The light grew paler. The sun was setting, but it was a far cry from the magnificent spectacle that could often be observed from the large windows in the westernmost wing of Mansfield Park. Instead of oranges, mauves and pinks, the grey London sky, covered in thick cloud, simply turned darker, until I could barely distinguish my aunt’s features. I lit a candle and sat still, listening to the sounds of the house. Next to me, Lady Bertram and her pug were gently snoring. Downstairs, I could hear hurried footsteps along the corridor, and I imagined a dozen servants rushing to give the final touches to the drawing rooms and the dining parlour. As for the square, much of the traffic had disappeared with the last light. An eerie silence had descended.
All of a sudden, a flash of lightning split the darkness above the city into two. Seconds later, the mighty sound of thunder followed, and the skies opened. The rain drops began to fall on the glass, their tapping growing louder, and soon there were puddles by the front door of the house. Many a coachman would be cursing the wet weather for spoiling the hours of work waxing doors and brushing manes.
Chapter 4
Through the thick drops of rain I saw the first carriages and coachmen in livery approach the house. The entrance to the Yates’ house soon became a hive of footmen and servants holding umbrellas, stoically protecting their masters from the relentless rain. I had hoped to observe the ladies’ gowns as they made their way into the house, but all that I managed to glimpse through the smeared glass were patchy blobs of colour. I considered opening the window, but the rain was coming down with such violence that I feared that water would enter the room.
Unable to repress my curiosity, I tiptoed towards the door and opened it, taking care not to make any noise. I shouldn’t have worried. The sound of lively conversation coming up the stairs was enough to drown the thunder outside. I approached the bannister of the staircase and, protected by the shadows of the second floor, which was in relative darkness compared to the brightly lit entrance and hallway, I crouched and looked down.
The front door was wide open, allowing a cold and blustery wind into the house. A dozen ladies and gentlemen were congregating in the hallway, like busy bees hovering over spring blooms. They formed an irregular line of sorts while waiting to be greeted by the hosts. My cousin Julia, beautifully attired in pale grey satin, her neck glittering with diamonds and her cheeks frozen in a permanent smile, looked the perfect society hostess. Mr Yates, whom I had not seen since Fanny’s wedding, was by her side. He was tall and sported rather extravagant hair, much longer and more dishevelled than was the norm amongst the higher classes. I suspected that it was a London fashion that had not yet reached the provinces. My privileged position allowed me to see that, beneath the pomade and studied unruliness of Mr Yates’ locks, his natural hairline was receding and baldness was beginning to spread from the crown of his head.
Another head amongst the many present in the hallway caught my eye, that of a woman with bright red hair whom I recognised as the lady I had seen in the gardens that afternoon. She was wearing a very fine turquoise silk dress and a feathered headgear that looked very expensive, and was clinging onto the arm of the dark and handsome gentleman that had caught me watching them from my aunt’s bedchamber. Although she was behaving as if they were on very intimate terms, his countenance appeared to tell a different story. The couple and their friends, three more gentlemen and another lady, were soon in front of Mr and Mrs Yates. I took a few steps down the staircase, many more than it was sensible, to hear their exchange.
“Darcy, Cole, Bingley, it is a pleasure to see you!”
Mr Yates cries were perfectly audible from where I was located.
“Yates,” nodded the tall man with the jet black locks, and so did the second gentleman, who had mousy hair, grey eyes and the deep tan of men just arrived from the East or the West Indies. Their friend, who had a much more expressive air and a similar colouring to the lady that had initially caught my attention, took Mr Yates’ hand and shook it with enthusiasm.
“Upon my word, Yates, you have found yourself a fine place! Did you know that we are staying just around the corner? In fact, we were taking a walk in this very square only this afternoon, were we not, Caroline? You remember my sister, Yates.”
“Of course I do! Miss Bingley, it is a pleasure to see you again after all these years. Allow me to introduce my wife, Mrs Yates.”
