The passing years had not made Darcy any fonder of dancing: he would rather go fishing or read a book. But he felt a lingering pressure to produce an heir for Pemberley. Sooner or later he would have to grasp the nettle, and where better to begin a romance than Almack’s.
‘Darcy, old fellow!’ A hand slapped him on the back, and he recognised Henry Mountjoy, Earl of Ballytore, his senior at Harrow school. ‘Haven’t bumped into you for years. Where have you been hiding?’
‘Abroad. Italy mostly.’
‘Good show!’ Mountjoy lowered his voice. ‘I’d like to pick your brains on that subject. But first you must meet my sister.’ He wheeled round. ‘I see her! With the baroness.’
With a sigh of resignation Darcy followed, and the introduction was made. Lady Sarah Mountjoy was younger than her brother, tall and confident, with abundant glossy blonde hair pinned up in a complicated braid to show her fine neck and shoulders. She appraised him with the look of a woman who has seen everything.
‘Your reputation precedes you, sir. A pleasure to meet at last.’
He wondered what this reputation might be. ‘The pleasure is mine.’
‘I see that like me, you are not a devotee of the reel.’
‘All things in moderation.’
She laughed and moved closer, as if imparting a confidence. ‘My brother had dared me to dance the waltz.’
Darcy looked for Mountjoy, who had withdrawn to a corner with the baroness. ‘As his partner?’
Lady Sarah snorted. ‘You must be joking.’
It occurred to Darcy that he had not seen Mountjoy’s wife. ‘Is the countess here?’
‘Julia stayed at home.’ For a moment the mask slipped, and she looked concerned. ‘She hasn’t been well.’
‘Does she write poetry still?’
‘When she feels strong enough. The doctor is optimistic, provided Julia stays warm and keeps her spirits up.’
‘I hope she soon recovers.’ Darcy hesitated, impressed by Mountjoy’s sister. ‘If you wish to essay the waltz may I offer my services? I was recently in Vienna, where it is all the rage.’
Lady Sarah smiled, as if to a conspirator. ‘Sir, you have rescued me! I shall learn under your tutelage.’
The waltz still raised eyebrows at Almack’s, but since its introduction by the Russian ambassador’s wife, a set was conceded at most balls. The music favoured the German style, which Darcy had learned. Moves from other dances were included, but the novelty was the face-to-face position in which the gentleman clasped his arm around the lady’s waist.
It was exciting, no question about it, and whirling in the clinches Darcy met Lady Sarah’s eye, sharing her exhilaration. Her earlier banter was flimflam: she knew the dance perfectly and had probably practised with a master. Beautiful, intelligent, amusing—at the back of his mind a voice insisted, She may be the one. But he recoiled from the thought. Somewhere in the world, Elizabeth Bennet was at this moment talking with her sisters, or reading a book, or embroidering a handkerchief, still unmarried, so far as he knew. He sighed at his own irrationality. The Bennets were disgraced. Elizabeth disliked him. Why could he not let her go?
‘You are pensive, sir!’ Lady Sarah stepped back, and he realised the dance had ended.
‘My apologies.’
‘I intended no complaint, nor would I criticise a gentleman for thinking, a rare accomplishment in the ton.’ She pointed. ‘But a lady claims your attention. Have I a rival?’
He welcomed the distraction from her flirting, which stirred him more than he liked to admit. ‘May I introduce my sister?’
‘Delighted, but I suspect she wishes to confer with you on some private matter, so I shall be brief.’
True to her word, Lady Sarah showered compliments on Georgiana for a few seconds only, before going off to powder her nose.
‘William, she is so fine!’ Georgiana was wide-eyed. ‘Do you think she likes you?’
‘Lady Sarah was certainly charming. But perhaps this is her normal style, whether to prince or pauper.’
‘Oh fiddlesticks. But listen, I need your advice.’ She pointed to a group near the orchestra. ‘My friend claims an artist has been drawing me.’
‘How does she know?’
‘She says his eye tracked me during the waltz, while he sketched in a notebook.’
‘Shall we confront him?’
Georgiana shrank away. ‘You go.’
‘We will both go, but I will take the lead.’
