Given the severity of her words and the asperity of her tone, Helen was dismayed to find Mrs. Coats and a chambermaid in the room. The chambermaid stifled a small giggle at Helen’s entrance, leading Helen to believe that her words had been heard and that the absent man she had apostrophised had been correctly identified.
“Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Darcy,” Mrs. Coats said, silencing the impertinent maid with a disapproving frown. “Missy, you may go downstairs and see if Mrs. Weathercombe needs help shelling the peas.”
Missy bobbed and withdrew. Helen’s attention was completely caught by the neat stack of boxes that Mrs. Hemmings’s delivery boy had brought over for her and that contained the many becoming ensembles she had tried on earlier in the day.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Coats,” Helen replied, casting her eye over the concrete evidence of Mr. Darcy’s generosity. “I fear that I am putting you to uncommon trouble.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Darcy,” Mary Coats said cheerfully. “I am pleased to help you arrange everything in an orderly fashion. You should not have to do that.”
“Neither of us should!” Helen declared, still somewhat vexed. “I think that most of these things must go back to Mrs. Hemmings.”
“Yes, of course!” Mrs. Coats said promptly. “Right away, Mrs. Darcy. There is no need to burden you with these things. I can’t imagine what Hattie was thinking. I am sure that she misunderstood you!”
Helen quickly corrected the landlady’s misinterpretation. “I must beg your pardon, Mrs. Coats!” she said with her warm smile. “I do not think that I have ever come across a more excellent seamstress than Mrs. Hemmings, and I could not be better pleased with this walking dress, for instance,” she said, displaying the skirt of green jaconet she was wearing. “But I cannot accept all these things! It puts me to the blush, for it is too much. I cannot afford it—that is to say—”
“You lost your luggage?” Mrs. Coats asked in a voice of motherly concern.
Helen flushed. “Well, the fact of the matter is that I am rather embarrassed by my husband’s extravagance. I thought it would be better if I did not overspend my … my allowance!” she finished with another twinge of guilt.
Mrs. Coats attempted to soothe Helen by stating that Mr. Darcy seemed a generous man.
“Too generous!” Helen exclaimed. “You see, I had only enough money to purchase three dresses, but Mr.—my husband insisted that Mrs. Hemmings send everything over that suited me!”
Mrs. Coats understood perfectly. She did not need to be told that the young bride had just had a spat with her attractive husband and that they had quarreled over money. Was it not always so? Mr. Darcy, however wealthy and generous he might be, could not but be concerned that his wife’s style of dressing would do him credit, yet Mrs. Coats sympathized with the young wife’s chagrin and approved of her efforts to economize. She wanted to do whatever she could to help bring such an obviously well-suited couple back into harmony.
“Just tell me what to do with these boxes, Mrs. Darcy.”
Helen put aside her vexation and bethought herself of the most important service Mrs. Coats could render her. “Just leave the boxes here for now, but I ask you most earnestly not to breathe a word of the story of such extravagance to anyone—not even to Mr. Coats.” If Mr. Coats repeated the story to Mr. Vest, it might cause him to question the events of that afternoon.
Mrs. Coats put her finger to her lips as a sign of silence and left the matter at that, much to Helen’s relief. But whatever Mrs. Coats’s opinion of her relationship to Mr. Darcy, Helen was beginning to see where the real dangers in this adventure lay. She suspected Mr. Darcy of trying to get up a flirtation with her. Why he should do so, she could not precisely say. Most likely it merely amused him. Helen had been out of circulation for a while and could not completely trust her reading of the situation, for it was based entirely on an oblique remark, a slanted look, a fleeting feeling. He had claimed he had no villainous designs on her person, and she believed him, but he had not said that her heart was not fair game. The thought that he might be on the catch for it was certain to disturb her comfort in his presence. She might just be in danger of losing it, too, for the devil of it was, she rather liked the elegant gamester.
