Darcy's Journey

by M. A. Sandiford

  Ten minutes passed, and the small sala filled to overflowing. Allowing herself a quick glimpse, Elizabeth took in a hundred seats, all occupied, with latecomers standing at the back. The conversation was so loud that she could scarcely hear herself speak. There was no platform, just a well-lit space at the front for the grand piano, flanked by two small round tables holding vases of dark red roses.

  As she leaned to catch a remark by Signora Zamboni, Elizabeth felt a tap on her shoulder.

  She turned back to Darcy. ‘Yes, dear?’

  He pointed to his right. ‘Fraulein Edelmann is calling you.’

  ‘Scusatemi.’ She bowed to Signora Zamboni and joined Hilda Edelmann, who was in animated discussion with Professor Pavoni.

  ‘We can find someone else from the Accademia.’ Pavoni waved his arm in the direction of the second row.

  ‘Who?’ Fraulein Edelmann insisted.

  ‘I don’t know. Someone.’

  Hilda reached for Elizabeth’s arm and pulled her closer. ‘Rebecca, we have a problem. De Santis left this morning on a trip to a vineyard and has not returned.’ Her grip tightened. ‘You know the pieces. You play them perfectly. It is a lot to ask, but could you …’

  Elizabeth felt a shiver pass through her body. To perform in public was daunting enough, but she would also become a focus of attention. Carandini, if he were here, would surely see through her disguise, especially since he was familiar with her style of playing. On the other hand, to let Hilda down …

  ‘Just a moment.’ She leaned over Darcy and informed him in a frantic whisper what had occurred. ‘Giles, what can I do? It’s risky, I know, but I see no alternative.’

  ‘No.’ Darcy was incisive. ‘Make some excuse. You are not a professional musician. You have never performed to such a large gathering. It is far too much to ask of you.’

  She stiffened, riled by such a blunt dismissal. ‘I remind you, sir, that I will not be playing a concerto, only some simple accompaniments which in Hilda’s opinion lie well within my modest capabilities.’

  He sighed. ‘I was merely trying to suggest the form your excuse might take. It surely goes without saying that my only concern is for your safety.’

  She stood up, her fear displaced by indignation at his paternalism. ‘I have already admitted that there is risk, but for my part I am willing to run it. If you disagree, you might prefer to leave now.’

  He stared at her, aghast. ‘Miss B…, I mean, Rebecca, this is folly.’

  She swung round and re-joined Fraulein Edelmann, who led her to a side room where they could prepare.

  Elizabeth trembled as Hilda Edelmann helped adjust the wig. Her bonnet, with its comfortably anonymous veil, had been set aside on the dressing table.

  ‘These overlays.’ Hilda fingered the nets on the upper arms of her dress. ‘Will they hamper you?’

  ‘No.’ Elizabeth strained to follow proceedings in the sala, where Signor Zamboni was introducing the recital, no doubt announcing the change in personnel. She realised now that Darcy was, as usual, correct. Not for the first time, she had allowed his haughty manner to cloud her judgement, and blinded herself to the truth of what he was saying. She was a rank amateur. The audience had paid to listen to skilled musicians; instead they would witness the floundering of a woman who through pride had ventured out of her depth.

  Hilda dealt her a reassuring smile. ‘Ready?’

  Elizabeth froze for a moment, then felt herself wilt, as if all energy had drained away. ‘I cannot do this.’

  Hilda’s arm came around her. ‘Rebecca. Listen carefully. I have done this many times. Do you know how?’

  ‘I can’t imagine.’

  ‘I do it for myself. Not for them. It gives me joy to sing, and even more joy when I have a friend to accompany me. When we play tonight, we do it for our own pleasure. The people out there may listen if they wish, but we care not a fig whether the music pleases them. Mistakes do not trouble us. We can make a thousand mistakes and it will count for nothing, so long as we are enjoying ourselves. You see?’

  Elizabeth nodded. Was this true? Was it really possible to ignore the audience? She brightened, standing tall again. ‘Very well. We play for ourselves alone.’

  They made their entrance, and she was surprised to find a young man beside the pianoforte. Was this a reprieve? Had they found a more suitable substitute for De Santis? But on spotting an extra chair, she realised he was there only to turn the pages.

