The True Darcy Spirit

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The room overlooked a small yard, in which grew a mulberry tree. Cassandra opened the casement as wide as it would go and sat herself down on the wide window seat with her sketching book, happy to spend an hour catching the exact shape of a leaf, and, more difficult, the movement of the leaves in the slight breeze.

It was a hot day. The sun shone down on the garden, and the sounds of London, the city that was never still, never quiet, were all around her. She could hear voices, someone singing a popular catch, someone bawling out the details of sweetmeats he had to sell, a groom talking to a horse. Closer now, that was James’s voice, coming up from the room below; the window downstairs must be open, too. She smiled, just the timbre of his voice made her feel warm inside.

She stiffened, as another voice reached her ears. An all too familiar voice. No, it couldn’t be, it was impossible, it was another man who sounded the same, that was all. She kneeled on the window seat and leant out as far as she could. James and whoever he was with had moved closer to the window downstairs, now she could hear them more clearly.

Good God, she was not mistaken. Mr. Partington was there, downstairs, talking to James. He had traced her, how was it possible? Her heart was thumping, and she bit her lip, should she run downstairs, be at James’s side?

Her reason, striking with cold clarity, told her that this was no unforeseen encounter. James had known that Mr. Partington was coming. There had been an appointment, her stepfather was expected, this was no sudden discovery.

No, she cried to herself, inside her head, no, that wasn’t right. James had gone down to see someone else, and then, out of the blue, in had walked Mr. Partington.

Nonsense, said her reason, and now her ears confirmed it. She could hear what they were saying; Mr. Partington had raised his voice, was almost shouting at James. Who seemed to be keeping his temper admirably, but what was he saying?

She sat and listened numbly, unable to take in James’s betrayal. Yes, he would marry her, but if, and only if…and not until he had assurances, written settlements, lawyers’ letters, stating that Cassandra came to him with a fortune. With, in fact, twenty thousand pounds. Yes, they were living together as man and wife; no, he would not be stigmatised as a rogue, for he would let it be known that Miss Darcy had made all the running, had fallen so desperately in love with him that she would live with him upon any terms. Her name would be dragged through the mud, not his, for that was the way of the world.

Horror crept over Cassandra. This could not be James speaking, her merry, open-hearted, kind James.

Only it was. There it was. He didn’t mind whether he married her or not, but he could not marry a woman without money, so, if she had no fortune, then she would have no wedding ring put upon her finger by James Eyre. No, Mr. Partington need not bluster and talk of prosecution for abduction of a minor, that would simply ensure that the tale spread more quickly. “The broadsheets, you know, sir,” James said. “They love a scandal of this nature.”

More furious words from Mr. Partington, which she could not quite catch, and then the sound of James’s laughter, the laughter that had so enchanted her. And he seemed genuinely amused. No, Mr. Partington might try to break him, but it would not wash. He had no ship, was a half-pay lieutenant, but he still had friends and his family had influence enough to make sure his career would not suffer.

Then the two men below moved away from the window, and Cassandra heard no more.

She had heard quite enough, and although it was half an hour before James came bounding up the stairs and burst into the room in the best of spirits, it seemed to her as though only minutes had passed.

“Well, my dearest,” he began, “there is my business concluded, and most successfully, too.”

The words echoed in her ears as she began to sort out her possessions, her few possessions. The row that ensued had been so passionate, so vehement, that it brought Mrs. Dodd to the door, banging and shouting out to be heard, fearful that they were killing one another. Then James had thrown some clothes into a portmanteau and stormed out, he was leaving for Ireland directly, anything to get away from such a shrew; when he returned, all would be settled and they would marry directly. “Only you will enact me no such scenes when we are wed, by God you will not.”

No, indeed, she wouldn’t, for they wouldn’t be wed.

She had sat down, his angry words ringing in her head, to write a note to Mr. Partington. He would be staying at Aubrey Square, she had heard a mention of Mr. Fitzwilliam’s name. She asked him to wait on her, she had something of the first importance to say.

Back came a curt, impersonal note. Mr. Partington had no wish to see or speak to Miss Darcy, now or ever again. Any communications would henceforth be through a lawyer, and any letter to her mother would be torn up, burnt, destroyed, unread.

She wasn’t going to dwell on it. These memories were bitter, she must lock them away, she had enough to do in the present, there was no time to let what was past take up her thoughts and energies. Her immediate need was money; were she to take the room offered by Mrs. Nettleton, she might be expected to pay in advance. All the money she had in the world was the few coins in her purse.

She could go back to Mr. Horatio Darcy and ask for an advance on her income, but she would much rather not. She had had enough of her cousin with his supercilious ways and scorn, thank you.