These thoughts occupied her mind as she dressed for dinner, a task complicated by the problem of what to wear. The arguments for and against the golden gown were clear: she did not want to submit meekly to Mr. Darcy’s orders; still, to defy him on such a simple matter might be interpreted as a declaration of war. After a severe struggle with herself, she chose to wear the gown in question on the impeccable grounds that she really had nothing else suitable. Once dressed, she could not but be pleased with her decision, for her reflection in the mirror assured her anew that it was most becoming. She disposed a very handsome matching shawl across her elbows and went down to meet Mr. Darcy with an inchoate feeling of unease.
When she met him in the front room, however, he showed no signs of wishing to further a flirtation with her. Upon seeing her in the golden dress, he said only “Pretty colour!” and escorted her to the back parlour for the evening meal, during which consistently fine repast he reverted to his former, avuncular manner. Thus, by the time the covers were removed and the dish of nuts set before them, Helen had put any thoughts she might have entertained about Mr. Darcy’s intentions down to the fanciful imaginings of an old maid. This realization did not cast her down in the least or make her think of Mr. Darcy as anything but a most pleasant gentleman whom she hoped to help in whatever way possible. Nor did it mean that she approved of his treatment of the incident with Mrs. Hemmings or of the generally high-handed way he had drawn her into his affairs. On the other hand, she was still of a mind to enjoy the adventure to the utmost. This expansive attitude was naturally encouraged by the satisfactions provided by Mrs. Coats’s fine cooking.
“Excellent, once again!” Helen pronounced, smoothing her napkin beside her plate. “The hake was delicious and the brace of partridges roasted to a turn! And I commend you for having had the forbearance not to ruin my—” she paused to select the appropriate word “—dress size with another unseemly display of sweets.”
“It is safe for another day,” Mr. Darcy replied with a smile, “but I deserve none of the credit. Rather, after her Herculean efforts of last evening, Mrs. Coats was all done up and could only manage the egg custard and spiced apples for tonight.”
Helen accepted that polite explanation. She accepted as well the nut that Mr. Darcy had so considerately peeled for her. “Poor Mr. Vest!” Helen mused, leaning her elbows on the table, her eyes dancing with the rare image of Graziella hanging gracefully upon his arm. “He was quite taken in by our friend’s feminine charms. She—he!—was most convincing. Such attention to detail and mannerisms! It is very odd, though, do you not think, that a man would actually desire to dress as a woman? I cannot understand it. I should never take it into my head to dress as a man.”
Mr. Darcy might have mentioned the difficulties Miss Denville would encounter were she to take it into her head to do so, alluding to the fact that no man’s jacket or breeches could ever adequately conceal the curves of her very feminine breasts and hips. But he said only, “Most likely not! But I cannot say if Vincenzo’s art of travesty springs from desire precisely, or merely from professional experience.”
Helen’s eyebrows sprang up. “Professional experience?”
“I have reason to believe that Vincenzo is a commediante.”
She waited expectantly for him to elaborate upon this interesting point. “Well!” she exclaimed after a moment, “I suppose that should explain everything!”
“And here you told me your Italian was nonexistent!”
“Odious man! You know very well that I do not have any idea what you are talking about!”
“A commediante,” he explained, “is a member of any one of the various acting troupes which perform the commedia dell’arte. Have you ever heard of it?”
“Y-yes,�
�� she said, dredging her memory, “but other than a vivid image of the Harlequin in his motley costume of brightly coloured diamonds, I know little about it. I have an impression of it, though, as a kind of theatre of buffoonery.”
Mr. Darcy affirmed her basic impressions and filled in some of the details of the stock characters in the commedia, which ranged from the zany Harlequin—who was the languishing lover of Colombine—to the Dottore and Pulchinella. “I have seen the plays run the gamut from coarsest comedy,” he continued, “to most refined wit, all in the space of five minutes. The actors are generally gifted, working with a minimum of props and relying entirely on sketches of plots which require spontaneity in the actual performance.”
“And Vincenzo?”
“Perhaps he specializes in the female roles, since no women perform in the commedia. Before leaving Italy, I did learn something about him that interested me very much. He belongs to a secret society for actors called, I believe, the fraternità dei commedianti. You have seen its insignia on the portmanteau. It looks like a cross or an X, but it is really a key crossed by an oar, which makes a somewhat indelicate pun in Italian. The inscription that encircles it reads Vix Tanto Hiatu Digna. Not indelicate, but at least odd for a theatre troupe.”