  Applause greeted them, and she bowed, taking her cue from Hilda, before adjusting the piano seat. Suddenly the nerves were gone, and she felt a strange stillness. Whether she could enjoy the experience remained to be seen, but there was a job to be done, and she would simply have to do it. The familiar score of the Purcell faced her on the stand, and after exchanging a glance with Hilda she found herself playing the opening chords. The touch was lighter than she was used to, but she quickly adapted. Hilda hit her entry perfectly, and the magic of her voice took over. Now there really was no audience. It was as if she were being led by an expert dancer, her arms and feet eased into the correct motions.

  The piece was over, people were applauding, and Hilda beckoned her forward to take a bow. Glimpsing Darcy still in the front row, she looked down to avoid meeting his eye.

  The Mozart began, and the young man at her side revealed a second reason for his presence as he stood up to take on the role of Don Giovanni. Although not acting his part fully, he advanced a few steps towards Hilda, who retreated to suggest the peasant girl’s reluctance. Their interplay drew some laughter from the audience, especially when he rushed back to the piano to turn a page. The applause at the end shook the small hall, with cries of ‘Bis, bis’ demanding a repeat.

  ‘We will do it again,’ Hilda hissed as they took another bow. ‘Sorry, I should have introduced you. Signor Rossi, Signora Ashley. Just once, then we will continue.’

  Rossi escorted Elizabeth to the piano, and she confidently replayed the duet. Far sooner than she could have imagined, performing had become fun. Her companions were so immaculate, and the audience so noisily appreciative, that she felt invulnerable, as if buoyed along by a current.

  Since the recital was a brief one-hour affair, there was no interval. They ended as usual with the Schubert songs, which had more challenging piano parts, but by then Elizabeth was secure enough to bring them off with only minor slips. As a light-hearted encore they tried the Papageno-Papagena duet from Mozart’s The Magic Flute, which Elizabeth recalled from the performance at La Fenice in Venice. More cries of Bis, yet another repetition, and at last the ordeal was over.

  As the crowd surged to the exit, Elizabeth was aglow with a satisfaction she had never believed possible. She realised that her role had been small, but even so, what a thrill to feel such enthusiastic acclaim. Walking to join Darcy and the others she detected a new grace in her carriage; it was as if her body deemed she was now a person of worth, and should comport herself accordingly.

  She wanted to apologise to Darcy for her outburst before the recital, but was immediately surrounded by Zamboni’s family, and other members of the Accademia. Pavoni too congratulated her—evidently with some relief. She was searching for Darcy when a familiar voice whispered, ‘Miss Bennet, can it be you?’

  She turned round, open-mouthed. ‘Miss Dill!’

  Alice Dill faced her, with a smiling Gerard Hanson at her side. ‘I’m sorry. I meant, Mrs Ashley.’

  ‘How wonderful to see you again!’ Elizabeth dropped her voice. ‘It seems my disguise is ineffective.’

  ‘We are artists,’ Miss Dill said.

  ‘I received your gift, which I will treasure. Have you enjoyed Verona?’

  ‘Our accommodation is hardly palatial,’ Hanson said, ‘but there is so much art and architecture that we had to stay a few more days.’

  ‘And happened to attend this recital,’ Miss Dill added.

  ‘Have you greeted Mr Ashley? My, ah, husband?’ She looked back to the front row, where Darcy wa
s speaking with Professor Pavoni, and froze in horror as an all-too-familiar figure strode towards her, his maniacal eyes impaling her. The short reddish hair, the sideburns, the thin features, there could be no mistake. He confronted her, just a yard away, and behind him she saw the dark blue uniform of a constable.

  ‘Signorina Bennet.’ Gabriele Carandini bowed. ‘A passable performance, marred by wrong notes in the encore. I believe we have matters to discuss with the Prefect of Verona.’

  A hand touched her arm, and she saw Darcy at her side. Scarcely able to speak, she whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You were wonderful,’ he whispered back. He turned to face Carandini. ‘On what grounds do you seek to arraign Mrs Ashley?’

