When the door closed behind Mrs. Coats’s motherly bulk, Helen cast off her pelisse. She draped it over a chair and placed bonnet and gloves on the chest of drawers next to the branch of candles Mrs. Coats had left.
Throughout the ride to the George, Helen had been aware of an increasing hunger, for she had scarcely had time to enjoy the refreshments Mr. Darcy had provided earlier. Thus she had been dismayed by Mr. Darcy’s desire to have dinner set back. When she caught sight of her disheveled reflection in the mirror above the bureau, however, she was suddenly grateful for the time to put herself in order.
She hastily removed the pins from her falling coiffure and went to find her brush and comb, devoutly thankful that she had packed them in her trunk and not in her ill-fated portmanteau. The rest of the trunk’s contents left her greatly vexed, however. She had packed it with such items as books and boxes of odds and ends, placing dresses for daily wear in her portmanteau. She knew that her own lost portmanteau contained no dress appropriate for taking the evening meal with a gentleman as stylish as Mr. Darcy. Nevertheless, she would have liked the opportunity to change the dress she had travelled in all day. Although she was sure that Vincenzo’s portmanteau offered nothing in her size or style, she opened it again, just to be sure.
The bright pink Zephyr shawl was instantly rejected, not only on account of her hair, but also because it would clash hideously with her amber cambric walking dress. But she did discover amongst Vincenzo’s things one possibility for improving her attire—a green-and-gold kerseymere shawl with a pretty gold fringe. It would embellish her plain dress if she were to remove her striped spencer. She also came across a small jewel case that held a filigree brooch.
As she stirred through the rings and pins, Helen wondered if the item Mr. Darcy was looking for could possibly be in the case. She thought not, since all the pieces were trumpery trinkets, save for a topaz ring. Before closing the case, she slipped the topaz on her ring finger. Vincenzo’s slim hands were larger than hers, so she took a bit of thread and wound it around the band several times so that the ring would stay on her finger. Then she turned it so that the stone lay against her palm. She hoped that the plain gold band had the effect of a wedding ring.
She heard Mr. Darcy’s movements in a room beyond her own. The sounds were muffled, giving Helen reason to conclude that the sitting room must separate their two apartments. She did not expect him to seek her out before the evening meal, so did not hesitate to take off her dress and sink down into the coziness of the bed, where she promptly dozed off.
Several curious and amusing tableaux drifted through her semi-conscious mind, confused mixtures of gambling hells in Venice, secret societies, men dressed up as women, and an excessively bumpy stagecoach ride. One jolt in particular startled her from somnolence. She sat bolt upright in bed. The candles had burned down somewhat, and she judged it time to dress for dinner.
After pulling on her dress, she tried various arrangements of the shawl and brooch before she was satisfied. Then she turned to her hair. A few brush strokes, some well-placed pins, and an expert pat or two served to fashion it into a smooth and becoming style. She took a last, critical look in the mirror, blew out the candles and went downstairs to find Mr. Darcy.
He was waiting for her in the commons room with a tankard at his elbow. He had been reading the local paper, but upon her entrance, he folded it and rose to greet her. She was relieved that he had had the tact not to improve his clothing for dinner, although he had straightened his cravat. His eyes swept her briefly, and he said with a smile, “What a pretty shawl and brooch! Your own?”
Afraid of listening ears, she formed her lips into a “No.” She took the arm he proffered, and he led her into the private dining room at the back of the inn.
Mrs. Coats had brought out the wax candles for the wrought holders on the tables and had wiped the silver until it winked in the golden light. Two places were laid, with several wines in the George’s best cut-glass decanters, shining covers, and fine white napery fresh from the laundry. Helen could not have known it, but her bridegroom had also been busy on her behalf. He had been to see Mrs. Coats about the menu and had made a special request.
A serving maid entered presently with the first dishes from the simple but well-chosen meal of two courses: a roast beef dressed with new onions and country vegetables, and fresh sole in slivered mushrooms au beurre noir.
The talk ran merrily. Helen was in high spirits. She informed her agreeable companion that she had every intention of enjoying her new-found luxury and would feel poorly used if the adventure were to end on the morrow. But thoughts of the purpose of their mission brought a pressing problem to mind. She laid down her fork.
“Do you know,” she said seriously, regarding Mr. Darcy on her right, “I am convinced that Vincenzo’s mother was not Italian. I see now, of course, that he is not French, as I first thought, but neither is his blood entirely Italian.”
“I am afraid we shall never be rid of the mystery of Vincenzo’s blond hair,” Mr. Darcy sighed.
“I think it must come from his mother’s side of the family,” Helen opined with a judicious nod. “I have observed him at close range, you know. His mother could not have been Italian.”
“We shall never know.”
“Perhaps not, but I would wager that she was a German,” Helen stated.
“I would not bet a farthing on the possibility,” Mr. Darcy said witheringly.
“Are you willing to bet against the possibility?” she returned archly. “Ten pounds says that his mother was not Italian,” she challenged.
“Done,” Mr. Darcy said promptly. “This is the safest bet I have ever made, for we are unlikely ever to know the national origin of Vincenzo’s mother.” He smiled and refilled her glass with a light claret.