Helen, whose Latin was respectable by the standards set at Miss Pittypat’s School for Young Ladies of Quality, laboured through the phrase and said, “I think the Latin means Hardly Worth a Yawn. And it is a singular motto for a society of commedianti.”
“You must realize,” Mr. Darcy pointed out, “that the fraternity does not exist for the betterment of the commedia as an art form. In fact, it might be said that the opposite is the case. Since the commedia is dying out, the commedianti have banded together and are willing to perform any number of services for well-paying clients who might need their acting skills and ingenuity.”
Helen’s mind was not slow. “For theft, for instance?”
“I should call it that, in any event,” Mr. Darcy said without heat. “But Vincenzo has committed no theft. He only bears evidence of a theft.”
She knew by now that to press Mr. Darcy for enlightenment would not be productive. He would tell her more only if he chose to. “I see,” she said, thoroughly intrigued but guarding herself against too patent a display of curiosity, “and now we have the evidence in the portmanteau.”
“I suspect that we do,” he said calmly, “but its form has me stymied. We must rely on Vincenzo to lead us to it.”
“I wonder what guise he will present next.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes glinted in anticipation. “We shall just have to wait and see. There are any number of characters he can choose from, and all should prove equally diverting.”
There was time for no more. Mr. Vest’s carrying voice was heard at the entryway and his step in the hall. He entered the private parlour on the echo of his knock.
His salutation was every bit as elaborate as his evening gear. Apparently feeling the occasion warranted the expression of his sartorial magnificence, Mr. Vest had, in addition to a shirt with unusually high shirt points, adorned himself with a profusion of fobs and chains suspended at various points from his waistcoat.
“I am not too early?” Mr. Vest enquired, purely for the sake of form.
“Not at all,” Mr. Darcy replied. “We have finished the meal, as you perceive, and Mrs. Darcy and I have just been discussing this afternoon’s events. Allow me to ring for service.”
“Devilish business,” Mr. Vest said in some embarrassment.
“My wife has told me of the excellent way you handled the affair and of the swift and just resolution you brought about.”
Mr. Vest drew a breath. “Good of you to say so, sir! Upon my soul it is! I had never encountered the like, not in all my years as magistrate of Igglesthorpe! But I think I carried it off rather well, and if it was handled to Mrs. Darcy’s satisfaction, then all the better! Devilishly awkward business, though, upon my soul it was!”
“I appreciate your sentiments on the subject, Mr. Vest,” Mr. Darcy said, “but then, in your position I suppose one must learn to expect the unexpected, as the saying goes.”
“Oh, indeed, yes!” the corpulent magistrate replied. “This is the first time, however, that I have come across foreigners! Italians! Strange sort of people!”
“Devilish,” Mr. Darcy agreed.
“Haven’t I always said the Italians were a queer set?” Mr. Vest responded, nodding wisely. “Not that Graziella wasn’t a fetching little thing. Quite a beauty, I should call her. But couldn’t believe a word she said. Knew it right from the start! Well, it’s all in the line of duty, I say.”
The serving maid entered then, bringing in a bottle of port, some ratafia for Mrs. Darcy, and a pack of cards. Helen took the opportunity to leave on the heels of the maid and went in search of needlework. At the bottom of her corded trunk, along with her other discarded handiwork, she found an abandoned project: the embroidery of elaborate Ds on her father’s handkerchiefs. The initial was perfect for the present circumstances, and so she returned with her work to the parlour to find the two men removing the deuces, treys, fours, fives and sixes from the long pack of cards.
The play began after stakes were set at a modest shilling a point. Helen noted with approval that throughout the first partie Mr. Darcy affected none of the amateur’s uncertainty. He did not fumble with his deal or the arrangement of his hand and did not display hesitation over his discards. At least he had no intention of fleecing his opponent through subterfuge, for his play was smooth and precise and should have indicated to Mr. Vest that here sat a master, had not the public servant been so engrossed with the counting and declaring of his points, sequences, quatorzes and trios. Apparently the noted gamester considered dissimulation beneath him. If Mr. Vest lost, it would be through no underhanded means on Mr. Darcy’s part.
