The Second Mrs Darcy

Chapter Two

“A caller, at this hour?” said Harriet.

She and Octavia had just returned from their morning ride, and were still in their riding habits.

“Tell him to return later,” Harriet said to the bearer.

The bearer looked grave. “It is a lawyer sahib, for Mrs. Darcy. Upon an urgent matter.”

“Oh, well, in that case.”

“Mr. Dyer?” said Octavia. “What can he want that is urgent? Ask him to come in, Chunilal.”

But it was not Mr. Dyer who came into the room. This was a stranger, a perspiring, red-haired, red-faced young man, freckled and hot.

“Beg pardon, ma’am, for calling so unconscionably early in the day,” he said. “However, this news has just reached us, it came overland, you know, and London never sends overland unless it’s urgent. I thought you might be out later on, so I took the liberty of calling early. If it is inconvenient, I shall return later, at any hour you care to name; however, I believe you will wish to hear what I have to say.”

Octavia was intrigued. Overland from London? “I assume it is to do with the estate of my late husband, Captain Darcy.”

“Late husband …? Captain Darcy? Oh, no, not at all, nothing to do with Captain Darcy.”

“Are you not a colleague of Mr. Dyer, who handled my husband’s affairs here in Calcutta?”

“No, not at all, nothing to do with Mr. Dyer, I know him, of course, it is a small world, but this is an entirely separate matter.”

“Well, then,” said Octavia, gesturing to the harassed-looking young man to take a seat. “What has it to do with, Mr….?”

“Oh, Lord, I never introduced myself, and I do not think your servant caught my name. I am Mr. Gurney, Josiah Gurney.”

Mr. Gurney had a sheaf of papers with him, and he began to sort through them in a hasty way. “Yes,” he said. “Now, your mother was Susannah Worthington before her marriage, is that correct?”

“My mother?” Octavia was nonplussed. Her mother, the woman she had never known, who had died when she was born? What had she to do with anything, let alone urgent missives from London?

“Daughter of the late Mr. Digby Worthington, of Yorkshire? Who was your grandfather?”

“Yes, he was my grandfather.”

“And you have papers to prove it, I suppose.”

“I have some papers—but what is all this, Mr. Gurney? You are nothing short of mystifying, and I do not see what my mother’s family nor my grandfather can have to do with anything here in Calcutta.”

“Ah, what it has to do with is you, Mrs. Darcy. You were the only child of the late Lady Melbury, she was the second Mrs. Melbury, I think?”

“Yes.”

“And she was an only child, she had no brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

“Exactly so. That is exactly the case as stated here.”

Octavia didn’t know whether to laugh at this absurd parade of paper shuffling and the air of suppressed importance evident in Mr. Gurney’s freckled face, or whether to ring the bell for the bearer to escort him out. She decided on a compromise. “It is growing warmer and you have had a hot journey, I think. Allow me to call for refreshments.”

The bearer arrived with tall glasses of nimbu pani, a refreshing drink made with fresh limes and sugar. Mr. Gurney mopped his brow with a large spotted handkerchief.

“I am afraid I am not making myself clear, but I am obliged to ascertain the facts, to make sure that everything is as is stated in these papers from London. It has all taken a deal of time, but with her passing away in India and her lawyers in London, it doesn’t make for easy communication.”

“What are these papers you mention? Who has passed away?”

Mr. Gurney looked surprised. “Did I not say? I refer to the estate of the late Mrs. Anne Worthington, who died, I regret to say, some months ago. In Darjeeling. She lived in England, had done so since she became a widow, but she had made the trip to India to visit her tea plantations.” His cheerful face assumed a look of sudden gravity, then he brightened. “She was, however, a very old lady, well into her eighties, a remarkable age, you will agree.”