“I knew the instant I laid eyes on him that he was not English,” Helen continued after taking a sip from her glass. “Perhaps it was the quality of the blond—the German blond—of his hair. Or because he is so pale. It is not simply a question of living abroad. You, for instance, have spent much time on the Continent and, except for your clothes, you do not look at all foreign.”
“That is because I am not,” he said.
“I know that,” she said, helping herself to the scalloped apples. “Though I presume that Darcy is an assumed name.”
Mr. Darcy was not in the habit of allowing his face to display his thoughts. He took a leisurely sip of Mr. Coats’s best wine and said pleasantly, “What an interesting assumption!”
“Oh, I won’t tease you about it, Mr.—Richard! It wouldn’t be at all the thing!” she conceded generously. “But I am not exactly bird-witted or shatter-brained, and it has occurred to me that since you are so noted a personage abroad and are certainly not provincial, you could not have remained a mystery for so long had you retained your real name.”
“I see no reason why I should have changed my name,” he said evenly, “and I have never made any pretence to mystery.”
“I imagine that is precisely what has made you so mysterious,” she said. “Not to me, of course, now that I have come to know you, but to others—those who have only heard of you but never met you during your travels. Did you never meet any countrymen abroad?”
“Very few. I did not frequent the gambling houses that attracted our compatriots.” In response to her triumphant look he continued, “The play was too tame, and in those particular houses, any Englishman wandering in without a thorough knowledge of the language would find himself with pockets to let and no shirt on his back come morning, if he were foolish enough to stay at the tables.”
“It is nothing to me!” she rejoined. “I am only wondering if you do not fear running into any of your former acquaintance.”
“I should have nothing to fear, in any case, but I think it highly unlikely that I should meet anyone I know in the village that lies between Thrapston and Queen’s Porsley.”
“You met we.”
“Have I ever
met you before? I must humbly beg your pardon for not having remembered.”
“No, but we might have met! Our paths simply did not cross when I was in Town all those years ago.”
Mr. Darcy was unruffled. “Very tolerable wine!” he remarked in a level tone.
She shook her head. “I am wholly unconvinced,” she persisted, “that all with you is as it appears.”
“Am I to be flattered?”
“Pardon me!” she said contritely. “I have promised not to tease you. Instead, I should consider it an honour if you would tell me about the places you have been. I do love travel tales above all things!”
“My travels abroad? I find nothing more boring than hearing someone prose on forever about his Grand Tour.”
“Exactly! But you were not on a Grand Tour. You know I don’t want to hear about all the museums you visited—”
“I can’t recall having visited any,” he owned.
“Not any?”’ she exclaimed. “That is odd, even for you, sir! Had I spent as much time in Italy as you seem to have done, I should have spent weeks in Florence—”
“I lived in Florence for several years,” he mentioned.
“ —in the museums to see the paintings and sculptures! To see the Michelangelos, the Raphaels, the Donatellos, the Botticellis!” she went on as if he had not spoken.
“I gambled on several paintings and sculptures while I was there,” he said indifferently.
“Incorrigible!” she sputtered, choking with laughter. “Is that all you ever think about? Gambling?”
“Not at all, but you should know that the Medicis were very fond of gambling, as well. Family trait,” he interjected, as if hoping to please her with this cultural tidbit.
“I imagine even the great patrons must be allowed a fault.”
“Just be glad their gambles in art were superior to their luck at the gaming table.”
She eyed him with disapproval but her tone was wistful. “How fascinating it all must be!”
Mr. Darcy was an obliging host and, without too much insistence, entertained his “bride” with accounts of the places he had been, emphasizing the varied landscapes. He spoke of the rugged vine-covered slopes of Bergamo and the romantic and crumbling villas tucked away in Tuscan hills, the red-tiled roofs slanting over verdant farms and the green marble of the Florentine Duomo and Battistero. With two or three choice adjectives he could evoke elegant piazzas, colourful markets, the inimitable style of sultry Italian women, the odours of la cucina italiana. He avoided any mention of the unsavoury aspects of Italian life, the questionable sanitation, for instance, or the banditti, many of whom he had had the misfortune to meet, especially after a successful night at the tables.
“How I long to travel!” she said with a sigh.
“The moment you set foot on foreign soil, you would pine for England,” he assured her. “I have seen it happen dozens of times.”
He gave no indication that he had felt that way himself, but Helen shrewdly guessed that, however much gaming and travelling suited his disposition, he spoke from personal experience.
“Perhaps,” she said, meeting his eye with her own clear gaze, “but I think that will remain another moot point. I am not likely to be travelling abroad in the near future.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, “but one never knows what sudden turns one’s life may take.”
Silently, she acknowledged the truth of that. “And you? Have you returned to England for good? Or shall you go back to the Continent when you are through with Vincenzo?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what he has for me.”
“And if he has what you want?”
“Then I shall settle in England,” he said with his pleasant, unreadable smile.
“Well, I do not believe that, for you, it is a matter of money,” Helen said reflectively. “I think you could settle here any time you chose if it were merely that.”
