‘I know that.’
‘And ladies are instinctively attracted to men who don’t necessarily behave honourably.’
‘Are they?’ Susie raised a brow. ‘Well, given some of the rumours I have heard about your own conduct at Cambridge, I suppose you are in a position to know.’
Spence laughed. ‘Young men are permitted to sow their wild oats. It’s rather expected of them.’
‘Which just goes to show how unfair society’s rules are. You can be as uninhibited as you like and it enhances your reputation. But if I so much as smile at a steward, I am considered forward.’
‘That is not what I meant to imply, but you must understand that with privilege comes responsibility. You and I have been born into positions of privilege. Our father sets great stock by the respectability attaching to the Darcy name and we must ensure it isn’t tarnished by acts of irresponsibility.’
‘Unlike you, I wouldn’t know how to be irresponsible.’
‘I suppose that if you developed deep feelings for a steward then a marriage might be permitted, no matter how much our parents frowned upon the match. They would put your happiness first, you see. But Porter…well, it just cannot be.’
‘One would be surprised if Mr Porter had not run wild in his younger days,’ Susie said reflectively, ‘given that his mother filled his head with lies and half-truths about his father’s treatment by the Darcys from the moment he was old enough to understand such things.’
Spence shrugged. ‘True enough, I suppose.’
‘I am of the firm belief that a child’s character is shaped during its formative years when he depends upon the person closest to him for…well, for everything. In Mr Porter’s case, it would have been his mother alone, with no father at the head of the family and no siblings to share his mother’s attention. He did not enjoy the succession of nannies, governesses and tutors that we had here at Pemberley.’ Susie waved an airy caveat. ‘Oh, I am not suggesting that our parents neglected us, since they did not, but they didn’t take day-to-day responsibility for our needs either. No ladies or gentlemen in their position would do so.’
‘You are turning into quite the philosopher, little sister,’ Spence said, impressed by her reasoning.
‘Just because I did not go to a fancy school and a fancier university, it does not mean that I want for wits.’
‘Heaven forbid.’ They entered the house and Spence handed over her painting paraphernalia to the footman who materialised to take it from him. ‘Just think on what I said and look elsewhere if it’s romance you crave.’
‘I do not, Spencer Darcy,’ Susie replied loftily. ‘You boys aren’t being pressured in that regard and I don’t see why I should be either.’
Spence laughed at the rigid set to his sister’s shoulders as she climbed the stairs, wondering if he had got through to her. He had an uneasy feeling that her attachment to Tobias Porter ran deeper than even she realised and that she would either finish up with a broken heart or in a serious dispute with their father. Neither situation boded well for her happiness or family unity.
ᴥᴥᴥ
Susie made her way to her chamber and asked her maid to fetch warm water. A short time later, clean and freshly gowned, she dismissed the maid and took a moment to reflect upon her conversation with Spence before she made her way downstairs to join her mother for tea. She would never admit it, but as usual her perspicacious brother had gone straight to the heart of her difficulty. By speaking out and calling upon family loyalty he had reminded her that it was pointless indulging her fertile imagination by dreaming about what could never be.
She liked Mr Porter very much and, given the slightest encouragement, could easily do a great deal more than merely admire him. It seemed grossly unfair that the sins of previous generations should shape her own behaviour. Be that as it may, she knew Spence was right. Even if there had been no unsavoury history between her papa and the late Mr Wickham, she still could not look upon a trainee steward in the same way as she would the son of one of their socially acceptable neighbours.
Which was all well and good, she thought mutinously, but none of their neighbours’ sons interested her. None of them made her heart beat a little faster when she anticipated seeing them. None of them focused their entire attention upon her as though she was the most fascinating creature on God’s earth. None of them made her insides melt with desire when their gazes rested upon her face for a little too long. None of them made her laugh at herself and life’s absurdities.
