Darcy's Journey

by M. A. Sandiford

  Darcy’s Journey

  M. A. Sandiford

  Copyright © 2016 M. A. Sandiford

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1519112939

  ISBN-13: 978-1519112934

  Cover art from The Duchess of Richmond’s Ball by Robert Alexander Hillingford (1870s), downloaded from Wikimedia Commons

  Prologue

  May 1814

  Cannon Street was a prosperous road populated more by businessmen than gentry. As the carriage threaded through traffic towards St Pauls, Mr Gardiner pointed out the residence of a ship-owner he had once dealt with, and later, a cabinet-maker in demand for his fine craftsmanship. Elizabeth answered politely, but her mind was pre-occupied with other concerns: her encounter, just a few weeks ago, with Darcy at Hunsford; and a major grievance in their quarrel, the plight of her sister Jane, still despondent after the separation from Bingley.

  They dismounted at a narrow terraced house which had been rented by Giuseppe Carandini, a Venetian trader in glass, and long-term business associate of Mr Gardiner’s. They had met over a decade ago and collaborated on several ventures before 1806, when Napoleon blockaded all trade between Britain and the continent. With Napoleon exiled to Elba this constraint had at last been lifted, and merchants from all over Europe were racing to London to renew their contacts.

  Signor Carandini had not come alone: he had brought his daughter Regina, now in her early twenties and still unmarried—although probably not for long, since if rumours were true she had taken London society by storm, and caught the eye of a baronet. On learning that Mr Gardiner had a niece of her own age, the sociable Miss Carandini had begged for an introduction. Elizabeth, for her part, was excited to meet the young lady who had made such an impression.

  An English servant led them to the drawing room, where they were received by a young woman with thick auburn hair, pinned so that curls framed her face and extended to the shoulders of her silver-blue muslin dress. The contrast of the reddish hair with the pale blue material was striking, and Elizabeth paused in frank admiration before advancing with a smile for the introduction.

  ‘Miss Bennet. Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ Regina Carandini spoke precisely, with a musical lilt. She turned to greet Mr Gardiner. ‘My father apologises that he is unable to join us downstairs.’

  Mr Gardiner frowned. ‘Has his condition worsened?’

  For an instant Miss Carandini’s mask slipped, and Elizabeth saw she was truly afraid. ‘The physician called again this morning, and insists he remain in bed. However, he is eager to speak with you. We are assured that his illness is not infectious. It is idropsia—how do you say—dropsy? Of the lungs.’

  Mr Gardiner faced Elizabeth, his expression grave. ‘It would be best if I went up alone, Lizzy.’

  Elizabeth agreed, and after the servant returned for Mr Gardiner, was left tête-à-tête with Miss Carandini.

  ‘You will take the afternoon tea, yes?’ Regina bounced out of the divan, more animated now they were alone, shouted an order in Italian to a maid, and returned smiling. ‘We have fresh frittelle. I hope you will like.’

  Elizabeth smiled back, warmed by such enthusiasm in the face of adversity. ‘May I ask what frittelle are, or would that spoil the fun?’

  ‘Ha!’ Miss Carandini raised her arms dramatically. ‘No, definitely you must wait. It is—meraviglioso, wonderful, to have your company, Miss Bennet. I have found it so quiet here.’

  ‘Really?’ Elizabeth dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I was informed that you had taken to the ton like a fish to water.’

  Miss Carandini looked up sharply, then laughed. ‘You are teasing me, Miss Bennet. Yes, my father still has friends in London, in particular a count who, like us, comes from Venezia, Venice, and kindly invited us to a musical soirée. This led to a further invitation, to a ball, and a few social calls.’ She spread her hands in another dramatic gesture. ‘And that is all.’

  Elizabeth drew back as a maid entered and placed a tray on the table between them. The tea was served in a traditional English pot, but the cakes were unusual: they looked like small fried dumplings, crisp and light, speckled with raisins and dusted with fine sugar.

  ‘Forgive me for repeating such gossip,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I am notorious for my impertinence.’

