Колин Маккалоу – The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet (страница 18)
It was not Fitz’s habit to spend the spring and early summer at his seat; usually his house parties happened in August, when England’s climate was most likely to become uncomfortably warm. In other years, he had vanished to the Continent or the East from April to July. For Elizabeth, May was ordinarily a delight of walks to see what had burst into flower, long hours spent in the company of her daughters, visits to Jane to see what her seven boys and one girl were up to. Now here she was, about to face that mistress of vitriol, Caroline Bingley, that embodiment of perfection, Georgiana Fitzwilliam, and that unspeakable bore, Mrs Speaker of the House. It really was too bad! She would not even have the leisure to find out what Charlie’s life at Oxford was like — oh, how she had missed him at Christmas!
Arriving the day before the guests were due, Charlie made light of her apologies about having a full house and no time.
“Owen has not been in this part of England before,” he explained ingenuously, “so we will be riding off for days on end — to a native of Wales and Snowdonia’s heights, the Peaks of Derbyshire will not disappoint.”
“I have put Mr Griffiths in the room next to yours rather than in the East Wing with the other guests,” she said, gazing at her son a little sadly; how much he had changed during this first year away!
“Oh, splendid! Is Derbyshire to come?”
“Of course.”
“Then bang goes the Tudor Suite, which would have been the only other place I could have let Owen lay down his head.”
“What nonsense you talk, Charlie!” she said, laughing.
“Is it to be London hours for meals?”
“More or less. Dinner will be at eight exactly — you know what a stickler for punctuality your father is, so do not be late.”
Two dimples appeared in Charlie’s cheeks; his eyes danced. “If we cannot be punctual, Mama, I will cozen Parmenter into two trays in the old nursery.”
This was too much; she could not resist hugging him, for all that he thought himself too old for that sort of conduct. “Oh, Charlie, it is good to see you! And you too, Mr Griffiths,” she added, smiling at the young Welshman. “Were my son alone, I would worry more. Your presence will ensure his good behaviour.”
“Much you know about anything, Mama,” said Charlie.
“I presume that my son has made an appearance at Pemberley because he thinks to be closer to his Aunt Mary,” said Mr Darcy to Mr Skinner.
“His tutor is with him, so he can’t do anything too harebrained. Griffiths is a sensible man.”
“True. Whereabouts is his Aunt Mary?” Fitz asked, handing Ned a glass of wine.
They were in the “big” library, held the finest in England. It was a vast room whose fan-vaulted ceiling was lost in the shadows high above, and whose décor was dark red, mahogany and gilt. Its walls were lined with book-filled shelves interrupted by a balcony halfway up; a beautiful, intricately carved spiral staircase conveyed the browser heavenward, while sets of mahogany steps on runners made it possible to access any volume anywhere. Even two massive multiple windows crowned with Gothic ogives could not illuminate its interior properly. Chandeliers depended from the underside of the balcony and the perimeter of the ceiling, which meant the middle of the room was useless for reading. The pillars supporting the balcony bore fan capitals, and behind them in pools of candlelight were lecterns, tables, chairs. Fitz’s huge desk stood in the embrasure of one window, a number of crimson leather chesterfields littered the Persian carpets on the floor, and two crimson leather wing chairs sat on either side of a Levanto marble fireplace sporting two pink-and-buff marble Nereides in high relief.
They sat in the wing chairs, Fitz ramrod straight because such was his nature, Ned with one booted leg thrown over a chair arm. They looked at perfect ease with one another, perhaps two old friends relaxing after a day’s hunting. But the hunting was not animal, nor the friendship that of social equals.
“At the present moment Miss Bennet is in Grantham, awaiting the public stage-coach to Nottingham. It does not run every day.”
“Grantham? Why did she not go west of the Pennines and come direct to Derby, if her destination is Manchester?”
“That would have necessitated that she travel first to London, and I don’t think she’s a very patient sort of woman,” said Ned. “She’s crossing the Pennines to Derby via Nottingham.”
A soft laugh escaped Fitz. “If that doesn’t beat all! Of course she was too impatient.” Sobering, he glanced at Ned a little uncertainly. “You will be able to keep track of her?”
“Yes, easily. But with your guests arriving, I thought it better to come here while she’s safely in Grantham. I’ll go back to following her tomorrow.”
“Has her progress been remarked upon?”
“Not at all. I’ll give her this — she’s a quiet soul — no idle chatter, no making a spectacle of herself. Were it not that she’s such a fine-looking woman, I’d be tempted to say she needs no supervision. As it is, she draws the attention of all manner of men — drivers, postboys, grooms and ostlers, landlords, waiters, fellows on the roof and box. Those inside a coach with her are no danger — antiques or bear-led husbands.”
“Has she had to cope with amorous advances?”
“Not thus far. I don’t think it occurs to her that she is the object of men’s lust.”
“No, it wouldn’t. Apart from her distressing eccentricity, she’s a humble creature.”
“It strikes me, Fitz,” Ned said, keeping his voice dispassionate, “that you worry too much. What can the woman do to you, when all is said and done? It isn’t as if anyone will take notice of her plaints, or listen if she tries to slander the Darcys, Argus and his letters notwithstanding. You’re a great man. She’s a nobody.”
Fitz stretched his long legs out and crossed them at the ankles, staring into the ruby depths of his glass with a bitter face. “You were too confined to Pemberley to have known that family when it was together, Ned, that’s the trouble. You didn’t travel with me in those days. My concern over Mary Bennet has nothing to do with expediency — it’s simply prudence. My reputation is my all. Though the Darcys are related to every king who ever sat upon England’s throne, they have escaped the taint of more stupid men — men who snatched at huge honours, great commissions. Now, finally, after a thousand years of waiting, it lies in my power to advance the Darcy name in an absolutely unimpeachable way — as the elected head of England’s Parliament. A duke? An earl marshal of the battlefield? A royal marriage broker? Pah! Mere nothings! England has never sunk so low as under the Hanoverians — petty German princelings with names longer than their ancestry! — but her Parliament has risen in exact step with the diminution of her sovereigns. A prime minister in this day and age, Ned, is
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