“And a redoubtable woman, to be making the journey to India at that age. But there is some mistake,” said Octavia calmly. “I’m not related to this Mrs. Worthington. There is obviously some confusion because the name is the same as my mother’s. My grandfather was Mr. Digby Worthington, as we have agreed, but his wife, my grandmother, was an Amelia Worthington, who died many, many years ago. I have no other Worthington relations; my grandfather was an only son.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Gurney. “Not so, Mrs. Darcy, not so. If you are unacquainted with the fact that your grandfather had a younger brother, then I can understand your confusion.”

“A younger brother?” said Octavia; this really did startle her. “You are mistaken, I would have known about it had such a person existed.”

“Would you? He was, perhaps, something of a black sheep, a ne’er-do-well, in the eyes of his family, and when he left the shores of England never to return … Such people often drop from memory, and I believe that your grandfather died before you were born. Exactly so. Your mother, sadly, died when you were born, and as you yourself said, you have no other Worthington relatives, so how should you be aware of the existence of this other brother, who left England so many years ago?”

“I still find it impossible that there could be any such person.”

“Ah, you find it hard to believe, but I assure you, Mrs. Darcy, the papers are all in order, there is no question about it. I represent a firm of lawyers in London, Wilkinson and Winter, a firm of the very highest repute, anyone will vouch for them. If they say a thing is so, with regard, that is, to wills and ancestors and descendants and so forth—then you may take it that they are right. And since this is no mere trifling legacy at stake, they will have been most particularly careful to ascertain—in short, you can take it that you had such a great-uncle, that his widow was Mrs. Anne Worthington, of Leeds in Yorkshire, who recently left this mortal round.”

“Yes, very well, I believe you, but what has it to do with me? I never knew Mrs. Worthington; as I did not know of her existence, I scarcely could have known her. I am sorry to hear of her death, but it hardly seems an urgent matter. Has she no other living family? I assume there is some problem to do with her estate, and you seem to think that I may be able to assist you in some way, but you have come to the wrong person, I cannot help you at all.”

“No, no, I do not ask for your help, except in the matter, the pure formality, of my needing to see that you are indeed who you are. No, I have the honour of being the bearer of what I am sure you will find good tidings, for Mrs. Worthington names you in her will as her sole heir; you inherit everything she owns.”

“But I am no blood relation of hers! She never knew me, how can this be?”

“She had no family of her own, you are her husband’s closest living relation, and since her fortune came to her from him, on his death, it is quite right and proper that it should come to you.”

Octavia’s head was in a whirl. She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again. No, she wasn’t dreaming. She was sitting here, with this strange young man, in Harriet Thurloe’s large drawing room, with its double doors leading on to the verandah beyond. There, outside, just whisking out of sight was Ferdie, the mongoose, encouraged to live in the garden as a deterrent to and scourge of snakes … She pulled herself together. “Precisely what, Mr. Gurney, do I inherit from this supposed great-aunt of mine?”

Mr. Gurney looked alarmed. “As to precisely, that is something I can’t say. These are confidential matters, and the overland route, although swifter than the sea journey, is fraught with potential hazards. I merely have the information I have given you. However, I think I may say that it will be a substantial inheritance, Mrs. Worthington had property in India, and …”

“Tell me, how came she to have property in India?”

“Did I not explain? Mr. Worthington made his fortune in India, so I am informed. He was a nabob, as we say, and he never returned to England once he had quit the country of his birth, when he was a young man of twenty or so. He was sent out to India by his family. He met his wife here, and they lived in Darjeeling. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Worthington returned to England. To the north of England; there is, I understand, a property in the north of England, in Yorkshire. Again, I have no details.”

Octavia could hardly believe her ears. A house? Yorkshire was the county where her third half sister Drusilla resided, but it was a large county, there was no likelihood of her having been a neighbour of the late Mrs. Worthington’s. Not that, from the sound of it, her great-aunt would have been the kind of person that Drusilla would call upon.

“In the circumstances,” said Mr. Gurney, frowning, “of course, I do not know what your plans are, but I would urge you to consider returning to England as soon as it can be arranged. There is a vessel, an East Indiaman, the Sir John Rokesby, which is due to sail; it might be difficult to obtain a passage at this late stage, but if it were possible, I most strongly advise you to make the voyage to England. You need to consult with our firm in London, that will be much the best thing for you to do.”

