Darcy's Redemption

by M. A. Sandiford

  Whatever its source, the recommendation opened up a lifestyle of constant delight. From the start she felt in no way Julia’s servant, but her friend and admirer. Accepting the generous allowance was an embarrassment: she should be paying them. At least it provided a surplus she could send to her family, struggling to live off the £200 a year left by Mrs Bennet’s marriage settlement.

  Their routine in London had varied little. In the mornings Julia rose late, and after tea and pastries set herself immediately to work. During this time no disturbance was allowed, but Julia liked Elizabeth to occupy an adjoining office and deal with secretarial tasks like correspondence with publishers. Before long this role extended to include copy editing, and searches in Roget’s Thesaurus for lists of synonyms. Poetry, it transpired, did not originate entirely from the heart. It was permitted to use reference books too.

  After lunch, work gave way to pleasure. Friends called. In warm weather they walked by the Serpentine. Once a week they attended the theatre, or a concert. Often the earl came too, or his sister Lady Sarah. It could have been stifling, but Julia respected Elizabeth’s solitude, often retiring early to read in her boudoir.

  The plan was to leave for Italy in early 1818—almost too late, as it turned out, since Julia had first to survive a winter in the icy fog of London. A compulsive shopper, she insisted on regular outings to Regent Street in spite of the doctor’s warnings. Fierce arguments ensued: by now Elizabeth had influence, and did not fear to use it. Henry, the earl, agreed to remove them all to a cousin’s estate on the Sussex coast. Julia swore at them, poured out her ire in poems, but coughed up no more blood. Only Lady Sarah remained in London, where it was whispered she had a beau.

  At last April came, and the journey of a lifetime. Paris. The Alps. Across northern Italy to Verona, then south to Bologna and Florence. The wines and magical landscapes of Tuscany. Villa la Pietra, with its magnificent drive lined with cypress; the ancient lemon-coloured house; the fruit trees and olive groves; views over the city.

  Not even Pemberley could rival it. Destiny had led her to the most beautiful villa in the most beautiful city in the world. At night she cried, overcome with guilt that she, Elizabeth, had been granted this blessing, while Jane and the others lived in poverty outside Meryton, and Lydia in unimaginable wretchedness in an Australian penal colony.

  At dinner they ate on the grand terrace, where they were joined by a brother and sister who had rented rooms at the villa until summer. Their names were Frederick and Martha Sibley, and they were returning from a long stay in Rome, where the brother had studied at the Vatican Library. He was an aspiring clergyman, touring Italy before taking over a living in Spitalfields, a London parish north-east of Cheapside. He struck Elizabeth as a gentle sort of man, dominated in practical affairs by his elder sister.

  ‘We were swindled by our driver,’ Martha Sibley was saying, as the minestra was served. ‘I knew we had to watch him like a hawk, but Fredo’s head is always in the clouds.’

  ‘Ah,’ Julia smiled, ‘so it is Fredo?’

  ‘It has become a habit,’ Frederick Sibley said. ‘Italians stumble over consonants.’

  ‘It is the same wherever we go,’ Martha continued. ‘I don’t know how much Fredo paid Signor Capponi for our rooms here, but I guarantee he was overcharged.’

  A look passed between Sibley and Henry Mountjoy, before the clergyman said mildly, ‘I doubt that, dear. The earl and I conferred first.’

  ‘Were you impressed by Rome?’ Elizabeth asked.

  He faced her with a grave smile. ‘Who could not be? We find there the roots of our civilisation. I am not one to denigrate Catholicism. It is part of our history, and has much to teach us.’

  Julia nodded. ‘Our denominations diverge on minor issues, but much more unites us.’

  ‘Is it not curious,’ Elizabeth said, ‘that conflict so often breaks out among people who are almost the same?’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps that is why there is so much quarrelling in families.’

  Martha Sibley threw her a scowl, perhaps interpreting this as a reference to her criticisms of her brother. ‘You express your opinions very openly Miss Bennet.’

  Frederick, still watching Elizabeth, bestowed another of his indulgent smiles. ‘I feel sure Miss Bennet intended no affront.’