The local young men were not only a dull lot but also seemed to have done very little with their lives compared to Mr Porter’s admittedly chequered past, about which Susie was innately curious but dared not ask. Nor would she give herself the opportunity. She had taken Spence’s warning to heart. If he had noticed her preference then Papa most likely had as well. Indeed, Mama had already warned her to keep her distance from Mr Porter and yet she had gone on making excuses to speak with him.
With a sigh of regret, she accepted that it would have to stop.
Susie scurried from her room as the hall clock struck the half hour. She joined her mother in the small parlour they used when guests were not expected just as the tea was brought in.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Mama looked up and smiled at her. ‘I wondered what had become of you.’
‘I was painting and lost track of time,’ Susie replied, taking the seat beside her mother. ‘It is such a lovely day and so very mild for the time of year. I adore spring. Signs of regeneration after the long winter give one optimism.’
‘I agree that Pemberley looks lovely at this time of year but then it would be a hard-hearted person who disapproved of it at any time.’
‘Oh yes, we are very lucky.’ Susie threw back her head and sighed. ‘I shall never lose sight of that fact.’
Mama sent her a perplexed look, presumably because she sounded peevish. ‘I saw you in conversation with Spence,’ she remarked.
‘Thank you.’ She took the cup and saucer her mother passed to her. ‘Oh, he was giving me the benefit of his big-brotherly wisdom.’ Susie rolled her eyes. ‘But don’t ask me what we discussed since I scarce listened. I have had more than enough of my brothers knowing what is best for me. I think I preferred it when they were all away at school.’
Mama laughed. ‘I can well imagine. How did your painting turn out?’
‘Not well.’ Susie screwed up her nose. ‘Spence took one look at it and identified the problem immediately. I wouldn’t mind but he knows next to nothing about art and didn’t even bother to compliment me on the bits I got right.’
‘Well, you might soon have an expert opinion upon which to call.’
‘Oh?’ Susie raised a brow in mild curiosity.
‘Mr Tyrell’s son is to take Hillgate House for an indefinite period.’
‘The Mr Tyrell.’ Susie gave her mother her full attention. ‘Goodness.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Why all the great secrecy?’ Susie flapped a hand. ‘Oh, I suppose he doesn’t want to be bothered with endless callers. Artists have a duty to be recluses.’
Mama laughed. ‘That is what I told your father.’
‘The younger Mr Tyrell is a good artist in his own right. Some of his work was exhibited alongside his father’s at the Summer Exhibition we attended last year.’
‘Oh, was it? I cannot say that I noticed. I was too taken up with the quality of the father’s efforts.’
‘I noticed and thought them very proficient.’
‘Well then, you will be able to discuss them with Mr Tyrell.’
‘I doubt if he will be interested in my views.’ Susie shrugged. ‘He will either assume that because I am a woman I cannot possibly have an educated opinion upon the subject or he will think I am trying to curry favour by flattering him.’
Mama looked at her askance. ‘Spence really did overset you.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound cantankerous.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, I
expect Mr Tyrell is coming to Derbyshire for peace and quiet in order to paint. He will not welcome visitors.’
‘Actually, he has written to your father and wants to see him about a matter of some delicacy. That’s how we know it is he who has taken the house. He intends to call here as soon as he arrives in the district, which will be any day now.’
‘How mysterious.’ Susie adored mysteries and felt her good humour returning. ‘I wonder what he wants.’
‘As do I. It is certainly never dull here at Pemberley, despite what people say about the limitations of country living.’
‘Perhaps his father plans to exhibit his work in the north, but I cannot see what business that would be of Papa’s.’ Susie tilted her head in a contemplative fashion. ‘Mr Tyrell senior is an active member of the Free Society of Artists, you know.’
‘I did not know. In fact, I have never heard of such an organisation. Your knowledge on the subject far exceeds mine.’