“My cousin, Mr. Thurloe, is with the Company. I think there would be no problem with obtaining a berth. I was contemplating going back to England in any case, it was only the expense—”

“Oh, Mrs. Darcy, expense is no consideration at all. I am empowered—directed, I should say—to make available to you whatever sums you might need to defray the expenses of the journey—of any expenses you might incur. You have only to name a sum; there is no problem with that, none at all.”

Octavia smiled, and Mr. Gurney blinked. The tall young woman suddenly looked years younger, not that she could be so very old, and there was a colour in her cheeks; he had thought she looked sad and pale when he arrived, but now she was transformed.

“May I take it that you will go to London?” he asked, after several minutes’ silence.

“Yes. If I could have some money, that would be …” She hesitated, fearful of asking too much. “Perhaps fifty pounds.”

“Fifty? Let us say a hundred, or more if you wish it. I assure you, you can draw on us for a much larger sum than that.”

“No, no thank you, I shall need very little on the voyage, and I should not like to carry too large a sum on my person.”

“Very wise, very wise. I shall send a clerk round with it this afternoon.”

He rose, perspiring more than ever; however did he manage in the really hot weather?

“One thing, Mr. Gurney, I would request of you.”

He looked enquiringly at her.

“Pray, can you keep the news of this inheritance to yourself? Calcutta is a small place, and until I have the details—well, I would prefer that no one knows about it.”

“Of course, of course. No, I am as capable of discretion as the next man, more so, for in my profession one has to keep mumchance, you know. No danger of this getting out, I assure you.”

He bowed himself out, the door closing behind him as Harriet, looking cool and neat in a pale green dress, came in through the other door.

“Was that Mr. Dyer? What did he want?”

“It was a colleague of his, some papers that needed attending to.”

“Is it something that Robert can help with?”

“Oh, no, it is nothing, nothing at all.”

Why didn’t she want to tell Harriet, to spill out the good news that she knew would delight her friend? Was it caution, for after all, she had only Mr. Gurney’s word that there was any substantial inheritance? The house in Yorkshire might be a tumbledown cottage, and the fortune in the end a few hundred pounds. Or the will might be disputed, some natural child of her great-uncle might appear to make a claim on the estate; her great-uncle must have been a wild young man to be packed off to India in such a fashion.

“Did you ever hear of a Mr. Worthington, Harriet? He lived in India, in Darjeeling, but died some years ago. He was survived by his wife.”

Harriet shook her head. “We have only been here for six years, you know. I do remember someone talking of a Mrs. Worthington, perhaps that was his widow. I believe she was very rich, and went back to England. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, merely that Mr. Gurney wanted to know if I had been acquainted with either of the Worthingtons.”

“Her money came from tea, I seem to remember.”

Before Harriet could ask any more questions, Octavia told her that she had decided to go back to England on the Sir John Rokesby. “If Mr. Thurloe can arrange it for me.”

“My dear, of course he can. How I shall miss you! But it is for the best, I truly think so, you must go back before you lose your looks in this horrid climate, and then you may see if anything can be got out of Mr. Warren.” She paused. “I know you will accept nothing from us, but it did occur to Robert and me that perhaps the cost of your fare was a concern to you. We should be so happy if—”

“No, no, it is not a consideration, I have the money for that and a little more besides. Which reminds me, I shall need some clothes, some half-mourning for when I arrive back in England. Will you please send a servant to Madame Duhamel for me?”

Madame Duhamel was a Frenchwoman who had come to Calcutta with her husband, only to be left a widow when he was carried off by the cholera. She had set to making her own living, and employed several local derseys to make up the fashionable clothes she designed. With good contacts in Paris, she had the fashion dolls and the plates only a few months behind the modistes in London; Octavia knew she would dress her in style.

“Madame Duhamel!” exclaimed Harriet. “She is wickedly expensive, you know.”

