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“As a married woman, your inheritance would have come under your husband’s control, and could have formed part of his estate. I understand there was an entail? Yes. Well, it would not have formed part of the entailed property, and should have come to you in the event of your husband’s death—but it might have been, as I say, a complication—not one we need consider in this case. I have from Calcutta copies of the documents relating to your husband’s sad and premature demise, please accept my deepest sympathies—and I am sure everything will be quite in order with regard to that.”
Christopher would have rejoiced in her good fortune, Octavia reflected, as she watched the cows who grazed in Green Park lying comfortably on the grass, chewing the cud, looking, she couldn’t help feeling, very much like one or two of Theodosia’s acquaintances, with their bland, bovine expressions.
Had Christopher survived, he would undoubtedly have put quite a lot of her inheritance into his house in Wiltshire, a place that seemed to eat up money. She went pale at the thought of the Worthington money passing into the grasping hands of Mr. Warren; well, there was no point in dwelling on might-have-beens; Christopher, God rest his soul, was gone, Mr. Warren had Dalcombe, and she had her own immense fortune from her mother’s despised family. She gave a little skip, startling a stout man hurrying past.
She had pledged Mr. Wilkinson to secrecy.
“It will get about in due course,” he said. “Such things always do, although not from me or anyone in my employ, we know our business too well for that, discretion is essential in our profession, Mrs. Darcy. Now, I am one of the executors of the will, and the other is a Mr. Portal—ah, I see you know the name. He is presently abroad, travelling in France, I believe, but that need not hold us up, although, as a lifelong friend of your great-uncle and -aunt, I know that he is very eager to make your acquaintance.”
“He wrote to me, from France, but I did not quite understand his position. So he is an executor?”
“Yes. Meanwhile, you will want someone to advise you; your brother, Mr. Arthur Melbury, would be the proper person, for I understand that Sir James Melbury is rarely in town. I can be in touch with Mr. Melbury at his earliest convenience to discuss—”
Octavia cut in swiftly. “I forbid you, I absolutely forbid you to have any contact with Mr. Melbury about this or anything to do with me.”
Mr. Wilkinson’s grave face took on a look of astonishment.
“I am twenty-five, and as a widow I believe I have full control of my financial affairs, is not that so?”
“In law, yes, but as a practical matter, I beg of you to consider what a responsibility such a fortune is. Mr. Melbury is known as an astute man, he will be better able to—”
“No. If I decide to run wild and sell out of the gilts and gamble the money away at the card table, I shall do so; it is entirely my own business.”
“But, Mrs. Darcy,” he began in appalled tones.
“I joke, Mr. Wilkinson. I am not a gambler, and I have been too poor for most of my life not to know the value of large sums in gilts. But I mean what I say. Whom did Mrs. Worthington rely on to advise her?”
He looked doubtful. “We were her lawyers, and she had a man of business in Yorkshire, but as to investments and so forth, and the plantations—well, I believe she saw to all that herself.”
“Then so shall I.”
“But, Mrs. Darcy, the cases are quite different. Mrs. Worthington was a woman who—”
“I shall make mistakes, I am sure, but my mind is quite made up.”
She could see that he was going to argue, and could watch his mental processes as he thought better of it. She knew just what was going through his mind, that in no time at all, she would be married again, and her fortune would pass into the hands of a man, someone who would take care of everything for her.
“Not so,” she said to the nearest cow, who gazed at her with huge, soft eyes. “I am a woman of independent means, definitely in possession of a good fortune, but I am not in the least in want of a husband!”
Chapter Seven (#u78706f8d-78f9-577c-954d-18fd65e6e97e)
Arthur called early the following morning, when his sisters and niece were still in the breakfast parlour. Penelope was toying with a piece of toast, looking out of the window, and, while her mother was attending to her morning coffee and arranging everyone’s day for them, letting herself give way to a heavy sigh. She rose politely as her uncle came into the room, dropping a neat curtsy, and presenting a dutiful cheek for his avuncular kiss.
“You are not in looks, Penelope,” he said. “You need to get some roses into your cheeks. I saw Louisa yesterday, and she is blooming, quite blooming; you will have to look to your laurels.”
“What have Louisa’s looks to do with me?” Penelope muttered as she sat down again.
Arthur greeted his sisters, Theodosia with enthusiasm, Octavia less so, and sat himself down, calling for a fresh pot of coffee. “I have just time for a cup, but I shan’t stay. I have called on Octavia’s account, as it happens. I met Lady Warren last night, at the Batterbys’ rout—I didn’t see you there, Theodosia. It was a sad crush, you did well to avoid it.”
“We called in early, probably before you arrived, for we were going on to the Tollants’ ball.”
“Oh? Well, as I say, Lady Warren was there— Octavia, are you paying attention?”
“I?” said Octavia, who had been looking out of the window and watching a pair of quarrelsome sparrows perched on the parapet of the house opposite.