  ‘Impertinence.’ Miss Carandini rolled the word around her tongue. ‘Impertinenza. I like it.’ She met Elizabeth’s eye. ‘Both the word and the—how do you say—the attribute? Of course you will now have to permit me to be, ah, impertinent in return. But wait!’ She pointed to the tray. ‘We have the frittelle, and I am eager to know whether they please you.’

  She poured tea, and offered Elizabeth one of the cakes in a delicate lace napkin. ‘Eat like this, so that your fingers are not made sticky.’

  Inside its crisp outer layer, the bun was soft and delicious, with hints of brandy and orange zest. Miss Carandini observed Elizabeth as she ate, impatient for her reaction.

  ‘Good?’

  With her mouth still full, Elizabeth nodded.

  Miss Carandini clapped her hands. ‘I am happy. Now, to return your impertinence, I should say that I have also heard certain things about you.’ She put down her cup and leaned back, freeing her hands for gestures. ‘It is told that you are sad because a trip with your uncle and aunt had to be cancelled.’

  Elizabeth smiled, then replied more seriously, ‘A small matter compared with your father’s illness.’

  ‘But is it true?’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘I have been upset too over some personal issues, which ought to remain private.’

  Miss Carandini studied her. ‘Where I come from, such issues normally regard a gentleman.’ She grinned. ‘See, Miss Bennet, now I am being very impertinent.’

  Elizabeth grinned back. ‘The gentlemen can certainly be troublesome, Miss Carandini, and for all I know, you may also have concerns that should remain private.’

  ‘True.’ Miss Carandini raised a finger. ‘But consider. If you have enjoyed our conversation, and these cakes, you might call on me again, and in time we might become friends. And once we are friends, I might share some of my secrets with you, and you with me. Is it not possible, Miss Bennet?’

  Elizabeth studied her beautiful, crafty face, enjoying her more and more. ‘You may call me Elizabeth if you wish.’

  ‘And you may call me Regina.’

  ‘Should we have another cake, Regina?’

  ‘I think we should, Elizabeth.’

  They continued talking until Mr Gardiner entered with a gift from Signor Carandini. Elizabeth opened the little package to find a necklace of a kind she had never seen, made of coloured glass beads in subtle shades of blue, pink and orange.

  ‘Beautiful.’ She turned to Regina. ‘This is so kind of your father. May I venture upstairs to thank him?’

  ‘I will come with you.’ Regina caressed Elizabeth’s arm lightly as she passed to lead the way.

  PART I

  1

  December 1814

  Fitzwilliam Darcy strode along a path leading from the kitchen garden at Pemberley towards open countryside. The morning was crisp, rime glazing the hedgerows, and he longed for exercise. The last half-hour had been spent examining the progress of his steward’s latest experiment in the forcing of rhubarb. McBride had learned this technique during a trip to Yorkshire: farmers had begun to keep the crop in the ground for two years to encourage root growth, then replant it in dark warm sheds where it would ripen over the winter to yield sweet crimson stalks. A tour of the sheds by candlelight had shown promising results, but it was a relief to escape McBride’s overlong explanations, and exchange dank outbuildings for fresh air.

  The fine weather was welcome for another reason: he was a
waiting a party from Netherfield, including not only the Bingleys, but Georgiana. They had planned to overnight at Rugby, and with luck should arrive before dusk. As the cold snap set in, there was every chance of snow, with ice thick enough for skating on the lake. Two years ago Darcy would have been contented at the prospect of a white Christmas. He smiled, recalling the confident ambitions of that 27-year-old who had never loved—and never lost.

  He had met Elizabeth Bennet in the autumn of 1813. She was the second daughter of a country gentleman, a lively, impudent girl with bewitching brown eyes. From the start, there had never been any question of courting her. Whatever her charms, the family was simply insupportable, from vulgar mother to eccentric father to flirtatious younger sisters—not to mention an uncle and aunt in trade in Cheapside.