  ‘Oh come, Fredo,’ Martha said. ‘Can the split between our churches be compared with a family squabble?’

  Elizabeth raised a hand. ‘Allow me to apologise, Miss Sibley. It was merely a light-hearted observation.’

  ‘And a true one,’ Henry Mountjoy said, grinning at his wife. ‘Sarah and I have been at each other’s throats since we left the cradle. Yet we love one another.’

  ‘There is a lesson in that,’ Frederick Sibley said gravely.

  During the next weeks Elizabeth often met Mr Sibley in the labyrinthine gardens at the back of the villa. He was in his middle twenties, having completed a degree at Oxford and taken holy orders. His father Sir Nicholas Sibley was a baronet, a title that would pass to an older brother also called Nicholas. In appearance Frederick Sibley was tall and lean, with a long pleasant face. He dressed as modestly as he behaved, and spoke with quiet sincerity. Yet she sensed ambition. He hoped one day not just to practise his religion but to write about it, in tracts that would influence opinion in the Anglican church.

  It was not long before Sibley’s affinity for her became obvious. In his eyes Elizabeth complemented him. She was sociable, eloquent, humorous. He was serious and dignified, an intellectual who lacked facility with words. He had sought in vain a woman who could support him both in his ministry and his writing. Now perhaps he had found one.

  For her part Elizabeth found him endearing, but was wary of offering encouragement. For one thing, she was uncertain she wished to marry at all: her life as companion to Julia was so satisfying. For another, Sibley was unaware of her family history. His ardour might cool when faced with a sister transported to Australia for seducing two men and stealing their purses.

  April came, and with it an exciting project. They were to spend a fortnight in Genoa and meet Lord Byron before he quitted Italy for Greece. Julia had exchanged letters with the famous poet, but never met him face to face. The earl would accompany her; so would Elizabeth.

  On the evening before their departure, as the sun set over the city, Sibley joined Elizabeth on the terrace and declared his love. She listened calmly, having had time to prepare her answer. She was honoured. She shared his affection and hoped they could remain friends. However, there were issues in her family history that he ought to consider …

  He listened gravely. She sensed his admiration was unaffected by this revelation of family weakness. What he feared was Martha’s reaction, and perhaps that of his father, the baronet.

  He regarded her with longing. ‘My dear Miss Bennet, what a heavy cross you have had to bear. But it is surely encouraging that the Earl of Ballytore has judged you a fit companion for the countess.’

  ‘I beg you to think carefully,’ Elizabeth said. ‘If we are to marry, let it be with honesty.’

  ‘Do you mean …’ He spoke breathlessly. ‘Would you be minded to accept my proposal, were it not for this difficulty?’

  ‘I too need time to think.’ She looked across the gardens, glowing red in the sunset. ‘Let us wait until I have returned from Genoa. You can tell me then whether your offer remains open. And I will give my answer.’

  They reached Genoa after three days, following the coast route through La Spezia. Elizabeth began the journey in a frenzy of indecision which kept her awake at night. The thought of losing Julia as a companion dismayed her. On the other hand, she wanted intimacy, children, a home of her own. She had spurned what was probably the best offer she would ever receive. Now fate had brought her a second chance. It might be her last.

  Elizabeth tried to lose herself in the scenery and architecture. She was reluctant to discuss her dilemma with Julia and Henry. For all she knew Sibley would withdraw his offer. Why trouble
Julia over a separation that would probably never happen?

  They lodged in a grand hotel on the seafront. Genoa was a busy port, where British sailors were often to be seen swigging from bottles of Chianti and chasing the local girls. Byron lived a mile outside, in the village of Albaro. A message was sent; the reply invited them to call at Casa Saluzzo the following morning.

  As their carriage drew up, Elizabeth pondered her fortune in having Julia as a friend. To meet Lord Byron! Back in England, thousands of women would swoon with envy. It was a fine palazzo set on high ground commanding views inland as well as seaward. The owners had divided it into spacious apartments, one of which Byron rented.