‘They are taking their role as patrons of the Royal Academy a stage further,’ Susie paused to sip at her tea. ‘They hope to raise the professional status of artists by establishing a system of training and judgement of the arts and…well, something else. I don’t recall precisely. Something about arranging exhibitions of art of an appropriate standard of excellence and establishing training academies beneath the auspices of successful artists for that purpose.’ Susie flapped a hand. ‘It seems a shame that all the exhibitions are centred around London. Perhaps Mr Tyrell agrees and is practising what the Free Society preaches by bringing an exhibition northwards. In that case, he will require wealthy patrons.’
‘Like your father?’
‘Yes.’ Susie put her empty cup aside. ‘I dare say we shall find out soon enough if that’s what they hope to do.’ Susie’s eyes lit up. ‘Perhaps they would like to use Pemberley for an exhibition. Only imagine that.’
‘I’m not sure your father would be too keen on having his home invaded by hordes of strangers.’
‘Oh, I dare say we could persuade him between us, Mama,’ Susie said with a mischievous smile. ‘Well, you could most likely do so without any help from me. He never could deny you anything.’
Spence joined them and, predictably, fell upon the contents of the cake stand as though he hadn’t eaten for a week. He struck up a conversation with Mama and Susie allowed her mind to wander, aware of a little optimism filtering through her earlier depression when she thought about the imminent arrival of their new neighbour. She tried to imagine what could possibly bring him to Derbyshire, his presence shrouded in secrecy, and came up with increasingly wild speculations.
If nothing else, it took her mind off her decision to avoid Mr Porter.
Chapter Two
James Tyrell used the three days it took him to reach Derbyshire to question his reason for visiting a part of the world he had never before set foot in. Not that he had any objection to seeing it. He had heard a great deal about the wild and rugged beauty of a landscape that had inspired even those of modest artistic talent to their best work. Besides, he was grateful for a legitimate reason to separate himself from Miss Beatrice Fleming, the young lady with whom it was widely assumed he was on the brink of entering into an engagement.
Assumed by everyone apart from James, that is.
Beatrice was a rare beauty and an heiress to boot, admired and pursued by half the young bucks within the ton. Her conversation was lively and significantly, her father was a major patron of the arts. He had been a regular visitor to James’s father’s salons, which is how James had come to first meet Beatrice. The room came alive the moment she walked into it and James had been captivated by her quite breath-taking beauty. The attraction, the lady herself later implied, had been mutual.
James leaned back against the velvet squabs in his father’s luxurious travelling chaise and watched the passing scenery. There was nothing else for him to do. Blessed with an active mind and much to occupy it, he found that the journey passed quickly and, on the whole, without incident. Without incident if one discounted landlords who claimed they had no room for him, ostlers who tried to fob his drivers off with inferior horses and tollgate keepers with a penchant for overcharging.
His two coachmen were more than capable of dealing with the irritations pursuant to any journey, leaving James’s mind free to return to the subject of Beatrice. Images of her lovely face were conjured out of nowhere and he wondered for the hundredth time what was wrong with him. Most men would give their eye-teeth to be in his enviable position. And yet…
And yet, despite the devotion of the fragrant Beatrice, he felt unfulfilled. Stifled by her need for constant attention…his constant attention. He felt as though he was being pressured into a union about which he was secretly harbouring growing doubts. Hence his pleasure at a separation of undetermined length that had left Beatrice sulking because he refused to take her with him. As if he could, even if he had wanted to! But Beatrice, accustomed to having her own way, didn’t see why it wouldn’t be possible if she took her maid along as chaperone.
At first, James was proud to be seen with Beatrice on his arm, the envy of his friends. Her father’s generosity towards his own father’s efforts to promote the Free Society’s maxim by encouraging young talent increased exponentially. When Beatrice was contented, so too, James discovered, was her devoted father. But woe betide anyone who disappointed his adored child. Worse yet, he had seen one or two examples of Beatrice’s propensity for either sulking or flying up into the boughs when she did not get her way. It was a trait she had been careful to conceal from him until she began to know him better. Clearly she was aware that it wasn’t acceptable to throw a vase at her maid because the flowers had not been changed, or to threaten to have a stable boy whipped because her horse had not been groomed to her satisfaction.