As they approached, Darcy recognised the baronet Sir Humphrey Molyneux and his wife engaged in a discussion with another couple. The artist, perhaps their son, was an earnest young man, lightly built, with a humorous intelligent face.
Darcy bowed. ‘My sister and I are devotees of art and would be interested to see your work.’
The young man looked up with a hint of irritation, but broke into a smile on seeing Georgiana. He studied her a moment, tilting his head, then made a correction to the drawing before handing it over.
Darcy showed it to Georgiana, who gasped. It was a sketch of just a few strokes, but caught perfectly the line of her face, and her graceful posture in the dance.
She spoke directly to the artist. ‘A beautiful execution, but too flattering.’
He rose with a bow. ‘Philip Molyneux at your service. May I know your name, madam, to add a caption?’
Darcy performed the introduction. ‘It is a fine sketch,’ he said. ‘We have others of my sister at home, but none, I believe, so animated.’
Philip Molyneux ran his nail along the page and carefully tore it out. ‘I would like you to keep it, Miss Darcy, but you must pay a forfeit.’
She smiled, reminding Darcy how much she had matured: he saw little trace of her former shyness. ‘Very well, sir, but I warn you, I am not given to extravagance.’
‘The price is that you grant me the next set.’
She shook her head. ‘I am engaged. But you may have the Cotillion.’
His eyes widened. ‘The supper set?’
‘If you promise to talk to me and not spend the whole time drawing.’
‘You have my word.’ He held out the sketch.
Georgiana turned to the floor, where the second waltz was about to begin. ‘I shall collect it later.’
Darcy smiled, intrigued at this new acquaintance, as he looked forward to another dance with the alluring Lady Sarah Mountjoy.
Caroline Bingley had recently married a member of parliament named Trevelyan, who represented a constituency in Cornwall which as a rule he never visited; the only exception came when an election was due, and he needed to canvas the handful of gentlemen entitled to vote. He was a stout man in his forties, usually busy politicking, or socialising at his club. But he gave Caroline what she wanted: security, status, an address in Mayfair.
With his town house nearby Darcy could have called often, but for various reasons had held back. He did not like Trevelyan, either politically or as a companion. Georgiana found Caroline daunting. Even Charles avoided his sisters, whom he had never forgiven for opposing his romance with Jane Bennet, an error for which they, unlike Darcy, had refused to apologise.
Still, such a long separation was embarrassing, and on receiving an invitation for dinner, a private affair to be attended only by Bingley, his sisters, and Mr Hurst, Darcy thought it best to accept. Trevelyan, mercifully, would be absent. Georgiana was also invited, but pleaded tiredness.
The meal unfolded on familiar lines. Louisa let her sister make the running. Mr Hurst, his face redder than ever, concentrated on the wine. Caroline spoke most, her eyes fixated on Darcy as if seeking his reaction. The subtext now was how well she had done. Trevelyan was not only rich but ambitious, already a junior minister in the Earl of Liverpool’s government, and eager for promotion. It was a little tedious, but Darcy nodded approval, as did Bingley. They agreed it was very fine that Trevelyan had joined the government. No doubt he would do an excellent job.
The topic switched to the ball, of
which Caroline demanded a full report.
‘I trust Miss Darcy enjoyed her evening?’
‘She danced every set, I believe.’
‘I imagine some very eligible gentlemen would ask, for she performs exquisitely.’
He deflected Caroline with generic answers, to her increasing frustration. She wanted names, preferably with titles attached.
‘And yourself, Mr Darcy?’
‘Did not dance, I wager,’ Bingley quipped.
Caroline faced Darcy again. ‘Put my mind at rest. Tell me Charles is mistaken.’
‘I danced one set.’
‘And who was the lady thus honoured?’
‘The sister of an old schoolmate.’
Caroline slapped the table. ‘The name!’
Darcy sighed. ‘Lady Sarah Mountjoy. Her brother is Earl of Ballytore.’
There was a ripple of interest, even Mr Hurst looking up from his wine glass.
Caroline whistled. ‘A handsome and wealthy lady by all accounts. She would do very well for you.’ Her face broke into a grin. ‘I hope she has fine eyes.’
‘Shapely, but lacking acuity, otherwise she would have passed me over for a younger man.’