As the ladies exchanged pleasantries I observed the men. They made an odd quartet. Mr Darcy had a proud air, as if he wished to be elsewhere, while Mr Bingley, so forthcoming and genial, was quite the opposite. My cousin’s husband, Mr Yates, was as vain and superficial as I remembered. As for Mr Cole, although his skin was as dark as if he had spent three years at sea, he did not have the air of a sailor.
“I must say, it is jolly good to see us all together once more. It feels like yesterday that we were fellow students in Cambridge, and now one of us is already married!” said Mr Bingley.
“Judging from a certain intelligence that has recently reached me, you will be next,” said Mr Cole with a smile, patting Bingley on the shoulder. “My sources are never wrong, old boy.”
Mr Bingley coloured like a schoolboy and Miss Bingley looked visibly uncomfortable, but it was Mr Darcy’s response that surprised me the most. His back stiffened, and he looked down onto the floor while holding his one free arm behind his back. He immediately reminded me of my youngest brother Tom when he knew that he had misbehaved. But in a matter of seconds, the party disappeared from my view, joining the other guests in the front drawing room. Another group took their place, but my calves were burning. I carefully retreated towards the wall, away from the bannister, and stood up slowly so as to stretch my legs.
Outside, the rain had stopped and the wind had picked up, twisting the headdresses of a couple of ladies who were still waiting to enter the house. I felt a pang of frustration. I would have liked to join the guests downstairs. Sadly, it was not to be. I stifled a yawn, slipped inside Lady Bertram’s bedchamber and closed the door. The window seat was more comfortable than the cot in the attic, and soon the noise from the dozens of conversations became a muffled murmur and I fell asleep.
I woke up sometime later. My neck and back felt stiff. I pulled back a fraction of the thick velvet curtains, opened a window shutter and peered outside. The moon was high up in the sky.
There was music filtering through the carpet-covered floor boards and I could hear lively steps. Dancing! Last time I had danced it had been at Fanny’s wedding. I could not resist the thought of watching the gentlemen and ladies downstairs engage in a minuet, so went towards the door, opened it quietly and slid down the stairs, careful not to make any noise.
The ground and first floors of the house were awash with light. The servants had done an excellent job at filling the space with wax candles and keeping them topped up, and their glow was enhanced by the large mirrors strategically placed along the corridors. Keeping close to the wall, I tiptoed towards the drawing room double doors. I could hear music and laughter coming from the other side. My heart was beating as loud as a cannon, but I could not repress my curiosity. Bending my knees, I peeked through the keyhole.
The front room had been transformed into an impromptu ballroom. The furniture had been pushed to the sides or removed altogether, and ladies of a certain age sat on the chairs and sofas placed around the room. In the middle of the dance floor there were five couples dancing with gracious, flowing movements. Julia was one of them, although I could not see Mr Yates.
There were many more ladies than gentlemen in the room, so I wondered if the parlour had been turned into a card room for the evening. As if on cue, a group of men appeared from nowhere and came towards the double doors. As quickly as I could, I stood up and rushed down the passage towards the back of the house, away from the light and noise. They had not seen me, but to my despair, they were headed in my direction.
I reached the end of the corridor and I looked around, gasping. There were two doors, and
I tried the first one; it was locked. I wrapped my hand around the handle of the second door. To my immense relief, it opened, and I entered a small room that smelt of books, tobacco and furniture wax. I closed the door behind me as carefully as my runaway heart would allow. Inside, there was only darkness.
However, the footsteps were not receding. I realised with sheer terror that the men were headed for the room I was hiding in. As the voices reached the door, I ran towards the wall opposite, hoping to find a window. My fingers touched thick damask curtains, and without a second thought, I hid behind them.
The door opened, and several male voices entered what I could only assume was Mr Yates’ study. Their candles drew puddles of light onto the floor, which grew and multiplied as the candelabra in the room were lit. Staying as still as possible, holding my breath and trying to ignore the tingling at the back of my neck, I prayed they would not spot me behind the curtains.
