Regina’s older brother was a very serious young man of 25, and the impression he first gave was non-descript. He was Bingley’s height—not especially tall—and had the thin features of Maddalena, but without her charm. His reddish hair, sparse compared with Regina’s, was worn short with sideburns. His voice was thin, and he compensated by forcing the tone so that he seemed perpetually anxious. Elizabeth, wary of first impressions, had tried not to judge him harshly. She smiled, listened attentively, tried to draw him out. But by doing so, she unwittingly became a focus of his attention, a project to which he now dedicated himself.
There was nothing that she could rebuke him for. He never teased, flirted, or took liberties. What rankled was his view of her as the clay from which he would sculpt a masterpiece. In every gesture, every utterance, he defined himself as a paragon of refinement, as if placed on earth to judge others and find them wanting. Practical life meant nothing to him. He revered painting, literature, but above all music, especially the Germanic tradition: Mozart, Haydn, and now Beethoven, whose violin sonatas he saw as the pinnacle of culture.
Gabriele approached her, as usual, while the maid cleared up after breakfast.
‘Cominciamo?’ Shall we begin?
‘Subito?’ Right now? Elizabeth could maintain a simple conversation in Italian, or at least the Tuscan variety favoured by the Venice elite; confusingly, the language of the market place was the local Veneto dialect. But for the most part they talked in English, which Gabriele, like Regina, had learned from an early age.
‘We will go through the first movement again, and this time play it rhythmically, as Beethoven intended.’
‘If you wish.’
Thrown on the defensive, Elizabeth wondered why she accepted her role so meekly. Gabriele’s subtext was plain: the unsatisfactory rhythm was not his fault, but entirely hers. Why did she not puncture his arrogance with a rebuttal? She had managed with Darcy, even Lady Catherine, so why not this far less eminent Italian?
The trouble with Gabriele, and also his mother, was that they showed no sign of understanding humour—or at least, not Elizabeth’s brand of it. She might have asked how he was so well-informed of Beethoven’s intentions: had he perhaps consulted the composer himself? It would not have worked. He would stare back at her as if she were deranged. It would be like asserting that two plus two equalled five, or the moon was made of gorgonzola. He was right, everyone who disagreed with him was wrong, so what was there to laugh at?
She followed him to the music room and seated herself at the pianoforte, where the score of Beethoven’s most recent violin sonata awaited her.
3
With Bingley at his side, Darcy rode along a bridle path to Longbourn. It was another cold day, turning the puddles to ice, and he took care to restrain his horse even though the turmoil of his feelings demanded haste.
They had left Netherfield immediately after breakfast, after a gruelling journey completed in a single day, the last part by moonlight. Such a disruption of their plans upset Georgiana and perplexed Caroline and Louisa, who wondered why their brother should come up to Pemberley one day only to return the next. The reason could not be explained without revealing Darcy’s special concern for Elizabeth, and this was of course out of the question. Bingley had insisted on coming too, and after brief resistance Darcy had been grateful for his support; at least his friend would be rewarded by the prospect of further time with Jane.
Their arrival occasioned a typical brouhaha. They were shown to the parlour, to be received by Mary and Kitty, both obviously surprised by Bingley’s presence and overawed by Darcy. Jane had been whisked upstairs by Mrs Bennet for alterations to her hair—as if Bingley’s ardour might be cooled if a curl was discovered out of place. Not for the first time, Darcy was grateful for Bingley’s poise as he chatted to the Bennet girls. Finally the squawking (‘Hill!’) and clatter of footsteps died down, and a demur-looking Jane entered, followed by her mother.
‘Mr Bingley!’ Mrs Bennet gushed. Her voice muted as she turned to Darcy. ‘And Mr Darcy. You are welcome too.’
Bingley bowed. ‘Good morning Mrs Bennet.’ A smile to Jane. ‘Miss Bennet.’ He extended an arm towards Darcy. ‘Excuse our unexpected visit. A matter has arisen over which we would like to confer with Mr Bennet.’