“You suspect me of having a fortune, my dearest Nell?”
“You mean do I think you as rich as Croesus?” she asked. “No, I do not, but you aren’t purse-pinched either. It’s simply that I do not suppose that you would go to all this trouble with Vincenzo for money—and don’t try to gammon me that you would!”
“I won’t! There are things far more important in life than money.”
“I have learned that,” she said earnestly. “Since my father lost his fortune and we were suddenly without the means to maintain ourselves in our accustomed style, I have had ample time—three years, in fact—to ponder the significance of money.”
“I trust your meditations were not unfruitful. Have you come to any conclusions?”
“Many!” She chuckled. “The first I have already told you. Having had to shift to keep Papa, whose health was poor, and myself fed and sheltered, I was forced into some disagreeable economies. I soon learned that the poor do not feast on cakes and sweets. The next thing I learned was that it is easier to take in a dress than to let it out. Fortunate, in my case! I had never been above an average needlewoman, but after having redone all my old dresses, I can say that my seams have become quite expert. I took off most of the trimmings, of course, for it wouldn’t have been quite the thing to look too prosperous with Papa doing so poorly.”
“When did he die?”
“Almost two years ago now.” She gave her head a tiny shake, as if to cast off a bad memory. “He was very ill and quite crushed from the folly of his investments. In all truth, it has been easier without him.”
“Yes, I see,” was all Mr. Darcy said, and offered no conventional sympathy. “These are significant findings. Is that all?”
She smiled wryly. “Of course not. Do you think me such a silly creature? The most valuable lesson I learned from my misfortune was that money is a fine thing to have and makes life more comfortable, but it does not alter one’s inner self or make one happy.”
“That is undoubtedly true.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling warmly at him. “It took me some time to understand it, but after a while I realized that with or without money, I was the same person, with the same qualities I had before we lost it. The only difference was that I was no longer sought after by a certain class of people. That hurt me, of course, but I came to accept it with reasonable equanimity.”
“I should think the hurt was mitigated somewhat by the fact that most of the people in that class are not worth a second thought.”
This Helen was not willing to allow. “There are many kind and generous people in the highest orders of Society. They do not deserve to be slandered just because they belong to a class which also includes many greedy and clutch-fisted persons.”
“That would be most unfair,” Mr. Darcy acknowledged.
“I think one’s attitude towards money is fundamentally a question of character. The generous spirits and the greedy ones are distributed evenly across the classes. In my case, I quickly realized that just because we had lost our money, I was not suddenly about to try to cheat an honest tradesman to save tuppence! Some of the richest people I know do that! Why, I could tell you about the time that Lady—” Helen broke off.
Mr. Darcy smiled and prodded. “You were saying—?”
“I should not be so petty as to mention names! She never did me harm.”
“I am sure I do not know the lady in question,” Mr. Darcy said by way of inviting her to go on with her story.
“All the more reason not to bother with her name,” Helen retaliated swiftly. “You shall not catch me bearing tales, Mr. Darcy, so do not try to trap me into it!”
“It was unworthy of me. Pray continue.”
She noticed with approval that Mr. Darcy seemed suitably chastened, and was pleased to continue their conversation. Mr. Darcy was, in fact, an ideal dinner companion. He had given her no cause to feel the embarrassment she might have experienced in the company of a virtual stranger. His behaviour had been at all times irreproachable. He had helped her
with her chair, filled her glass, brought many of Mrs. Coats’s excellent side dishes to her attention and maintained conversation, all without a hint of insinuation. His address was distinguished, yet casual, and could not but put her at ease.
“Of course, I should prefer not to be poor,” she went on. “Anyone would! But since I am, I have had to determine carefully who I am and what I want. Why, the most extraordinary thing I learned about myself in these last two years of living in reduced circumstances was that I was not one of the grasping people who want money for its own sake and take and take with no regard to what their greed may do to others.” She paused then added seriously, “I am no longer in agreement with those who preach the evilness of money and worldly goods. Money is not evil, only what people do with it.”
“You are very salutary, my dear! Am I to infer that you are casting aspersions on my character?”
Helen’s gravity vanished. “More shame on you, if you recognize yourself in that portrait! But I know you are only teasing!” She regarded her companion speculatively. “With you, I imagine that it is an entirely different matter. Your wealth stands only as a sign of something else, of your skill, of your ability to calculate the odds better than another man. Money is not the end in itself for you. Winning merely keeps you in the game.”
Mr. Darcy acknowledged the truth of her assessment with a nod. “Very interesting conclusions!” he said.
“It is elementary, I should think!” she replied. “What I also learned about myself being forced to seek out my ‘poor relations’ as a poor relation, was that, as a rich relation, I had given myself great airs!”
“Which you have subsequently lost,” Mr. Darcy said. “But I should not examine my soul for such a trifle when there are more important things to think about.”
“That’s true,” Helen said, accepting the turn in the conversation. “It is certainly much more important just now to think what I am going to do about my clothes in the immediate future.” She looked down at her dress. “Despite what you said about style being all, I don’t think I can carry off my part in your scheme with this one dress!”
Julie Tetel Andresen Page 5