me—I consider that she is not quite the thing. But since it appears that you don’t know Mr. Portal and this letter is written as a mere courtesy call, made as much on my account as yours, I dare say, then any question of you pursuing the acquaintance of either him or Henrietta need never arise.”
How like Theodosia, laying down the law on whom Octavia might be permitted to know, and asserting the rightness of her own moral judgement.
Octavia returned to her letter. “Mr. Portal sounds an amiable man,” she said. “He writes that he will do himself the honour of calling upon me when he is back in London.”
“Oh, that is only form, simple politeness, it means nothing, why should he call on you?”
“If he should do so, do you wish me to say I am not at home?” Octavia asked with deceptive meekness.
“That will hardly be up to you. It won’t arise, but if it did, it would never do to cross him, not with him being so rich and influential—although he sits as a Whig, please remember that. Your brother Arthur will hardly speak to him, they have crossed swords in the House too often for him to find Mr. Portal in the least bit agreeable. No, he must always be accorded every courtesy, but it is quite unnecessary for you to pursue the acquaintance.”
Which opinion made Octavia determined to become acquainted with Mr. Portal, and also with the interesting Mrs. Rowan.
Chapter Six (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)
Octavia had a swift reply from the lawyers: Mr. Wilkinson would be at her disposal whenever it were convenient for her. By great good luck, the letter had been delivered into Mr. Cartland’s hand. “You will not wish everyone to be aware of your affairs,” he said, with a kind smile, when he found her alone in the drawing room. Her sister would have demanded to know the contents of the letter, but he simply passed it to her and went back into his library.
Octavia decided that she would slip out to see the lawyers the very next morning. And she would have to exercise her skills of subtlety again; were she to announce that she was going into the city, there would be questions and deep disapproval—a woman on her own to venture into that part of London, it was not to be thought of. There would follow disagreeable, probing questions as to what business she had there. She could lie, which she found hard and disliked, but any hint of the truth would bring the conclusion she most feared: her sister or brother summoning the lawyers to Lothian Street, where Arthur or Mr. Cartland or Lord Adderley must be present to take the entire business out of her hands and put to rest for once and for all her obstinate insistence on managing it for herself.
Theodosia had ordered the carriage for later that morning. She summoned Octavia to tell her that she was to accompany her. “For I am going to the library; you will want to join the library, if you can afford the subscription, and if not, you may take out a volume or two on my account. I shall have no objection to that.”
“Thank you, Theodosia, but I took out a subscription at Hookham’s library when I went out yesterday, and borrowed some books.”
“I was told you had gone to the circulating library, but I did not realise you were entering your name there. You did not tell me that. You should have consulted me first; Hookham’s is by no means the most fashionable library at present. I would have advised you to take out a subscription at Earle’s, in Albemarle Street. However, you may wait while I change my books and then I shall pay one or two calls, on the Miss Watsons, for instance. Do you remember them from when you were last in London? No? Well, they are an unremarkable pair, to be sure, but their salon is fashionable, everyone goes there, and they know everything that goes on in town, one hears all the latest ondits there. They know you are staying in Lothian Street, they will expect me to bring you.”
Why? Octavia wondered. What possible interest could they have in Theodosia’s poor relation?
“And it is important that they like you, for in due course, not so long now, when you are out of mourning, and if something can be done about your clothes, you will be going to one or two parties, and they know just how everyone is situated, which eligible men are looking out for a bride. We cannot hope for too much, but they understand the situation, they will be inclined to help, not on your account, but because I and Augusta take care to remain on good terms with them, there is no one whose good opinion is worth more …”
Theodosia’s voice tailed off, even her supreme self-confidence faltering in the light of the smile on Octavia’s face, her half sister’s look of amusement, of positive merriment.
“Well, you may find it amusing although I can’t for the life of me think why you should do so, but let me tell you, the only hope for you, if you are not to live in genteel poverty, is to catch yourself another husband.”
“Yes,” said Octavia. “You have told me so.”
“Then I tell you again, and will do so until you listen; you are so stubborn, there is no doing with you.” Theodosia went towards the door. “Please be ready within half an hour, and you should wear that hat with the feather, it is the best of your hats.”
“I have the headache,” said Octavia. “I prefer not to go out in the carriage.”
“Of course you do not have the headache, you are perfectly well.” Any hint of an indisposition in anyone but herself always roused Theodosia’s ire. “And if you think you do, all the more reason to come out in the carriage. It will do you more good than remaining cooped up indoors all day long.”
“Perhaps I may take a walk later, but I assure you I would be dull company this morning.”
Theodosia persisted for a while, but Octavia stood her ground, and had the satisfaction, an hour later, of seeing her sister and Penelope drive away in the open carriage. They would be gone at least two hours, with luck; now she must hurry about her own affairs.
She told the butler to call her a hackney, and for a moment it looked as though she was going to have a fight with him as well, but she looked him in the eye. “A hackney cab, if you please.”
“And where shall I tell the jarvey you wish to go?” said Coxley.
