Darcy's Journey

by M. A. Sandiford

  As Professor Pavoni’s guests they shared a bench at the back, sheltered from the hubbub up front where the musicians unpacked their instruments and belted out dances and folk songs. Elizabeth had the window seat, but preferred to draw a curtain so that her face could not be seen from the bank; beside her, Darcy conversed with Pavoni about the latest news from France.

  The trip would last five hours, which meant that they were safe, provided that they kept their heads down when passing through a lock. It was also hard to feel afraid when surrounded by such jolly company. Liveried servants had brought an ice-box on board, and despite her protests Pavoni pressed a glass of chilled Prosecco into her hand—a treat that soon made her even more light-headed. She glanced at Darcy, his expression typically grave with undercurrents of humour as he defended his view of the political crisis. She regretted that she had harangued him in the washroom that morning.

  Why was she so skittish? Perhaps, as he claimed, she was suffering after-effects of the laudanum, but surely the main reason lay elsewhere. They had shared a bedroom. What was more, they had done so at her own insistence; Darcy, had she permitted, would gladly have made do with the bath. At the time she had given little thought to the consequences; it mattered only that they had both had a good night’s rest. But now it was done, and there were consequences. No matter that back in England, no-one would be any the wiser. Darcy knew, and in his mind, obsessed by honour and duty, that could mean only one thing: they must marry. They must marry despite their difference in rank; they must marry despite her slanderous accusations and general abuse of his character; they must marry despite the ignominy of having Wickham as his brother-in-law.

  But she could be stubborn too. She knew what she owed him, and would not allow this to happen.

  She smothered a chuckle—the wine, no doubt—as she recalled the scene at breakfast when they had pretended to be man and wife. How natural it had felt, and also, what fun. Well, why should she not enjoy it, while it lasted? The more she immersed herself in the role, the better the deception.

  A servant brought pineapple ices, and she smiled at Darcy as they accepted another treat.

  Darcy leaned forward to admire the grand facade of Villa Pisani, on the outskirts of Padua. He wondered whether to wake Elizabeth, who had dozed off after accepting a second glass of Prosecco with her lunch. On balance he thought better not; she had recovered well from her early-morning panic, but sleep was too precious a restorative to disturb.

  ‘So Mr Ashley, we approach the city of learning, as some call it.’ Professor Pavoni glanced at Elizabeth’s sleeping form, and smiled benignly. ‘Before we part, may I tell you a story? It is one I heard last night from a passer-by. Perhaps it is familiar to you, perhaps not.’

  Darcy flinched, but managed to reply in an even tone. ‘Go ahead.’

  The professor lowered his voice. ‘It concerns a compatriot of yours, a certain Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. This man arrived in Venice in the company of a friend, whose older brother had married into the Carandini family, who have made a fortune from glassware.’ He regarded Darcy with a twinkle. ‘Perhaps you have heard of them.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, after touring Italy for some weeks, this Mr Darcy learned on his return that a certain Miss Bennet, an Englishwoman staying with the Carandinis, had become engaged to the head of the family—Signor Gabriele. For reasons unknown, this arrangement was not to Mr Darcy’s liking. Indeed, so extreme was his disapproval that he abducted Miss Bennet from under Carandini’s nose, and rowed her away into the moonlight. Despite an intensive search, they remain undiscovered to this day.’

  ‘I see.’ Darcy frowned. ‘And why do you tell me this?’

  Pavoni smiled. ‘A number of coincidences strike me. First, the descriptions of Mr Darcy and Miss Bennet are a close fit to yourself and Mrs Ashley. Second, given your obvious social standing, it is unusual that you have no carriage, no servants, and no luggage except a single bag.’ He met Darcy’s eye. ‘Need I elaborate?’

  Darcy paused. ‘And supposing that what you imply turned out to be true, what then?’

  ‘As a responsible citizen I should inform the authorities,’ Pavoni said. ‘Which is what I would do, were it not for one fact. I happen to know Gabriele Carandini.’