As she shook out a pelisse, something fluttered to the floor. A note! It was the money that Emily had given her, from Mrs. Croscombe. She had been right in her calculations, she had not spent so much in Bath. Thank God she had not found it sooner, thank God it had been caught up in the pelisse which was too warm to wear in this hot weather, and not in a muslin scarf or dress, where she would have discovered it at once, and handed it over to James.

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_e987a7e5-f44e-5e1e-9438-f55639c08a0f)

St. James’s Square was situated between Piccadilly and the Thames, a big square with a railed garden in the centre; Cassandra was impressed by its size and elegance. Many of the fine houses, built in the last century, and with the characteristic handsome sash-windowed façades of that time, were let out as lodgings, since the more aristocratic and richer families now preferred to have their London houses in the fashionable squares and streets of Mayfair, further to the north.

Number seven was on the south side. Cassandra lifted the big brass knocker, shaped in the form of a dolphin, and was admitted by a tidily dressed maid, who bobbed a curtsy and said that her mistress was expecting her. Cassandra followed the maid up the wide staircase and through double doors into the drawing room to be greeted by Mrs. Nettleton, dressed in a morning gown, who came forward to greet her in the kindest way.

“I am so glad you are come, now sit down, and Betsy will bring us a pot of coffee directly. Do you like coffee? Yes, I was sure you were a coffee drinker, I can always tell.”

The room was furnished with green covers and hangings, and done up with some style. Cassandra’s eyes went first to the pictures, none of which she found particularly interesting; most were on mythological themes, with a preponderance of scantily clad nymphs and some saucy-looking cupids. However, there was a landscape above the fireplace that she could admire: a pastoral scene, done in the rococo manner, with shepherds and shepherdesses dallying beside a gently flowing river while their woolly charges frolicked in a grassy meadow behind them. She would not herself have had the simpering figures, but the natural part of the scene was exquisitely done.

Mrs. Nettleton was as pleasant as she had seemed the day before. She drew Cassandra out, asking about her drawing and painting, and said that as soon as she were settled, were she to decide that the accommodation met with her approval, then she must, positively must, show Mrs. Nettleton some of her efforts.

Coffee came, and was drunk, and then Mrs. Nettleton took Cassandra upstairs to view the room. It was a large room on the second floor, and overlooked the garden to the rear of the house.

“It is quieter, you see, on this side, for although St. James’s Square is not half as busy as some in London, there is always some noise, of carriages and people coming and going, and then at night, there are the night carts, you know. So it will be more peaceful for you here, and young people need their sleep, and you are young, for all that you are a widow. It is sad to see such a young widow, for you can hardly be more than one-and-twenty.”

Cassandra smiled, and said, yes, she was but one-and-twenty. She had an idea that it would be better for Mrs. Nettleton to think she was of age. She preferred, she added truthfully, not to speak of her late, dear husband, as she found it upset her too much.

That should put a stop to any awkward questions. The trouble with lies was that once started, the fiction had to be continued, and it was hard always to be remembering details that you had made up upon the spur of the moment.

She was delighted with the room, and couldn’t believe her good fortune. With a little money in hand, and a comfortable roof over her head, she could begin to make her way in London. With some diffidence she enquired about terms, and was surprised at how reasonable the rent was.

“I do not wish to make money, you know; as I say, I like to have a lodger because it livens up the house, so big as it is, and only me and the servants, and from time to time my young nieces who come to stay, I have a vast number of relations, and their mamas are very keen to have their daughters come to London and be under my care. However, just now, I have no guests, and if you will dine with me on some evenings, then you will be obliging me, and you may meet some interesting people, for my little dinner parties are quite famous. I also hold card parties from time to time, but I will understand if you do not wish to join me for those, since the stakes are often quite high, and if you are at present living on slender means…”

Cassandra assured her that her means were indeed slender, quite sufficient to pay the rent, but not to gamble with. “I must take care of what I have.”

“Why, as to that, I have no doubt that I shall very soon fix you up with the best imaginable position—as a drawing instructor, I mean. Such an one as yourself, with your ladylike ways and good looks, for I assure you those count in any employment; who would choose to have ugly people about them, while they might look on beauty?”

Cassandra’s private opinion was that anyone who employed her to teach their children would not care how plain she looked; in fact, she had a very good idea that mothers, at least, might prefer to have their governesses and people of that kind as unprepossessing as possible. She would dress simply and keep a severe expression on her face when she went for interviews.

Without knowing it, a severe look came over her face as she was thinking this, and it caused Mrs. Nettleton to give her a sharp look. “It is quite extraordinary, I do not know if you are related to anyone of the name of Darcy, for upon my word, you do have a look of Mr. Darcy of Pemberley! Not that I have ever met the gentleman, although I have many aristocratic friends, he is not one of those…we do not move in the same circle. However, there was recently a portrait of him that I saw exhibited at Somerset House. A very fine likeness, everyone said, and for a moment the similarity was striking. As to expression, of course, rather than feature.”