However, Mr. Vest did not lose. At the end of the first six hands, the score was equal, and each player received one more deal. After those two hands were played, the score remained equal, and the partie was proclaimed a draw.
Mr. Darcy and Mr. Vest agreed that they were evenly matched, the satisfaction at that state of affairs being perhaps the keener felt on the latter’s side.
During the second partie, Mr. Vest relaxed his concentration enough to insert another topic into the continuous dialogue of counting. Since he was not dealing, he was obliged to begin the scoring. “Point of four,” he declared. “Do you know that Miss Graziella comes from Padua? She told me when I first met her that she came from a place called Padova, but little did I suspect that it was in Italy! Well! After I left you this afternoon, I went straight to my office to find my atlas and looked up the map of Italy then and there. And what did I find? Why, there it was again, those foreigners inserting extra letters where none are needed! Mi-lan-o, for instance, should really have only two syllables, as in English Mi-lan—”
Mr. Darcy swiftly held up his end of the scoring. “Making?”
“Thirty-nine,” Mr. Vest counted.
“Not good,” Mr. Darcy said.
Thus the subject of the number of syllables in Italian city names did not seem likely to prosper until Helen hit upon the very thing to pay back Mr. Darcy for his high-handed behaviour earlier in the day.
“Yes,” she agreed pleasantly, without looking up from her embroidery tambour, “foreigners never do seem to get their city names right! Why, take Ve-ne-zi-a. It should be, simply, Ve-nice—just two syllables! What do you think, Mr. Vest?”
Handed such a meaty bone, Mr. Vest could scarce contain himself, for he had come fortified with many interesting observations after his careful study of the map of Italy. “Well, as to that, Mrs. Darcy—ah, queens and tens, six,” he counted eagerly, and led the ace of spades to make a point of seven, after which he pursued the fascinating topic of Italian city names for at least fifteen minutes, without his play being the least bit affected.
The hand and the topic of discussion ended with Mr. Vest ahead by
a mere twelve points. Helen wondered with an inward chuckle if Mr. Vest’s conversation might have rattled Mr. Darcy’s nerves, as it had hers. Mr. Darcy did not look the least bit out of countenance, although when Helen had chanced to catch his eye and to smile innocently at him, his expression afforded her considerable amusement.
Mr. Darcy also lost the partie, but bore up under his loss of an insignificant number of pounds very well. Helen did not quite understand his tactics until the last partie, which Mr. Vest again won by a very slim margin.
“The cards were running with me, I suppose,” Mr. Vest said, in excellent spirits, fanning his cards out on the table.
Mr. Darcy seconded the statement but observed that perhaps his opponent’s play had been a little the sharper.
“I don’t know about that,” Mr. Vest said handsomely, “but I do play a fair hand of piquet. Couldn’t have enjoyed myself more this evening, sir! Upon my soul, a round of cards between two such evenly matched players affords an evening’s entertainment!”
“Then shall we play again tomorrow evening, sir?” Mr. Darcy enquired.
“I should be delighted!” Mr. Vest said, and then out of kindness turned to Helen. “You see, you had nothing to fear, Mrs. Darcy! Perhaps your husband can win back the trifling losses he incurred this evening, ma’am!”
“I shall endeavour to do so, sir,” Mr. Darcy said.
Helen chose not to reply but simply smiled. Mr. Vest bowed himself out of the parlour on the assurance that he would not make Mr. Darcy dip too deeply in his pocket on the following evening and bid his host and hostess a good- eventide.
Mr. Darcy shut the door behind him and looked over at Helen, who had cast her needlework on a side table. “Well, my dear,” he said, “are you tired, or do you care to play a few hands with me? You have nothing to fear, as Mr. Vest told you, for my luck is not in tonight.”
“Contrary to your intuition earlier today, I suppose?” she asked with distinct irony. She would have liked to refuse him, but it was not at all late and the offer was tempting. She found herself saying that she would try her hand against him, but confessed that she was weakest in declaring her points.
Julie Tetel Andresen Page 9