  Darcy stared at him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It is hardly surprising.’ Pavoni spread his arms. ‘He is a man obsessed with music. He attends every concert, large or small. I have known him since he was a student at the conservatory, rebelling against his father’s wish that he should learn the family business. I have heard him speak up in lectures and symposia. I know him to be passionate and articulate. As a violinist he has attained proficiency in spite of limited talent. His dedication and hard work deserve respect. But there is one further thing I would say of him.’ Pavoni leaned closer, speaking softly and very distinctly. ‘I have a daughter, named Maria Grazia. She is charming, lovely, the apple of my eye. Signor Ashley, if Carandini wished to marry my daughter, I would do everything in my power to prevent it.’

  Darcy nodded, wheels spinning in his head. Could this be a trap? But if Pavoni sought to expose him, why not simply call a constable? Why make friendly conversation and then reveal his suspicions privately?

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And if it were admitted that I was Darcy, and had acted from a similar motive?’

  ‘I would like, if I may, to help.’

  24

  Elizabeth reclined in the soft leather divan of the Sartoria Padovana as a model displayed a cream-gold silk gown with sheer net overlays on the upper arms. Beside her, Signora Pavoni and her daughter Maria Grazia purred approval.

  ‘Elegantissimo.’

  ‘Exquisite. The nets are detachable of course?’

  Elizabeth sighed. The gown was truly delightful, and she believed the colours would suit her. But the price! Of course Darcy would pay, and he had encouraged her to choose at least one evening gown that could be worn at a ball or concert. He seemed to have forgotten that only two days ago they had been rattling along country roads in a farm wagon.

  She had awoken in Padua at a small dock, from where a private gondola had taken them along a tributary to the city centre. They had disembarked at a bridge just outside the city gate, where an official eyed them suspiciously, but waved them through after checking their false papers.

  A few yards further along, in Professor Pavoni’s regal apartment, they were introduced to her new companions, Signora Pavoni and her daughter Maria Grazia. Their reception was overwhelming. She must take tea and cake; a maid would help her wash and change; how distressing to lose their luggage; so difficult to get competent help in these times; she absolutely must accompany them to the modiste later in the afternoon when the shops would be open. Both women were her own height, or a little taller, with olive skin and deep brown eyes. Before long Elizabeth was left in the daughter’s care, and pressed into borrowing powder and a change of dress …

  The cream-gold silk gown was added to her order, and a clutch of bonnets brought out. Signora Pavoni had gone away to another section of the emporium, dedicated to hairdressing and cosmetics, with the aim of securing Elizabeth an immediate appointment—a concession that might require a little push, or bribe.

  ‘You must order something yourself,’ Elizabeth said to Maria Grazia, whose English was fluent.

  ‘My allowance for this month is spent.’ Her expression flipped from moue to grin. ‘But I shall be back next week for your silk gown, if it can be done in silver.’

  Elizabeth pointed to a bonnet with a broad peak, well-suited to hiding her face as well as protecting her from the sun. ‘This one please.’ She turned to Maria Grazia. ‘And that should be all, except that I must choose a wig.’

  ‘Una parrucca?’ Maria Grazia stroked Elizabeth’s hair with a finger. ‘But your hair is beautiful al naturale.’

  ‘Mr, ah, Ashley insists,’ Elizabeth said. She swallowed, having nearly said Darcy by mistake. ‘He has a fancy to see me
with fair hair, while he looks distinguished in grey.’

  ‘What a strange notion!’

  ‘Indeed, but since he is paying, it would be churlish to deny him!’

  ‘I implied no criticism…’ Signorina Pavoni blushed. ‘Pardon me, Signora, I am all nerves. Father wishes me to perform this evening.’

  ‘Not on our account, surely?’

  Maria Grazia sighed. ‘We have visitor from Austria, a singer named Hilda Edelmann. Fraulein Edelmann has taken some days off at the hot springs in Abano to recuperate before giving two recitals next week. She will return this evening and asked that we might run through her programme at home …’

  ‘With yourself as accompanist?’

  Maria Grazia covered her face. ‘Esattamente.’

  ‘Why not your father?’

  ‘His instrument is the violin. Not the pianoforte.’