A sharp intake of breath by Mrs Bennet suggested that this utterance had been misconstrued. ‘Of course! You may see him directly in his study. Kitty, inform your father!’
A bewildered Kitty led the way, and they heard Mrs Bennet whisper to Jane: ‘See, he is back already, but what has Mr Darcy to do with it?’
In the sanctuary of Mr Bennet’s study, coffee was ordered, and at last they could get down to business.
‘Let me get straight to the point,’ Bingley said. ‘I have informed Mr Darcy of the letter recently arrived from Italy, and he may be able to help.’
Frowning, Mr Bennet turned to Darcy. ‘Any friend of Mr Bingley’s has my full trust. However, I do not wish the contents of this letter generally known. It would distress my wife and younger daughters.’
‘You have my word.’ Darcy leaned forward and spoke more quietly. ‘Has there been further news?’
‘None.’
‘Just this short note, dated four weeks ago?’
‘Correct.’ Mr Bennet sighed. ‘Probably nothing is seriously amiss, and we may hope for better tidings before long. But I am concerned. The newspapers confirm that cholera is spreading in Austria and northern Italy. We had been relying on Sir Ambrose Havers to ensure my daughter’s safety; he is now gravely ill. What is more, we find no evidence, in Lizzy’s note, that she has received any of Jane’s letters apart from the first. I expected at least some reaction to our news about my youngest daughter Lydia, who is now married to Mr Wickham.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘I assume Mr Bingley informed you?’
Darcy nodded, with a slight smile. ‘I have known Mr Wickham since we were boys, and cannot pretend surprise at what has occurred. However, I am glad that the problem has been resolved, and wish your daughter every happiness.’
Mr Bennet snorted. ‘I would rather wish her some sense, but there is little prospect of that.’ He leaned back in his leather chair, shaking his head. ‘How my brother-in-law achieved this outcome remains mysterious to me, but we are much relieved. If only we had equally reassuring tidings of Lizzy …’ He regarded Darcy quizzically before continuing: ‘I am still unclear, Mr Darcy, of your interest in the matter.’
‘It is twofold.’ Darcy took a deep breath. ‘First, as you will be aware, I have met Miss Elizabeth on a number of occasions, and found her a most pleasant and intelligent young woman. I cannot say we are close friends, but I would hate any harm to come to her. Second, I know the Havers family, through Sir Ambrose’s younger brother Edward, whom I met while we were up at Cambridge. It is through this contact that I may be of assistance. What I suggest is this. I will visit Edward Havers in London, pass on your news of his brother, and find out whether any communications from Venice have reached him. Perhaps through this channel we can obtain the reassurance that you seek.’
‘Capital, sir!’ Mr Bennet sipped coffee, before continuing: ‘I am not, like you, acquainted with Sir Ambrose’s family. I sent a letter to his London address, but have had no reply, so I assume it was not opened by his brother.’
‘Probably forwarded to Venice,’ Bingley mused.
Mr Bennet spread his hands in frustration. ‘In which case it will have ended up God knows where.’
‘I’m surprised communications have proved so poor,’ Darcy said. ‘They were reliable before the war; why not now?’ He looked first at Bingley, then at Mr Bennet. ‘Are we agreed? I will go to town today, consult Edward, then report back, either in person or by express.’
‘You have my gratitude.’ Mr Bennet looked away sadly, perhaps upset that he could take no useful role himself. ‘It is asking a lot that you should continue your travels in such haste. Why not take a day to recuperate?’
‘I fear we might soon be snowbound.’ Darcy paused. ‘Before I leave, may I have a private word with Miss Bennet?’
Mr Bennet looked surprised, but raised no objection. ‘Since you are at your ease, I will ask her to join you. Mr Bingley, it falls to us to attend the other ladies.’
Jane sat opposite him, hands folded in lap, her expression as usual unreadable. Despite the anxiety over her sister, she looked well, buoyed no doubt by the renewal of Bingley’s attentions. With her blonde curls and angelic countenance she was the equal of any society beauty: no wonder Bingley was smitten.