“But I shall not need so many clothes, and it will not do for me to arrive in London black and dowdy; my sisters are very smart, and will abuse me for a provincial if I do not take care.”

“Oh dear, you are quite right, first impressions are so important. Well, if you have the wherewithal, you cannot do better. I shall send to Ballygunge at once, there is no time to be lost. Indeed, I may ask her to make a gown for me, my blue is looking sadly shabby, I thought, when I wore it to the Lawrences the other night.”

When Octavia retreated to her room that night, lying under the muslin draped over the posts of the bed to keep insects at bay, she found sleep elusive. In a day, her world had been turned upside down. Hope sprang in her breast, hope that Mr. Gurney had not been exaggerating, that her inheritance would provide her with at least a modest independence. In which case she would no longer be a poor relative, no longer obliged to put up with her sisters’ patronising ways. Perhaps there would even be enough money to rent a house in a quiet part of town; if the house in Yorkshire could be sold, she had no desire to live in Yorkshire …

Fortune, Mr. Gurney had said. What constituted a fortune? To her, an income of a few hundred a year would be a fortune beyond her wildest dreams. How pleased Christopher would have been for her. Dear Christopher, with his kindness and sense of amusement. Tears slid through her closed eyelids as she finally fell asleep, her mind filled with memories of her husband, and the inheritance quite forgotten.

Chapter Three

Octavia lay in her narrow berth in the tiny cabin she occupied on the Sir John Rokesby. She wasn’t asleep, but listening to the sounds around her that had become so familiar to her over these last six months: the creak of the ship as it hit the waves and rolled up and then back, the shrill bosun’s pipe, the noise of the sails and rigging singing in the wind, running bare feet on the deck, orders bellowed out, the slap of halyards against the three masts, and, more often than she would have liked, the scuttle of rodents’ feet as these unwelcome fellow passengers went about their ratty business.

Tonight, even in the early hours that were the quietest on board, the hours she had come to know as the dog watch, there was an expectancy in the air. The long voyage was nearly at an end. Today, with the wind in the right quarter, which the captain had assured her it would be, the ship would be making land, and then it would sail up the Thames to berth at Tilbury docks, in the heart of London.

It was more than five years since she had sailed from Tilbury, on a soft June day, alone; none of her half brothers or sisters had felt inclined to take the time to see her off.

Her brothers and sisters. Half brothers and sisters; at least she had some hope of not turning out like them. She shifted in her bunk, too short for her long legs, and gazed into the darkness, seeing them in her mind’s eye.

Octavia heard the sounds of the morning watch going on deck, followed by the steady thump as the lascars washed and dried the decks, the sound of the chants as sails were furled or unfurled. She sat up, shivering slightly. She missed the warmth she had grown used to in India; a voyage that had started in brilliant sunshine was ending on a chill March day.

The Sir John Rokesby slid up the grey Thames in the mist. They could have been coming into port anywhere; for a wild moment Octavia imagined they had taken a wrong turn and were arriving in America, or Canada. Anywhere but London, where she would be greeted without enthusiasm by her brothers and sisters, a black sheep making an unwelcome return.

There was no one waiting for her on the dockside; of course there wasn’t. She looked out at the forest of masts around her, for a moment wishing she was setting sail and not arriving. Then she squared her shoulders and, wrapping her cloak about her as a gust of cold air struck her, snatching at her hat, walked down the gangplank to set about the business of making sure her few boxes and trunk were despatched to Theodosia’s house in Lothian Street. A kindly officer helped her into a hackney carriage, and she was off along grey London streets.

Home, Octavia said to herself. All the passengers had talked enthusiastically of coming home, even the disappointed girls for whom a season or two or three in India had failed to produce the requisite husband. They had families, she supposed, people who might even be glad to see them, whereas she— Well, she wasn’t going to allow herself to fall into a fit of the dismals. This might turn out to be a far different homecoming from any she had imagined, should what Mr. Gurney had told her in Calcutta turn out to be even half true.