  Elizabeth put a hand on her arm. ‘If the keyboard part is not too demanding, I could share the burden.’

  Her face lit up. ‘Would you?’

  ‘I warn you that sight reading is not my forte. Still, if I fail horribly, at least you will gain from the comparison.’

  In a splendid saloon overlooking Piazza della Frutta, Darcy sat opposite Professor Pavoni sampling an aperitif of Prosecco and soda water, served in a wine glass with a slice of orange. In an hour he had achieved several useful goals, starting with a visit to a barber, where after a shave and trim he had invested in a grey wig. With his appearance thus altered he had called at a gentleman’s outfitters to be measured for a new coat and boots, and selected a shirt and breeches ready-made for immediate use. In his new clothes and wig he had strolled past Pavoni at their rendezvous without being noticed—an encouraging sign.

  It had been agreed that their real identities should not be divulged to the professor’s family. If Darcy and Elizabeth wished to circulate in society without alerting Carandini’s spies, they would have to preserve the alias, and it was unfair to expect Pavoni’s wife and daughter to contribute to the deception. So for the time being they would remain Mr and Mrs Ashley—at least in public. In Pavoni’s apartment they could occupy adjacent rooms, designed for a married couple, with a dividing door decreed by Darcy to be as impassable as the walls of Jericho.

  In the café, the gossip inevitably centred on Napoleon, who from latest reports had reached Paris, to be welcomed by crowds of admirers. The royalists were in disarray, the king Louis XVIII having already fled. Pavoni was reading a newspaper report on preparations for a further war when his daughter approached arm-in-arm with a lovely blonde-haired woman in a fine muslin dress.

  The men stood up and bowed, and Darcy took Elizabeth aside. ‘I hardly recognise you, Rebecca dear.’

  ‘Disconcerting, isn’t it?’ Elizabeth whispered. ‘When I look in the mirror I see Jane.’

  ‘And I see my father.’

  She sighed. ‘The world has gone mad.’

  ‘In more ways than one. We have been discussing the latest reports from France, which may affect our plans for returning to England.’

  ‘It is very disturbing.’ She grimaced. ‘And you will receive a further shock when the modiste delivers my purchases and you see the size of the bill.’

  ‘It is well spent, Rebecca. We need suitable clothes, and at present, money is the least of our troubles.’

  She smiled at this use of her new name, and took his arm saucily. ‘Well dearest, shall we return to our friends?’

  25

  When they reached the apartment, Fraulein Edelmann had arrived, and gone to her room to rest. Elizabeth decided to follow her example, and received another shock when she saw herself in the mirror—she had forgotten about the wig. She spent some time repinning her natural hair, and adjusting the cosmetics applied by the beautician. A maid tapped on the door and carried in packages from the Sartoria. Elizabeth did a jig of delight: she could now try on the silk dress, which she planned to wear to dinner.

  Thinking back to the embarrassing scene at the hotel that morning, she marvelled at the transformation in her mood. She had woken in a panic; now, one by one, her problems had been solved. They had found transport to Padua, passed inspection at the city gate, bought clothes, and changed their appearances; best of all, they were now comfortably accommodated. Most of this had been due to Darcy, who had befriended Professor Pavoni, as well as procuring all the necessary false papers back in Venice. He had also responded calmly to her rant about never marrying him, although he seemed not to understand that her purpose was to reassure him.

  The silk dress fitted well, and she changed back into muslin before sitting at the bureau and writing to Jane. Of necessity she glossed over the adventures of the last days; her story would be that she was returning in a party that included Mr Darcy. With a smile she imagined the effect on her family had she admitted that she was travelling now as Darcy’s wife and had shared his bed. More shocking yet was that she had actually enjoyed this role. Not the embarrassing sleeping arrangements, but the fun of taking his arm in public, whispering asides, calling him dearest.