‘You wished to ask about Lizzy’s letters?’ She drew out two sheets, one a scrap, the other a folding letter with tiny handwriting filling every space.
‘Not only.’ Darcy lowered his voice. ‘I wondered whether there might be pointers that Miss Elizabeth had told you, ah, in confidence.’
Jane smiled. ‘Matters that could not be shared with my father?’ Her expression sobered as she sought the right words. ‘Lizzy did mention some of what passed between you in Kent.’
‘Yes?’ He tried to hide his alarm, intrigued to know what Elizabeth had said, but also wondering how this was relevant to the issue.
‘She said you had quarrelled over Mr Wickham.’ Jane reddened. ‘I should tell you also, Mr Darcy, that I am aware of the role you played in helping poor Lydia. It was Lydia herself who let slip your presence at her wedding, after which I applied to my Aunt Gardiner for the particulars.’ Tears pricked her eyes. ‘Unfortunately by then Lizzy had already reached Venice, where she received my first letter, written in August, with the news that Lydia had eloped—or so we supposed. Nearly two months passed before I received a reply.’ Jane held up the folded sheet. ‘Most of it is about her summer in Venice. She describes the beauty of the city, the family’s hospitality, a visit to their glass factory on the island of Murano. She is glad to hear that Mr Bingley has returned to Netherfield, but shocked at Lydia’s folly; she begs me to confirm that a marriage has truly taken place.’
Darcy was silent a moment, digesting this momentous report. ‘Which you had already done, in your next?’
‘Just so.’ Jane struggled to keep her composure. ‘But that letter was sent in September, and from then we heard nothing, until a few days ago, when this arrived.’ She held up the scrap of paper. ‘In Lizzy’s handwriting. But in an envelope addressed by another hand.’
‘Are the contents private?’
‘No.’
Jane handed the sheet over, and Darcy saw that it was brief, and written in a hurry.
Dear Jane, There is cholera in Venice, Sir Ambrose has been taken ill, and I cannot leave the house. Please please write with news of poor Lydia. I know not when I will escape from this trap, and feel sick with foreboding. E.
And that was all.
Darcy asked, very gently, ‘Miss Bennet, you mentioned my, ah, encounter with Miss Elizabeth at Hunsford. Did she give details on what she accused me of?’
Jane considered. ‘The main item was mistreatment of Mr Wickham.’ She looked up. ‘I gather from my aunt that she was in error.’
‘Wickham lied to her.’
‘Apart from that, only general comments on your, ah, character.’ Jane’s face turned pink. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Darcy. If Lizzy knew what you had done for us, she would bitterly regret her words.’
So Jane was unaware of his connivance in separating her from Bingley. Darcy sighed with relief. ‘I trust we both regret what passed that day. But thank you for your kindness.’
They parted on this amicable note, and as Darcy followed Jane out of the study he saw Bingley hovering at the end of the passage.
‘Miss Bennet!’ Bingley confronted Jane with mock outrage. ‘You have spent far too much time with my tall friend, and made me exceedingly jealous! There is a question I have been meaning to ask you, and your father has kindly loaned us his study for the purpose.’
Darcy left them alone, with a wink at his friend as they passed.
4
Darcy left his Mayfair house early, skipping breakfast, in hope of finding Edward Havers still at home. The family was more respectable than wealthy; Edward made do with a flat in Marylebone Road, near a park now being redesigned under the patronage of the Prince Regent. Except for a brief flurry the snow had held off, so Darcy, weary of riding, went on foot.
A maid-of-all-work led him to a drawing room occupied by an owlish young man named Algernon Hare who shared the diggings with Edward. The interior was genteel but falling into disrepair, with the fading wallpaper mostly concealed by a pair of huge bookcases—evidently for use by Mr Hare, since Edward had never been studious. A little probing revealed that Edward was dressing, having been abed when Darcy rang. From the kitchen came the appetizing aroma of sizzling bacon, and Darcy was glad to accept two rashers on a buttered roll, washed down with a mug of tea.