There was the clinking of glass and the pouring of liquids. Slowly, the acrid smell of tobacco filled the space, and with it, the hopes that my ordeal would be over soon vanished.
“So, Bingley, kindly expand on what Cole was saying earlier.” I recognised Mr Yates’ voice.
“I am not sure I understand what you mean.”
“Look at you! You have the unmistakably idiotic air of a man in love.”
“I must admit that I met a very beautiful girl in my time in Hertfordshire,” replied Mr Bingley with bonhomie.
“A passing fancy, I dare say,” added a serious voice which I guessed was Mr Darcy’s.
“Miss Bennet is a lovely young lady,” replied Mr Bingley with the same good humour.
“Her connections are most unsuitable.”
Mr Darcy’s words were grave. He clearly did not approve of his friend’s admiration for the lady in question. He was also very close to where I was. I peered through a sliver between the curtains. In the candlelight, his profile was worthy of a Roman emperor about to address the Senate. I felt my stomach tighten. Why did I find him so captivating? He was handsome, to be fair, but there had to be something else.
“To be frank, if the family is wealthy enough, one may live with it,” said Mr Yates.
“You old rascal! You are married to a Baronet’s daughter,” exclaimed a fourth voice, which I took to be Mr Cole’s.
“A disgraced Baronet, may I add. You missed the grand scandal of the Rushworths’ divorce.”
“You should have thought twice before eloping with the sister,” laughed Cole.
“Trust me, I had no inkling at the time that those involved would show such poor sense. But no matter; it is seldom spoken about now, and the rest of my connections are secure enough for the whole disagreeable matter to be mostly ignored as far as my career is concerned.”
“If only all married couples behaved in a more civilised manner,” said Mr Cole. “Indiscretions are bound to happen. If we are to hold marriage as sacrosanct, we have to necessarily accept that the flesh is weak.”
“You cannot possibly be speaking seriously,” objected Mr Darcy.
“I am perfectly serious. It would be much more reasonable for the husband and society as a whole to overlook the affair. They would then be able to continue to enjoy the charms of what surely must be a delightful lady. Instead, I imagine that the poor creature was banned for life in some ghastly little cottage in the remote countryside. Do you know if that is the case, Yates?”
“I cannot say that I do. Get Bertram drunk sometime and ask him. On second thought, don’t bother. He hardly drinks these days.”
“Really?” said Mr Cole with a tinge of surprise. “I thought he would be here tonight. I have not seen him in years.”
“He has changed in recent times, and become quite a bore. I believe he is staying in Gloucestershire with those dullards, the Balfours,” replied Mr Yates. “I ran into him a couple of weeks ago and, judging from the pathetic look on Bertram’s face, I suspect he had high hopes of returning with a promise of love from a fair lady.”
“The charms of Venus are many, it seems,” replied Cole. “It must be the time of year.”
“Tempora mutants, nos et mutamur in illis, my friend.”
“You were always such a show off, Yates!” Cole was laughing. “Now, kindly translate for those of us who were glad to forget our Latin as soon as we stepped out of university.”
“Times change and we change with them,” mumbled Mr Darcy.
Mr Darcy’s face was all I could see from my hiding pace, and when he said those words and his brow creased, my heart stopped. I knew at once why he looked so familiar. From my perspective, in that light, with that particular gesture, he could have been Jamie’s cousin. Mr Darcy was taller and his features were finer, but there was a definite resemblance between the men.
“So, Bingley, who is this pastoral nymph that has so bewitched you? Do you intend to make her your wife?” asked Mr Yates.
“I dare say you are making a mountain out of a molehill,” interrupted Mr Darcy. “Bingley just needs to spend some more time in superior company. His views will soon change.”
“And you will make sure they do, of course. Tempora may mutants, but certain things remain the same, don’t they, Darcy?” asked Mr Cole.
A tense silence followed, until Mr Yates intervened.
“Cole, I take it you are back in England for good, then.”