  She put down her quill, and as if to test her feelings, imagined how their lives might have turned out. Suppose her perception had not been poisoned by Wickham, and she had seen Darcy for what he was—not as charming as Bingley, but intelligent, honourable, kind. Suppose she had heeded his warnings about Wickham, not just at Hunsford but before, in Hertfordshire, and passed them on to her father. Minor differences, but what a transformation in outcome! Lydia would still be at home, having had no opportunity to elope. She, Elizabeth, might already be Mrs Darcy. How would that feel?

  It was hard to say. She had no doubt now that Darcy was a good man. Too good, perhaps. He was not sharply critical like Carandini, but he did set high standards both for himself and others, standards that she would doubtless fail to satisfy. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.

  That was the problem. She was not good enough.

  Still, how pleasurable to enact the role of his wife …

  At dinner, Signora Pavoni was in her element. Not to be outdone by Elizabeth she had also chosen silk—including the fashionable net overlays, which Elizabeth had decided to leave off. In a word she was attentive, her eyes flicking from one guest to the next as she checked that every possible step had been taken to assure their comfort. Maria Grazia was timider, but Elizabeth noticed that she backed up her mother unobtrusively. While Signora Pavoni lauded Fraulein Edelmann’s dress to the whole gathering, her daughter preferred a whispered compliment. The table was set for eight people, since they were to be joined by the leader of the orchestra and his wife.

  Elizabeth had been wary of meeting Hilda Edelmann, imagining an imperious diva with an overpowering voice. Instead she was confronted by a slender, tallish woman of her own age, with a quiet manner and style of dress. Her colouring was pale, with very fair hair that she wore in a coiled braid at the back, and grey eyes set far apart. After the introduction Fraulein Edelmann lingered at her side, and answered questions about Abano in careful English, rather as if she were reading from a book.

  ‘The baths are large enough to swim in, and hold water from underground springs that are naturally hot.’ She winced. ‘Very hot. Afterwards you lie on a towel and mud is spread over your face. Also hot. It is said to be healthy for the skin. How do you say, the complexion.’

  ‘I would like to try it—I think.’

  Fraulein Edelmann smiled. ‘Have you and your husband travelled in Italy?’

  ‘A little. Most recently we were in Venice.’

  ‘I was staying in Florence with my father. Unfortunately he was called away, since he is an Oberstleutnant, a colonel in the Austrian army.’

  Elizabeth frowned. ‘Was this related to Bonaparte’s return to France?’

  ‘It happened earlier, when Bonapartists in the Kingdom of Naples rebelled against the Austrian Empire.’ She flushed and lowered her voice. ‘It is best not to speak of it, since our intervention is unpopular in Italy.’


  ‘Did this oblige you to return to Austria?’

  ‘I planned to remain in Florence, since the war is not expected to last many months. However, we received word from my family in Salzburg that my mother is ill, so I am trying to make my way home.’ She pointed to Pavoni. ‘Antonio is an old friend. He has been so kind as to arrange recitals in Padua and Verona so that I can pay my vetturino, how do you say, driver, and keep a maid.’

  Elizabeth swallowed, awed that this woman was travelling alone, except for servants, and would be performing to discerning audiences. ‘I hope your mother soon feels better.’

  ‘I’m not too concerned, since she has had the vapours before and recovered well.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Sometimes I believe she is simply anxious for my father.’

  After dinner Elizabeth joined Hilda Edelmann and Maria Grazia in the music room to look at the piano accompaniments. A few were familiar, including arrangements of arias by Purcell and Mozart, but she was pleased to find Italian folk ditties too. The recital was to close with two unpublished songs by a young composer named Franz Schubert, who had allowed Fraulein Edelmann to write copies when they met in Vienna.

  ‘What do you think?’ Maria Grazia asked.

  Elizabeth ran a finger along a piano arrangement of Dido’s Lament. Compared with the Beethoven sonatas demanded by Carandini, it was straightforward. ‘Would you like to play this one, Signorina Pavoni?’

  Maria Grazia pointed to a stretch in the right hand. ‘Not sure about this bit.’

  ‘Leave out the bottom note,’ Fraulein Edelmann said.

  Elizabeth grinned in appreciation of this simple solution, which Carandini would never have countenanced.

  ‘I could try the Mozart,’ she offered.