‘Nonsense.’ Caroline looked at her sister. ‘It is a fine match, do you not agree Louisa? A step up at least from Eliza Bennet. Which reminds me!’ She shifted her gaze to include Bingley. ‘Have you heard the news? So distressing for poor Jane.’
‘You refer to Mr Bennet’s passing?’ Darcy asked. ‘Yes, we received a letter in Italy, from my Aunt Catherine. She was irritated at losing Collins, who inherited Longbourn.’
‘A sad affair,’ Bingley said. ‘I suppose it stemmed from the calamity that befell Miss Lydia. Remember, Darce? We were visiting the Cullums and learned only later.’
Darcy grimaced. He recalled all too well their sojourn in Suffolk, after he had narrowly missed Elizabeth Bennet at Pemberley. Had he arrived a day early, instead of a day late, they might have met. As it was, he had hastened to Lambton only to learn that her party had interrupted their trip. Six weeks later, a gloating letter from his aunt had arrived too late. Mrs Younge provided an address, but it led nowhere.
‘But there is more,’ Caroline continued. ‘My sister-in-law’s governess met a woman in the park, and lo and behold it was Eliza Bennet, looking after the children of her uncle.’ She grinned. ‘You remember, the one in trade at Cheapside. The other Bennets live in a cottage near Meryton.’ She looked at Bingley. ‘I would hope, Charles, that you have accepted the wisdom of our advice when we left Netherfield. To think you might have married into such a family!’
Anger flashed across Bingley’s face, but he did not rise to the bait. ‘It’s a sad business, and I wish them all better fortune in the future.’
Darcy fell silent, thinking this over. He had obtained the Gardiners’ address at the time of the elopement, and would have made contact had he come up with anything useful. Gracechurch Street. Elizabeth might be there now …
The social whirl persisted. Philip Molyneux called bearing another sketch, this time tinted with watercolour. It was rewarding to see Georgiana talk with a man who had interesting things to say, not just pleasantries. He played the piano too, not at her level, but well enough to carry off a simple duet.
Darcy, meanwhile, was invited to the Mountjoys for what the Earl mischievously dubbed an intimate dinner. By this he meant that there were no other guests, just himself, his wife Julia, and Lady Sarah. The avowed purpose was to quiz Darcy on his Grand Tour; he suspected however that Lady Sarah planned to dazzle him by a further display of her charms.
The highlight was the opportunity to meet Mountjoy’s wife Julia, whose poetry Darcy had read in literary magazines. Elfin and delicate, she might easily be overlooked, especially in a party that included the spirited Lady Sarah. But when Julia spoke, any impression of weakness went away. She was at once penetrating and kind: you felt she looked into your soul, divining your secrets, and yet you were safe. Her voice was soft contralto with a limpid Irish accent. Darcy was glad to find her convalescent.
Dinner was not free. Information was demanded, with a servant on hand to note down every detail. Best channel crossing. Where to find a guide. Steamboats up the Rhine. Crossing the Alps. Best hotel in Florence. Venice. Genoa. Security. Number of servants. Opera houses. Art galleries.
‘Stop!’ Lady Sarah cried, waving at her brother. ‘Never has a guest been so ill-used.’
‘Sarah is right.’ Countess Julia smiled at Darcy. ‘But I think our visitor not too displeased, for it is flattering to be considered expert.’
‘True,’ Darcy conceded. ‘But perhaps during dessert I might be allowed a respite.’
The earl waggled a finger. ‘We have not even begun to speak of Rome.’
Lady Sarah cuffed her brother. ‘Our guest is a distinguished gentleman, not your fag at school. I have it!’ She held out her arms. ‘Take him with you! How about it, Mr Darcy? What could be nicer than a second tour with all expenses paid?’
‘Capital idea!’ Mountjoy boomed.
Darcy smiled. ‘As a distinguished gentleman am I allowed a say in the matter?’
‘You will do as you are bid,’ Lady Sarah laughed. ‘I insist. What is more, I shall come too.’
Darcy knew he was being ribbed, but could not deny a stirring of excitement. ‘With such an inducement it is difficult to refuse.’ He paused, smiling. ‘But not impossible.’
‘Ha!’ Julia clapped. ‘You are put in your place, Sarah.’