“In all likelihood. You will remember my uncle, who put me through university. He passed away last year, and given that his marriage to my aunt only produced two girls, I have become the de facto manager of the family estate.”
“I dare say you will soon find yourself married to one of your cousins,” said Mr Darcy.
“My cousins, although perfectly lovely and amiable young ladies, have been unwell for some time, so marriage in their case is quite out of the question. But allow me to express my surprise at your concern about such matters. Is it something that you are thinking about as well? Have you too fallen for a rustic beauty? Perhaps I should stop at this mythical place on my way to Bath. What is the village called, Bingley?
“Nonsense,” interrupted Darcy. “There was nobody interesting enough to tempt me.”
“You did acknowledge that Miss Bennet’s sister had fine eyes,” said Bingley.
Darcy did not reply. A brief silence followed, until Bingley spoke again.
“Cole, you mentioned that you are planning to go to Bath. When are you leaving town?”
“On Friday. My aunt and cousins stay there, and they are very eager to see me. My intention was to spend a few more days in London in order to enjoy the white-fleshed pleasures on offer in the darkest corners of the city, much wished for after months of dark-skinned paramours. Alas, it has proven impossible.”
I flinched at Mr Cole’s coarse words. Through the gap in the curtain I saw Mr Darcy’s jaw tighten as he crossed his arms.
“Darcy does not approve of your choice of entertainment, Cole,” mumbled Yates.
I could not see Mr Cole’s face, but another icy silence descended on the room.
“I have an idea!” exclaimed Mr Bingley with enthusiasm. “Let us all go to Bath with you!”
“I am only going for a few days, a week at most.”
“Precisely! It will be a delightful break from London. I quite miss the countryside. What do you say, Darcy?”
“I am afraid I am otherwise engaged,” replied Mr Darcy, dryly. “I am due to visit my aunt in Kent next week. I will probably stay with her for a fortnight, perhaps less.”
“Yes, of course. You mentioned it the other day. Give my regards to Colonel Fitzwilliam, I remember you said he would be in Rosings as well. How about you, Yates? Do you and your lovely wife fancy joining us? Louisa is visiting her in-laws so I am sure Caroline would be delighted to have another lady in the party.”
“I cannot possibly say,” replied Mr Yates. “I must ask her. Speaking of which, Mrs Y. will be wondering where I am. I say it is time to return to civilisation, gentlemen. Would you
care to accompany me?”
There were grunts of approval all round, and soon, with the same noisy demeanour with which they had entered the study, the voices of the four men began to recede as they walked back to the front room.
Stepping out of my hiding place, I let out a sigh of relief. It felt like I had not moved nor taken a deep breath for ages. In the darkness, I slowly walked towards the exit. All of a sudden, someone opened the door and walked straight into me with such violence that I was thrown onto the floor. The thick carpet sheltered me from injury, but I had little time to congratulate myself. A hand grabbed the top of my arm with violence and dragged me to the corridor.
A candleholder, placed on a console table nearby, illuminated the unmistakeable profile of Mr Cole. His eyes were as glacial and irascible as an ice storm.
“Were you in the room all along?”
“I… I didn’t mean to, sir, it was an accident!”
Mr Cole observed me in the half-light of the corridor. He seemed to ponder his words. Then, he came towards me until he was close enough for me to smell the whiskey and tobacco in his foul breath.
“I will have to inform Mr Yates, of course.”
“Please, sir, I can explain.”
“I do not think you can,” he replied, smiling as he began to caress my sleeve, “unless you kiss me with your pretty little mouth first.”
I recoiled with disgust and his smile became a grin.
“Suit yourself, but you will be out of a job first thing tomorrow. Nobody likes a servant who listens in to private conversations.”
“I’m not a servant!” I exclaimed with indignation. “I’m Mrs Yates’ first cousin and Lady Bertram’s niece and companion!”
Mr Cole let go of me with a jolt, and his angular features hardened. When he spoke, his voice had the coldness of metal and an ominous tone that chilled me to the core.
Miss Price's Decision Page 4