Mr Hare tactfully left them alone, and when they had eaten, and Edward had fully woken up, Darcy imparted the grave news. At first, Edward was too shocked to respond. He had received no word that his brother was ill, and of course had no reason to expect such tidings from a man he had scarcely met since university.
‘I must leave for Venice directly.’ He paced the room. ‘But how is such a journey to be planned? Or financed?’
‘I can help on both points.’ Darcy pointed to the chair. ‘Calm down, Edward. We must first visit your brother’s London house, to find out if post has arrived there. Or have you already checked?’
Edward returned mechanically to his armchair. ‘I haven’t passed by Montagu Square for months. The servant should have informed me of any urgent messages.’
‘Shall we go right away? We can flag down a hackney on the Marylebone road.’
‘Or walk it in ten minutes.’
Edward Havers cheered up once they were on the move. He was tall, the same height as Darcy, but carried himself loosely, like a puppet, slightly stooped, with his arms flapping. At Cambridge he had been seen as one of the brightest men of his year, but through indolence had left with a mediocre degree in classics, and after that subsisted on an allowance. Perhaps for this reason he had never married, although he could charm the ladies when he made the effort.
‘Have you other kin who might have received post from Italy?’ Darcy asked, as they turned off Marylebone Road into a quieter side-street.
Edward shook his head. ‘My mother died shortly after I was born; father never remarried. We have cousins, but I doubt Ambrose would inform them at such a time. He would write to me, at my apartment.’
‘Who else was in the party?’
‘Lady Regina, Miss Bennet, and Ambrose’s daughter.’ Edward’s face softened. ‘Céline. You see, he married a Frenchwoman, Paulette Le Bon, when they were both in their early twenties. Her family had fled from Paris after the revolution and lost most of their fortune. Paulette sickened and died when Céline was two years old. It was a love match, and my brother was devastated. During those years Céline was the consolation of his life, as he took over the baronetcy and struggled to rebuild the family fortunes. During the summer, he met the most entrancing Italian woman at a soirée. The Carandinis are wealthy through manufacturing, and their daughter Regina is a classic auburn-haired Venetian beauty. My brother was bowled over. Within two months they were married.’
Darcy nodded—he had heard some of this from Mr Gardiner, while negotiating Lydia Bennet’s marriage to Wickham. ‘Even though her father was seriously ill?’
‘Signor Carandini was delighted with the match, and urged them to proceed directly by special license.’ Edward halted his loping walk, as if to emphasize the point. ‘He was concerned, you see, with Regina’s safety, so far from home. He saw that my brother was not only titled, but a trustworthy man who would never let his wife come to harm.’
At Montagu Square, an elderly footman showed them to the parlour, and brought a carafe of wine and box of mail. Edward, still distressed, drank a glass straight off as he sorted through the letters; Darcy
took only token sips. There was no correspondence from the continent, but Darcy noticed an envelope addressed in Mr Bennet’s hand, confirming that the enquiry had not been forwarded to Venice.
Edward refilled his glass with a sigh. ‘There is nothing further to be done in London. My brother is sick; Céline is left in the care of a woman she has known just a few weeks. I must go to Venice.’
Darcy nodded gravely. ‘It is painful, Edward, but have you considered the consequences if your brother dies?’
‘I would inherit the title.’
‘And Céline would return to this country under your guardianship. The Carandinis have no claim, nor any motive to keep her.’
‘Another reason I must go to Italy.’
He sounded desperate, and Darcy took pains to respond calmly.
‘It is a terrible situation, but I believe we can make the best of it. First, I have every confidence in Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and feel sure she will give support both to Lady Regina and Céline. Second, I can help you with the practical arrangements.’ Darcy drank a little more wine as he thought the matter through. ‘My cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam has travelled extensively in Europe, and I was able to pick his brains at dinner last night. Venice can be reached most quickly by sea. Merchant ships leave often from London to Gibraltar, which is firmly in British control and a hub in the trading networks. From there you should find ships sailing to the Adriatic. Given luck and reasonable weather, you could be there within three weeks.’
Edward brightened for a moment, then slumped back in his chair. ‘There remains the question of finance.’
Darcy's Journey Page 2