  But the workings of the heart defied logic, and within six weeks he had acknowledged his predicament, quit Hertfordshire, and persuaded Charles Bingley (who was besotted with her sister Jane) to leave as well. The matter should have ended there, but no: in March the lovely lady turned up again, at his aunt’s estate in Rosings, and this time he had gone overboard and actually proposed to her. The manner of her rejection still stung. Impolite hardly covered it. He was accused of arrogance, and disdain for others. He had ruined Wickham’s career and her sister’s happiness. His proposal had been insulting. He was the last man in the world that she would ever marry.

  To cap it all, on the following day, she had refused to accept a letter explaining the misconceptions on which her rejection was based! His sins, already many, were now compounded with another: that of improperly seeking to correspond with a single lady.

  He could see her now, in his mind’s eye, her intelligent face flushed with embarrassment and anger as he pleaded with her to read his explanation. The final shake of the head (No, it is impossible), and she span away, walking so fast that she stumbled in her eagerness to remove herself from his presence.

  And that was the last time they had met.

  As time passed he realised that her bitterness was understandable. He had treated her rudely, both at the ball where they first met, and during his proposal. It had been underhand to separate Charles from her sister. Anyone could be misled by Wickham. There seemed no point in attempting a further meeting, but he could at least address his own mistakes. So it was that he had spoken to Bingley when they were next in town, and confessed his connivance with Caroline Bingley in concealing Jane’s presence in London during the winter. This initiative had at least turned out well. Charles had forgiven him, and returned to Netherfield to resume the courtship.

  Unfortunately, Elizabeth was no longer around to receive this news. Over the summer she had befriended an Italian woman, recently married to a baronet, and accompanied the couple to Venice. Jane, according to Bingley, had sent several letters, but only the first had received a reply; with communications still unreliable, there was no guarantee that the others had arrived.

  Darcy had never met Elizabeth’s Italian friend, but was acquainted with her husband, Sir Ambrose Havers, through his younger brother Edward. Darcy and Edward Havers were not close, but they had overlapped at Cambridge University and kept in touch. The family was respectable, but no longer wealthy owing to unwise investments by the former baronet, Edward’s late father.

  It was hardly surprising that Elizabeth had accepted the opportunity of a trip to Italy. Since their early conversations in the drawing room at Netherfield, Darcy had known of her interest in art and architecture. The war in Europe had ended, with Napoleon exiled and King Louis XVIII restored to the French throne. Young Englishmen again ventured to the great cities of the continent, including the poet Percy Shelley, who had scandalously abandoned his pregnant wife and run off with Mary Godwin, the 16-year-old daughter of the author Mary Wollstonecraft.

  Since Elizabeth was in reliable company, there was no reason to doubt her safety. What he sought was confirmation that she had heard the latest news, not only about Bingley and Jane, but about Wickham, whose character had now been exposed in all its venality by his elopement with Lydia Bennet. Had Jane’s letter announcing the catastrophe arrived? More importantly, had Elizabeth seen Jane’s next letter, recounting that the couple were now discovered, married, and dispatched to the North of England, where Wickham had taken up a commission in the regular army?

  If only they had a reply from Italy to reassure them that Elizabeth was well, and had received their latest reports …

  Darcy deflected along a track leading to his favourite spot by the river. The cold weather had firmed up the ground, leaving only a few muddy patches that he easily side-stepped. He tried to calm down. Elizabeth was staying with a wealthy family and accompanied by a trustworthy English gentlemen—moreover, a recently married one. Sooner or later she would learn the truth about Wickham. Bingley would be arriving shortly, perhaps with good tidings from Longbourn.

  He sat on a tree stump and absorbed the view, allowing himself once again to dream.

  2

  December 1814

  At dawn the canal was already a hubbub of shouting and banging as bargees competed for space on the Rio di San Luca, which joined the Grand Canal directly under Elizabeth’s bedroom window. They carried all manner of goods, from apples and potatoes stacked in boxes, to coal and wood, to piles of discarded furniture and other junk. Still in her nightdress, Elizabeth eased the window open a fraction and unfastened the shutters, steeling herself for the rank smell from the canal: the custom was to dump all sewage into the water, and let the tides carry it into the sea. She leaned far enough out to see the Rialto Bridge, a hundred yards away, already coming to life as moneylenders and jewellers opened their stalls.