  ‘Travelling under false papers, for a start.’ He stood aside, to let the constable through, and hissed in Italian, ‘Signor Darcy, who abducted my fiancée. Take care, he may resist.’

  The constable placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘You will accompany us?’

  Elizabeth watched the angry workings of Darcy’s face as he looked around for possible avenues of escape. He met her eye, with a slight shrug, and replied politely to the constable, ‘Of course. We have nothing to hide and will do as you ask.’

  29

  Flanked by two constables, Darcy tried to affect an air of nonchalance as they walked the short distance to a neighbouring square, the location of the Prefettura. At his side Elizabeth stayed close, perhaps disturbed by the antics of Carandini, who was trotting impatiently ahead and occasionally looking round to check she was still there.

  They reached a red-brick building sporting a cluster of flags, with ominous gratings on the lower windows, and were led through to a cell furnished with a bare wooden bench and table. Outside they heard Carandini’s frantic demand that Elizabeth should be given into his custody and not left alone with Darcy. Più tardi, later, an official kept telling him. First they would see the viceprefetto.

  A bolt was drawn and Elizabeth’s pretence of dignity collapsed. She leaned forward, head in hands, muttering self-deprecations, until Darcy gently touched her arm.

  ‘We will find a way out of this.’

  She sat up abruptly. ‘How?’

  ‘We must reason with the vice-prefect. Carandini has no authority here, and not all officials are corrupt.’

  She sighed. ‘Go on. You may as well say it.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘This is entirely my fault. You told me not to agree to Hilda’s request. You explained it was too risky. As usual I paid no attention, went my own way, and now I have put us both in great danger.’ She faced him with a look of despair. ‘Why do you do it? Why waste time, effort, money, even your own safety, to help an unworthy creature like myself? Your sister needs you. Your estate. Your family. Why?’

  He said softly, ‘You know why.’

  She found a handkerchief and impatiently wiped her eyes. ‘And now you will be lenient with me. You will tell me I was blameless, that I acted from the best motives.’

  ‘You took a risk to help your friend. Nine times out of ten no harm would have resulted. We were unlucky.’

  ‘There we are. I am exculpated.’ Her face wrinkled in disgust. ‘But I have not forgotten your words before the recital. Rebecca, this is folly.’

  She looked so desperate that Darcy instinctively took her hand. ‘Dear Miss Elizabeth, let us not waste energy in denigrating ourselves. We are not the villains here.’

  She softened, as if moved by his gesture, and squeezed his hand before pulling back. ‘You are kind.’

  The door jolted open and an official pointed at Darcy.

  ‘Venga.’ Come.

  The vice-prefect Signor Vicario was a tall thin man with a bony pock-marked face, and what appeared a permanent scowl. He waved Darcy to a chair, peered at a document on his desk, and said in Italian:

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Fitzwilliam Darcy.’

  Vicario waved a wad of papers. ‘Yet you were carrying passes in the name of Ashley. Mr and Mrs. This is a serious offence. May I ask how these letters of passage came into your possession?’

  Darcy paused, confounded momentarily by Italian officialese. But he had anticipated such a question, and prepared what he hoped was a safe reply.

  ‘They belonged to an English couple whom I met at a hotel in Florence. Mr Ashley left the papers behind. I offered to carry them to Venice, hoping to catch up with him there.’

  ‘A most unlikely story.’ Vicario regarded him with contempt. ‘So why show these papers rather than your own?’

  Darcy explained, as best he could, that he had been forced to use fake identities in order to rescue an English lady from attempted abduction and forced marriage.

  Vicario shook his head. ‘Again you lie. I have spoken with Signor Carandini, a respected businessman. He can produce witnesses that the Englishwoman was visiting his family and signed a document agreeing to their betrothal. Moreover, his physician testifies that she was ill and under his professional care when you abducted her from Lido.’

  ‘The Englishwoman, Miss Bennet, is here,’ Darcy said. ‘If you question her you will discover that she was being held prisoner and given laudanum to keep her compliant. You will also observe that her health has improved since she was removed from this physician’s so-called care.’

  Vicario waved this away. ‘She will say whatever you have told her to say.’

  ‘How can you make such an assumption without first investigating?’