  They were received in a large airy living room, modestly furnished. Elizabeth’s first reaction on seeing the poet was surprise: she had imagined a tall commanding presence, not a thin gentleman of average height, with clumsy movements and ill-fitting clothes. His grey eyes flickered on hearing the name Miss Bennet, as if it roused a memory, but as expected he was soon engaged in earnest conversation with Julia. All Elizabeth had to do was sit and attend.

  Studying Byron, she understood how people could fall under his spell. In profile his face was graceful and masculine, with large shapely nose and chin. He had a general air of sadness; she wondered whether he grieved for his comrades Keats and Shelley. But his expression was easily moved to gaiety as he extemporised entertainingly in a pleasantly soft but distinct voice.

  They talked of common acquaintances, and in particular of reviewers, at whose hands they had both prospered, or suffered. One journalist had had the temerity to turn up at Casa Saluzzo and request an interview, despite having attacked him in print. ‘I told him to clear off,’ Byron said. ‘For which action, I imagine, he will take revenge by inventing outrageous stories, to satisfy the craving appetites of our slander-loving countrymen.’

  As the literary gossip continued, Elizabeth scanned the room, noticing an engraving of the poet as a young man, next to a drawing of his daughter Ada. ‘They say she is clever,’ Byron said, ‘Let’s hope they are mistaken.’ She was wondering whether this remark was flippant when there came a pause, and she noticed Byron’s gaze fixed on herself.

  ‘I have placed you!’ he said, clapping his hands. ‘Miss Elizabeth Bennet is it not? From Hertfordshire? Blessed with four sisters and no brothers?’

  She glanced at Julia, who shook her head: she had not, apparently, mentioned Elizabeth in her letters.

  ‘I am more famous than I thought,’ she said.

  He smiled, as if enjoying her embarrassment. ‘It was a month ago that your name came up. Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, whom I knew at Harrow, looked me up during a trip to Venice with his sister Mrs Molyneux and her husband. Remember Darcy, Henry? Serious, kept his own company. Disliked cards. Good at fencing.’

  ‘We met again a few years ago,’ the earl said. ‘I expected him to marry my sister Sarah, but nothing came of it. Hard man to please.’

  Elizabeth reddened as Byron’s penetrating eyes turned again in her direction. ‘Are you not curious to know what account he gave of you?’

  She rallied. ‘Curiosity carries risks, sir. Do you read every word written by your critics?’

  ‘Aha!’ He laughed. ‘You have confirmed one of his observations, at any rate. He declared you the cleverest lady he ever bantered with.’

  Elizabeth huffed: this was becoming silly. She could see no reason why Darcy would mention her family, except to recount the scandal of Lydia’s transportation. She frowned at Byron, who was still smiling.

  ‘I have no wish to be thought clever, sir, especially following your remark about your daughter.’

  Byron was silent a moment, then raised his hands as if to pacify her. ‘Excuse my flippancy. In truth, Darcy mentioned you only in passing. But he spoke of you respectfully, and with the warmest admiration.’

  Elizabeth looked down, too embarrassed to speak. But inside, she exulted—and felt a fool for doing so.

  Byron was busy revising a long poem, but called on them next day, and conceded Julia a long tête-à-tête to discuss her work. He introduced them to Italian friends, and organised a trip to the countryside. Days passed pleasantly, with no further talk of Darcy.

  Returning, they travelled at a more relaxed pace, and spent two days in Pisa. A discussion had begun on when the Mountjoys would return to England. Julia was fully recovered now, and keen to have children—a risk the earl had avoided hitherto. With sadness, Elizabeth saw a new phase opening, one in which they would leave their paradise at Villa la Pietra, and Julia would have more need of a governess than a companion.

  Perhaps she, Elizabeth, should start a new chapter too. Marriage. Family.

  She imagined Frederick Sibley, waiting for her in Florence. A fine respectable man, no doubt. But she had been shaken more than she liked to admit by Byron’s teasing revelation. Warmest admiration. Could it be that Darcy still loved her? More to the point, did she want him to?

  It was absurd, of course. He would never even consider marrying her. Still, she wished she could make sure. If only they could meet one more time, straighten out their misunderstandings, come to know one another afresh.