  It was beautiful, romantic—and her prison.

  In the other bed Céline rubbed her eyes, and sat up.

  ‘Is it morning?’

  Elizabeth crossed the room and sat beside the child, resting a hand on her shoulder. Céline was Sir Ambrose’s daughter from his first marriage, a rosy-cheeked girl with pale fair hair which she wore in braids. Now approaching her 12th birthday, she was practical and mature for her years, but with her father remarried, and the family whisked off to a foreign city, it was hardly surprising that she had become anxious—a plight recently aggravated by her father’s illness.

  ‘Sleep a little,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Sofia has not yet come with water for our pitcher. Shall I reclose the shutters?’

  ‘No.’ Céline withdrew under the blanket. ‘Will it be sunny?’

  ‘When the haze lifts.’

  The girl fell silent, and Elizabeth returned to her own bed, hoping to doze a little longer. But sleep would not come, and she found herself reliving the twists and turns of the last months.

  How could a venture that started so promisingly have led her into this predicament?

  The trip out had been arduous, but also inspiriting. They crossed the channel to Calais, where Sir Ambrose bought a coach. As well as Elizabeth and Céline, the party included Regina, in mourning after her father’s death, a maid to be shared by the ladies, two manservants, and a retired schoolmaster named Mr Theodore Avery who was earning his passage to Italy by serving as their ‘bear-leader’, or cultural guide. A French driver helped plan their route, and interceded with innkeepers along the way.

  Paris was their first call, now returning to normal after a peace treaty signed in the spring. To Elizabeth’s delight they had stayed a full week, before embarking on the long leg through Dijon to Geneva, in the south-west corner of Switzerland. From there it was a short trip to the Alps, where the coach was taken to pieces and they proceeded in a mule train, helped by hired guides, and carriers who lifted the ladies over rough spots in sedans. The scenery was astonishing, and more than once Elizabeth smiled at her disappointment, earlier in the year, at missing a trip to the Lakes.

  In the reassembled carriage they turned south to Turin before crossing the northern plain of Italy to Milan, Verona, Padua, and the port of Mestre, where Sir Ambrose sold his carriag
e to a returning traveller. Over the lagoon, Elizabeth espied for the first time the spires and pink roofs of the city her father had called the most beautiful in the world, now just an hour away on the ferry.

  Nothing had prepared Elizabeth for the thrill of the final gondola ride from the opening of the Grand Canal to the Carandini residence. They first said farewell to Mr Avery; she then joined Regina, Sir Ambrose, and Céline, in a curved boat made luxurious by flowers and cushions, and gazed in amazement as they passed palaces that had been restored to grandeur on the interior while their ancient facades crumbled. Regina pointed out one landmark after another—a gallery here, a fish market there—but Elizabeth was too spellbound to pay attention.

  If only Jane were here to see this …

  By habit, the household split in two at the breakfast table. At one end, Regina’s brother Gabriele sat close to their mother Claudia; they spoke in Italian in hushed voices. At the other sat Elizabeth and Céline, eating mostly in silence. Regina often took a tray to her husband, now bedridden, leaving her younger sister Maddalena in between the two groups, next to Céline.

  The meal, called prima colazione, consisted mostly of pastries brought fresh each day from the market. They reminded Elizabeth of delicacies she had enjoyed in Paris, but took a variety of forms including the cornetto, a cream-filled cone, and brioches shaped like croissants, but speckled with coarse sugar and sometimes filled with almond or chocolate paste. They were washed down with coffee, which could be diluted with hot milk, although Regina’s mother and brother preferred a syrup of black coffee and sugar which they drank from small cups. Fruit was also provided: pineapple rings and baked apples and pears—sprinkled again with sugar, from which there was no escape.

  Maddalena was a year younger than Céline, and made Elizabeth think of a pixie with her thin face, dark hair, and faraway eyes. The girls shared lessons and played together, learning each other’s languages. Since Regina tended her husband, Elizabeth was often left alone during meals. She did not mind: it was interesting to listen to the others and try to work out what they were saying—and a relief to escape the attentions of Gabriele.