“I shall give him my direction,” said Octavia, knowing that her reticence would be reported back to Theodosia; she would have to concoct a good reason for her expedition, with all the necessary corroborative details; no, it was simple, she needed to see Christopher’s lawyers; that would bring reproaches, but it would be believable.
The offices of Wilkinson and Winter were situated at the river end of King’s Bench Walk, near the Temple. It was a handsome building of the last century but heavily begrimed with soot, and once admitted, Octavia found herself in a dimly lit passage, lined with boxes and papers. However, she was not kept waiting there for more than a few minutes before being ushered into the presence of Mr. Wilkinson, a cadaverous individual in sombre clothes as befitted his profession, who rose to his considerable height as she came into the room, offered her a chair, and said, in a gravelly voice, that he was honoured by Mrs. Darcy’s visit.
“Do you come alone?” he said, looking at the door as though an entourage were lurking outside.
“Yes, I’m on my own.”
He raised an eyebrow, and gave a thin smile. “I had expected your brother, Mr. Arthur Melbury, to accompany you.”
“Mr. Melbury knows nothing at all about this.”
“Nothing about your coming here?”
“Nothing about that, certainly.” Octavia sat straight in her chair, a glint of defiance in her eyes. “Also, nothing about this inheritance. It seems so improbable that I have come into my great-aunt’s fortune, if it is what might be called a fortune. Mr. Gurney, in Calcutta, spoke of a substantial inheritance, but, really, I am quite in the dark as to what it all means. So I prefer not to speak of it, to my family nor anyone else, until I have the truth of it.”
Mr. Wilkinson gave her a look of approval. “You are perhaps right, although a brother— However, let us get down to details. A substantial inheritance is not quite how I would describe the estate of the late Mrs. Worthington.”
Half an hour later Octavia came out of the lawyer’s office, almost missing the two shallow steps down to the street in her agitation and excitement. Mr. Gurney had not been wrong when he had used the word fortune. Fortune! It hardly described the wealth that Octavia, in that brief time, had found herself to be in possession of.
The hackney cab that had brought her from Lothian Street drew up beside her; after taking another fare, the jarvey had returned, judging that Octavia would want to make the return journey, which might mean another good tip.
“Back to Lothian Street?” he asked as he shut the door on her.
“No,” said Octavia. “I want to walk. Take me to— I shall go to Green Park.”
She could not possibly go back to Theodosia’s house yet, not until she had calmed her nerves and composed herself, and begun to come to terms with this extraordinary change in her circumstances.
She gave the hackney cab driver a tip that made him stare, and touch his forehead with a deeply appreciative “And a very good morning to you, ma’am,” before whipping up his horse, and guiding it back into the traffic.
Unlike Mr. Gurney, Mr. Wilkinson had been precise, precise almost to the last guinea; his words were still ringing in Octavia’s ears. “The house in Yorkshire, Axby Hall, is a considerable property, a fine building from the middle of the last century, in good order, and with the farms and land forms an estate altogether of some five thousand acres. It also includes most of the properties in the nearby village of Axby, which are all at present occupied by good tenants.” There was no private house in London, the late Mrs. Worthington didn’t care for London, but she had owned several commercial premises in London as well as in York and Leeds, which were bringing in rents that made Octavia stretch her eyes.
“However, that is the least of it,” Mr. Wilkinson had continued. “There are the tea plantations in India, which bring in a considerable annual income, the figures are all here, and although of course the profits are dependent on the crop and the hazards of shipping, the plantations are well managed, and you will find the figures for the last five years on this sheet.
“In addition, there is the sum of ninety thousand pounds in gilts; Mrs. Worthington was always a conservative investor—and, held at the bank, there are her jewels.” He lifted yet another sheet of paper covered in lists and figures. “This is the inventory with the valuation that was made a year ago.”
Octavia’s eyes flickered unbelievingly down the page: a diamond necklace, a pair of rose diamond drop earrings, a number of large uncut rubies, an emerald necklace with matching bracelets … It was a long list, and the words floated in front of her eyes.
“Good heavens, what use had she for all these?” she cried. “And what should I do with them all?”
“I do not believe she ever wore most of them,” said Mr. Wilkinson, pursing his lips. “Although she may have done so when Mr. Worthington was alive, when they were in India. She kept them as an investment, I dare say, and a good one, for they are unquestionably worth a great deal more than she or Mr. Worthington paid for them, as you will see. The jeweller who valued them, who knew her and looked after her jewellery for her, remarked that she was extremely knowledgeable; they are all stones of the highest quality. Should you decide to sell any of them—although I hardly think you would need to—he would be glad to have the handling of the sale, he asked me to say.”
Octavia looked down at the papers that Mr. Wilkinson had handed to her, barely taking in the columns of figures, still unable to comprehend the extent of her inheritance.
“And all this comes to me?”
“Yes. You are named in her will, there is no mistake. She left some small legacies, annuities for her servants, that kind of thing, but the rest comes to you—you see, born Octavia Susannah Melbury, daughter of the late Sir Clement Melbury and Lady Melbury, now Mrs. Darcy, of Alipore, Calcutta. Now, it is fortunate, extremely fortunate, that she died after your late husband—since that removes any complications that might otherwise have arisen.”
“What complications?”