“You, ma’am. I said, I have taken the time out from my own affairs entirely on your account, the least you can do is to listen to what I have to say.”
“I’m sorry, Arthur, but what have these routs and balls and Batterbys and Tollants to do with me?”
“Nothing at all, but Lady Warren does. She is George Warren’s stepmother, as it happens. And a connection of your late husband’s, now I come to think of it.”
Another connection? What an entwined world it was, with the upper ten thousand woven into a spider’s web of marriages and consanguinity. Here was she, with a large family of half brothers and sisters, cousins, now even more connections through Christopher’s family—and yet, in truth, she was still an orphan, with no close ties of feeling to any of them.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed; he loved tracing family links. “Caroline Warren was a Bingley before she married, and her brother married the eldest Bennet daughter, a family of no importance, it was not a good match, she brought him hardly a penny, but what is more to the point, her next sister, Elizabeth, had the very good luck to snare Fitzwilliam Darcy and so she became the mistress of Pemberley; my word, she did well for herself there! Now of course, Captain Darcy was a cousin of that family, not a close cousin, but the connection is there.”
Octavia spread a generous portion of strawberry jam on a piece of toast. The connection seemed more remote than most, and while Lady Warren might be the most amiable creature, she had not heard a good word spoken about her stepson.
“And George Warren is, of course, unfortunately, Christopher Darcy’s heir. So I took it upon myself to mention to Lady Warren that you were returned to England. She expressed surprise, had no idea of it, but at once said that she would call upon you at the first opportunity and knew that George would also do himself the honour of waiting upon you.”
* * *
Lady Warren had lied to Arthur. Lady Warren knew perfectly well that Octavia was in England; she made it her business to know most of what was going on in London society, and in such a case, when the news was of direct interest to her or to her stepson, George, upon whom she doted, she made sure she had all the details. She had known to the day, almost to the hour when Octavia arrived in Lothian Street, and sent a note round to George’s lodgings, summoning him to her house.
“You will call upon her, of course,” she said, sitting at her elegant writing desk, while George lounged in the most comfortable chair near to the fire.
“The devil I will.”
Caroline Warren knew him too well to pay any attention to this. “The widow of your cousin, from whom you have inherited a very pretty estate; of course you must call. It would look odd if you didn’t, in the circumstances.”
“What business had Christopher Darcy to be marrying again, at his age? And to pick a woman with no fortune, and from what I remember of her, nothing much else to recommend her. Regular maypole, ain’t she? I never thought him to have a goatish disposition, he should have stayed a widower, or found himself a rich woman to marry if he had to put his neck into the hangman’s noose a second time. Although his first marriage don’t seem to have done him much good, for all she was considered a good catch; Lord knows what happened to the first Mrs. Darcy’s fortune.”
“I thought he ploughed every penny he had into his house and land, prize money, her portion, everything.”
“Well, I shall find out by and by, now I’m installed there and have all the accounts and papers to hand. A few extra thousand would have been worth having, but you say the second Mrs. D is landed safely on these shores, so she lives to enjoy her share of the inheritance. I dare say I’ll have her or that prosy brother of hers coming round begging me to give her an annuity or some such thing. I shan’t, of course, that family of hers can’t let her starve, and she’s no responsibility of mine if she can’t live on what her husband left her.”
“Which was little enough. I suppose he expected her to bear him a son and heir, what a mercy he was carried off before that could happen. It is fortunate for you that India has such a very unhealthy climate, where insect bites and the like can finish you off; that doesn’t happen in Wiltshire that I ever heard.”
“No, down there you die of boredom instead.” He raised a languid hand. “No need to remonstrate with me. It’s a devilish neat property, and will bring me a tidy little income, which I can do with.”
“Have a word with Arthur Melbury before you pay your duty call on Mrs. Darcy, so that she has no expectations of any kind, knows that your visit is purely a matter of form.”
“Lord, how tedious duty is. She’s only a half sister to the rest of that Melbury lot, ain’t she?”
“Yes, Sir Clement married her mother in an aberrant moment; she was from a family in trade, not in any great way, neither. At least she had the grace to expire in childbirth, and the third Lady Melbury was unexceptionable, if dull.”
George Warren was surprised by Octavia when he paid a visit to the house in Lothian Street. There was a glint in her eye, as though she were laughing at him, which he didn’t care for, and an air of confidence about her; what right had a poor widow to look as though she hadn’t a care in the world? And for all her half-mourning grey dress—not badly cut, either; George was a connoisseur of women’s clothes—she looked far from full of grief. But she had the decency to look more sombre when he spoke of Christopher; in flattering terms, although the truth was that he and Captain Darcy hadn’t got on well together, chalk and cheese.
The matter of money, of his inheritance, of her slight income, was not raised. And the only reference she made to Dalcombe House, the house where she might have expected to spend many years of her married life, was when she said that if she were at any time in Wiltshire, she would like to see the house where Christopher had been born and grew up, and which he loved so much.
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.”