Lady Sarah glared at Darcy in mock fury. ‘I shall not speak to you for the rest of the evening.’
‘You consider that a punishment?’ Mountjoy quipped.
A tongue poke from Lady Sarah suggested a history of amiable quarrelling—and also that her ladyship had drunk a lot of wine.
‘Shut up you two.’ Julia smiled at Darcy. ‘Shall we send them up to the nursery?’
‘No need.’ Mountjoy leaned back as the maid served a selection of exotic ices. ‘But for your own sake, dear, allow me one more question. Concerning the companion.’
The countess shook her head. ‘We have exploited Mr Darcy too much already.’
‘I’ll be brief.’ Mountjoy spoke to Darcy. ‘It’s just that we’d like to bring a lady on the trip, to serve as company for Julia. I advertised, but found no-one suitable.’
‘Any particular requirements?’ Darcy asked.
‘Someone who makes me laugh,’ Julia said. ‘And who sees the world with fresh eyes. And will leave me in peace when I want to work.’
‘And likes music and art and architecture,’ Lady Sarah added. ‘And literature and travel …’
‘In short, a paragon.’ The earl took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Any ideas, Darcy? Someone you met on your journey? She could be French, or Italian, provided she spoke good English.’
Darcy frowned. ‘Offhand, no. But I will think on it.’
Two days later, on a Sunday morning, Darcy sat at the back of St Michael’s Cornhill church in Cheapside. He had arrived early and found a seat behind one of the pillars that framed the aisle. It was an impressive site of pre-Norman vintage, rebuilt after the Great Fire of 1666, but his interest was not historical. By his calculation, it was also the nearest Anglican church to Gracechurch Street.
Darcy had not come to renew his acquaintance with Elizabeth. Yes, he assumed he was acquitted of mistreating Wickham, whether or not she had read his letter. The cynical flesh-peddling of her sister Lydia had exposed that gentleman’s character in all its heartless villainy. But this could hardly be sufficient to moderate her dislike—except that he might now be the next-to-last man that she would consider marrying. In any case, with Georgiana now out, and befriending families like the Molyneuxs, it would be irresponsible to risk her happiness by associating with the Bennets.
Still, he could not forget Elizabeth. Cultured Viennese ladies had attracted him; so had dark Florentine beauties with perfect complexions and soulful eyes. But always he
had held back, unable to take the step that would separate him forever from his first love. Lady Sarah was plainly interested, and a wonderful match. He should give her a chance. But no, some demon drew him to the unattainable dream.
People filed in, and suddenly he saw Elizabeth pass to the front in the company of an older couple, presumably her aunt and uncle. She looked calm, but lacking her former sparkle. Of course one could read too much into a glimpse. But to be reduced to the role of nursemaid!
The service began, and Darcy shifted to keep Elizabeth in view. He longed to hear her voice as she sang the hymns. But he feared to move closer and risk being seen.
She could never be his. He must persuade his foolish heart to accept this painful inevitability. But to help her might bring relief …
He observed her intently as an idea took root.
3
Six years later, March 1823, Italy
Springtime in Florence was Elizabeth’s favourite season. Summer was too hot; even in autumn she had had trouble sleeping, forced to endure mosquitos or the damp stuffiness of shuttered windows. But in late March the wonderful gardens of Villa la Pietra came to life, with their roses and their fruit trees in blossom. To dwell in this paradise was a privilege she had never dreamed of.
Added to this, she was admitted to the company of a kind and gifted woman whose presence in the city drew fascinating visitors. In 1818-19 she had met the Shelleys, who were staying in a pensione where Mary gave birth to a son. She recalled good-natured debates between the radical Percy Shelley and the earl. John Keats had stayed once on his way to Rome, where he had died of consumption a year later. Now Shelley too was dead, drowned in a boating accident. But Countess Julia had thrived in the warm climate. Slowly but surely her cough had gone, her colour improved. Before long she should be well enough to return to England—assuming they could bear to leave.
It was in the summer of 1817 that Elizabeth’s fortunes had changed. A letter came, out of the blue, urging her to apply for a position as companion to the Countess of Ballytore. At the interview, and afterwards, the origin of this invitation was never revealed. A private recommendation, Julia said. From a man who wished to remain anonymous.
Darcy's Redemption Page 2