She stared out at the warehouses, a hive of industry as goods were loaded on and unloaded from the immense number of ships in this busiest of ports, and drew her cloak more closely about her.

Harriet, kind Harriet, who had made sure that she had warm clothes for her return to England: “One forgets how cold it is at home.” They were, thankfully, the clothes of a matron, of a married woman, velvets and silks; even though in mourning colours, they suited her much better than the light dresses of her girlhood.

She sincerely mourned her late husband. She had never been deeply or passionately in love with him, but she had liked him, found comfort and even pleasure in his arms and bed, and had enjoyed his company. Had they been given more time together, it might have grown into a very happy marriage.

What was to become of her? What kind of a life could she make for herself? If she had money, then the prospects were far more cheerful, the choices greater. It would be hard to make decisions for herself, after the in-between time of her early widowhood, and the out-of-times days on board. She hadn’t been bored on the Sir John Rokesby; with far more assurance than she had had on the voyage out, she had found it easier to make friends and play her part in the social round of the small world of a ship.

She had her sketchbooks with her, and paints, and had whiled away many hours building doll’s houses. That was something that happened by chance, when the small daughter of a fellow passenger, fretful after an illness, had wanted something to play with. Octavia, remembering how much pleasure she had had as a girl from the doll’s house that she had made with the help of a friendly joiner, acquired some balsa wood from the ship’s carpenter and set about modelling a stately home for little Emily. The carpenter had offered to do it, he could run her up a house in a jiffy, but Octavia was eager for an activity to soothe her restless mind. Busy fingers were, she had long ago discovered, a very good remedy for troubled spirits, and so she had set about it herself, creating a fine Palladian house which was the admiration of her fellow passengers.

“Amazingly clever,” said one of the officers. “And you a woman, I’d hardly have believed it possible.”

The doll’s house had aroused suspicions in some of the less amiable among her fellow passengers. Did they imagine she didn’t hear their whispers?

“She was lucky to catch Captain Darcy, she was indeed, a very good catch for her, if not for him, poor man.”

“Wasn’t she a Melbury before her marriage?”

“Yes, indeed, but only a half sister to the baronet and his brother and sisters. Her mother was a nobody, daughter of a tradesman.”

“Only imagine, and when you think who the first Mrs. Darcy was.”

“Oh, perfection, such a beauty and a handsome fortune with her, which, however, they say he went through in no time.”

“You’d think he’d have found himself another rich wife, of equal standing, instead of marrying Miss Octavia Melbury, who after all has no looks, is far too tall for a woman, and has no fortune, and if you say she’s of low origin, too—Well!”

Octavia couldn’t help feeling a spurt of temper when she heard people singing the praises of the first Mrs. Darcy. Christopher never spoke of her after the time when Octavia had asked him, hesitantly, whether he had, as the saying went, buried his heart with his first wife. He had looked startled, and then laughed.

“No, indeed, I did not, no such thing. Don’t listen to what all the old tabbies have to say about the first Mrs. Darcy, it is none of their business, nor, indeed,” he added, more serious now, “of yours. I don’t mean that in any unkind way,” he said quickly, seeing the look on her face; she was all too used to rebukes from her family, but not from Christopher. “I merely mean that all that is in the past, and to tell you the truth, I do not care to remember my first marriage. I assure you I am as happy now as I ever was then, more so.”

His words were meant to reassure her, and she had been grateful for them, although she didn’t believe him. How could she compare to the first Mrs. Darcy, the rich, well-born, beautiful Mrs. Darcy?

Unwanted tears prickled Octavia’s eyes as his voice came back to her, as though he were with her, speaking those words. She was going to miss him, she wished he were here at her side, rejoicing in her sudden increase of fortune, making plans for the future.

All too soon, the hackney cab was turning into Lothian Street. The cab driver drew up outside the familiar house with its red-brick façade and handsome front door; she had arrived. She opened her purse for the coins to pay the cab driver, then stepped down on to the pavement. She paused, looking up at the windows of the house, then took a deep breath, went up the three shallow steps, and lifted the knocker.