  Sibley had declared himself impatient at long engagements. He would wish them to tie the knot soon, in Italy.

  Wait, a voice insisted. Return to England first.

  But was this realistic? In all likelihood she would find Darcy as disagreeable as ever. He would not demean himself by marrying into her family, no matter how warm his admiration. Meanwhile, she would lose Sibley.

  Never mind. Wait.

  Her thoughts tilted back and forth until all she cared for was resolution, one way or the other.

  4

  April 1825, Hardwick, Suffolk

  Darcy sat with Bingley at the edge of an indoor Venetian riding school, known as the Cavallerizza, while their friend Thomas Cullum drilled a grey Lusitano horse in the courbette, a hop on the back legs. The performance was impressive, but Darcy paid only fleeting attention, his mind on Cullum’s family, especially the sisters.

  Thomas’s father was a distinguished naturalist and Fellow of the Royal Society, whose interests embraced not only botany but local history and antiquarian books: his library surpassed Pemberley’s. They had known the family many years, meeting recently at a ball where Bingley had danced twice with Miss Susannah Cullum. Darcy recalled her as a child, riding her pony; she was now an effervescent debutante with dark curls and a passion for dancing. Her sister Arethusa was approaching thirty, a serious lady who enjoyed helping her father to research the history of their county, Suffolk.

  ‘Bravo!’ Bingley applauded a levade, a 45-degree pose of deceptive difficulty, as Thomas pointed his mount at the exit leading to the stables.

  ‘That’s real horsemanship.’ Bingley jumped up. ‘Shall we join the ladies in the rose garden?’

  Darcy sighed: he had been seeking an opportunity to speak with Bingley in private, but with Susannah missing no chance to parade her charms, he would have to wait.

  The grounds at Hardwick included woods deliberately left wild, and after taking tea, a party set out to view the bluebells. Thomas led off with his father, but paused often to examine specimens. Susannah danced ahead with Bingley, leaving Darcy to accompany her sister.

  ‘You liked our grey horses?’ Arethusa Cullum had fair straight hair, angular features, and an air of ironic amusement. ‘Thomas is so proud of them!’

  ‘Superb, like your indoor arena,’ Darcy said. ‘Still, I’m glad to be out in the sunshine.’

  ‘It tempts me from the bookshelves, which are my natural habitat.’

  Darcy had already come across Miss Cullum in the library. ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘The abbey at Bury St Edmunds. Until dissolution the richest in the country; now a ruin, the stones stripped by local builders. We can visit if you like.’

  A peal of laughter suggested that Bingley was successfully charming his companion. Darcy met Arethusa’s eye, returning he
r smile. ‘I wish I had Charles Bingley’s facility for conversation.’

  ‘I too have difficulty simply talking, without something particular to relate.’ She paused. ‘Enjoying your visit?’

  ‘I am. To be honest, I accepted your brother’s invitation mainly to catch up with Charles. I did not expect to discover one of the finest private libraries in the country.’

  She looked at him appraisingly. ‘May I say something in confidence, Mr Darcy? Concerning your friend?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You will have observed that my sister Susannah is exceedingly sociable. She talks, laughs, flatters, as naturally as a bird flies. I don’t doubt that she feels sincere affection for Mr Bingley—just as she does for many other friends. I just hope …’ She raised her arms. ‘That he understands this.’

  ‘Bingley is the most modest of men. He is unlikely to imagine himself the object of a lady’s regard without convincing proofs. Still, thank you for your warning.’

  ‘I may be wrong.’ Miss Cullum coloured. ‘This year I have detected a change in Susannah. She may be ready to seek a partner in life. So do not take my remarks too seriously.’ She smiled. ‘My sister thinks I am destined to become an old maid.’

  Darcy recalled rumours that Arethusa had received four proposals of marriage, and rejected them all. ‘Who knows what twists and turns await—for all of us?’

  She acknowledged this with a lift of the eyebrows.

  The drawing room clock was striking eleven as Darcy set aside a Linnean Society monograph on the classification of woodland flora. After a demanding half-hour with Mr Cullum senior he was in no mood to absorb any further information, and having been left alone at last, he poured himself a brandy.