  The vice-prefect glared at him. ‘It is not your prerogative to ask me questions, sir. By your own confession you are guilty of serious infractions; it remains only to determine their full scope.’

  ‘None of this reflects on Miss Bennet,’ Darcy said. ‘It was I who presented false papers, not she. I implore you, allow her to return to her family in England.’

  ‘You are in no position to bargain.’ There was a rap on the door and the vice-prefect grunted. ‘What?’

  An officer entered. ‘Message from the commander, sir. Request to interview the prisoners directly.’

  Vicario frowned. ‘Strange. Very well. Let them be sent over.’

  The Castelvecchio, or Old Castle, was a square compound built in red brick with little ornament. Located in the city centre, beside the river Adige, it was a well-known landmark with a violent history still fresh in people’s minds. Once a fortress of resistance to Napoleon’s armies, it had been damaged during the French conquest, and occupied briefly by Bonaparte himself. Now it served as a barracks from which the Austrian commander and local militia maintained control of the city and its environs.

  Having viewed the castle and fortified bridge on his tour of Verona, Darcy was familiar with its high walls and numerous look-out towers. It was not a place from which one could hope to escape.

  They were brought in a carriage by two guards from the Prefettura, and handed over to an officer at the gate. In the carriage Darcy had summarised his unproductive encounter with the vice-prefect; it seemed now that they were being passed up to the next level, a symptom perhaps of the seriousness of their situation. Elizabeth was calm, but he sensed this was more in resignation than hope.

  After a brief wait they were taken to an imposing office with a huge heavy door, richly carved, and patterned marble floor. Behind a long desk sat a tall bulky man in military uniform, with sleek greying hair parted in the middle, moustache, and pince-nez hanging from a cord. Facing him, leather chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle, and as they entered Darcy recognised a nervous-looking Gabriele Carandini at the far right. A woman rose from the next chair, and Elizabeth gasped.

  It was Fraulein Edelmann.

  The commander came round the desk, and bowed. The contrast with Vicario could not have been acuter. He beamed at them, and said genially, ‘Herr Darcy! Fraulein Bennet! Guten Abend! My name is Brigade Commander Johann Graf. Let us see whether we can sort out this little misunderstanding.’

  Bewildered, Darcy sat next to Elizabeth and nodde
d to Fraulein Edelmann, who dealt him a steely glare in return.

  Commander Graf resumed his place, and continued to address them in painstakingly correct English. ‘Before we begin, my interest in this matter should be explained. As you will know, I am a general in the Austrian army and have been assigned responsibility, under the Treaty of Vienna, for overseeing administration in the Republic of Italy. I am also a music lover, and this evening had the pleasure of attending the recital by Fraulein Edelmann—’ He extended an arm. ‘Whom I have known many years, since her father is both a colleague and a friend.’

  Darcy observed Elizabeth as she threw an inquisitive glance at Hilda Edelmann, but the singer refused to meet her eye and remained impassive.

  ‘Duty obliged me to leave early, so that I did not witness what happened afterwards. However, I understand from Fraulein Edelmann that her accompanist, whom she knew as Mrs Ashley, was detained, along with her husband.’ He beamed at Elizabeth. ‘I should mention, as an aside, how much I enjoyed your performance.’

  Elizabeth reddened, but made no reply.

  ‘Now, to specifics. Fraulein, I suggest you wait outside now.’

  Graf waited for Hilda Edelmann to leave before raising a sheath of papers. ‘Vice-prefect Vicario has forwarded these letters of passage in the name of Ashley, which are admitted to be false. Signor Carandini alleges that his fiancée, Miss Bennet, was abducted by Mr Darcy when under his protection.’

  ‘And receiving treatment from my physician,’ Carandini added.

  Darcy snorted. ‘Treatment! You mean, she was tricked into taking an opiate, to secure her compliance.’

  Graf held up a hand. ‘Gentlemen! Please understand that my duty here is to administer justice, and this can be done only if we confine ourselves to what can be proved, through evidence. Mr Darcy, I see no reason to doubt Signor Carandini’s testimony on this point. It is conceded that Miss Bennet was given laudanum. For all you know, this was done for valid medical reasons. Your allegation is therefore speculation.’