Perhaps that was why he was having doubts about her. Spoiled and indulged, she would expect him to continue showering her with the adulation she accepted as her due. James possessed a friendly disposition and judged people on their ability to amuse and entertain him, rather than their wealth or appearance. But Beatrice had settled her interest upon him and if he decided against her, her father’s retribution would be brutal. James didn’t mind for himself but the consequences for his father’s academy, established to encourage artists with special talent, would not survive if he withdrew his financial support.
James leaned his elbow on the armrest and gazed abstractedly out of the carriage’s window, well aware that he would have to put his own doubts aside and meet Beatrice’s expectations, if only for his father’s sake. James felt as though a trap was closing around him as he tried to convince himself it wouldn’t be so bad. He was five-and-twenty, beyond the age when he ought to be considering matrimony. A union with the fair Beatrice would afford him the financial freedom to explore his own artistic talent, ensure Fleming’s continued support of his father’s endeavours, and provide him with a desirable bedfellow.
‘What the hell more could I possibly want?’ he asked aloud.
And yet his dissatisfaction endured.
He turned his thoughts to the reason for his journey and scowled. Something had to be done but it did not follow that this sojourn in Derbyshire was the right way to tackle the difficulty that faced the Tyrells. Be that as it may, it suited James’s purpose and he had not argued too strongly against it when his father suggested he was the only man to see the investigation through with discretion.
Beatrice was the only stumbling block and it was clear she didn’t believe a word of it when James told her he was travelling to see a person who had expressed an interest in commissioning his father to do a painting. Since James routinely dealt with such negotiations on his father’s behalf, he hadn’t supposed she would put up so many objections. Lord above, she had wanted to know the name of the prospective client, the nature of the painting he wished to commission and so much more besides that James almost lost count of the number of half-truths he told her.
He di
smissed thoughts of Beatrice as the coach trundled deeper into Derbyshire. He had been given an introduction to a man by the name of Darcy, one of the district’s most important landowners. James had been assured that Darcy knew everyone who was worth knowing and wielded considerable influence locally. That being the case, James would start his enquiries with Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley and see where they led him.
‘Another hour or so will see us passing through Lambton,’ the coachman told James when they stopped to change horses for the final time. ‘And we will be at Hillgate House very soon after that.’
The village was a typical market town, with an inn, a church, a few shops and a water pump around which a gaggle of women was gathered. A few people stopped to stare as his carriage passed through but on the whole the populace seemed unimpressed by the equipage. All to the good. James disliked flummery in all its forms but knew the moment it become general knowledge that he was in residence, he would not be able to ignore the demands of local society all together. People would want to know…not him necessarily, but they would be keen to cultivate a connection to his famous father.
That probability suited James’s plans perfectly, just so long as news of his identity had not become widespread prior to his arrival. It was a delicate balancing act. If he wanted to beard the unidentified man or woman he had been sent to locate, it would be senseless to give that individual prior warning of his arrival. With that thought in mind, his man Dawlish had been sent on ahead to ensure that servants were engaged and the house opened up without James’s name entering into the equation. As far as the world in general was aware, the house had been let to a Mr Dawlish.
James took more interest as the conveyance left Lambton in its wake and shortly thereafter turned between stone gateposts and onto a short gravel drive. The building at the head of that drive was a stone manor house of reasonable proportions. Smoke belched from the chimneys and, at first glance, everything appeared to be orderly, including the grounds. That didn’t surprise James. Dawlish was the last word in efficiency. Spring flowers were clustered in beds in front of the house and he could see buds forming on the trees that lined the drive. Spring. His favourite season.
Susie Darcy's Tenacious Nature Page 2