Darcy's Journey

by M. A. Sandiford

  Darcy was silent for several seconds. He had to decide now. Leaning forward, he said quietly, ‘What if I offered to fund the venture, and came with you?’

  5

  January 1815

  The physician was a neat man with hair that must have silvered prematurely, since he seemed in his early thirties. He spoke with exaggerated clarity, as if explaining complexities to a child. His name was Orsini, and he had attended the family regularly during Sir Ambrose Havers’s illness.

  ‘Un poco più alto, signorina.’ A bit higher. Elizabeth raised the black veil, exposing her neck. He walked round, examining her from every angle but not touching. ‘Va bene.’ Okay.

  From the edge of the parlour, Signora Carandini and Regina observed. Orsini gestured that he had finished, and turned to report to Regina’s mother. Favoured by his meticulous speech, Elizabeth understood most of it. She was still pallida, pale, but there were no signs of sickness. It was safe for her to leave the house but she should be accompanied by someone who knew the city well, so that she would not stray into the poorer areas where there might remain pockets of the miasmas, or bad air, that were responsible for cholera.

  Elizabeth offered to pay—she had brought a bag of ducats—but Claudia Carandini waved this away: she was their guest, and the fee would be added to the family account.

  Regina took her arm as the physician was shown out, and led her to a divan in the drawing room. ‘So, my dear Elisabetta, it appears that you are not sick, so let us try to cheer you up.’

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘I’m supposed to be joining Gabriele in the music room.’

  ‘Ha! Always he wants to practise.’ She drew closer and whispered, ‘You understand how he admires you?’

  Elizabeth forced a smile. ‘I try, Regina, but if I rehearsed day and night I would never meet his standards.’

  ‘Oh, that is just his way. Yes, he is shy, he cannot express his feelings. But inside …’ She touched her heart. ‘Surely you understand.’

  Elizabeth made a moue. ‘He shows no shyness in expressing his critical feelings.’

  Regina laughed. ‘There! Already your spirit returns.’

  Elizabeth recalled the camaraderie they had once enjoyed, but as the moment passed, the darkness overtook her. ‘It is you who have cause to sorrow, not I.’

  Regina looked away. ‘I am, how do you say, adjusting to the loss. My husband suffers no more, and we must thank God for that.’

  ‘Have you heard from his family?’

  ‘Not yet. Ambrose left an address in London where his brother lives, and I sent two letters. I hope one at least gets through, but according to Gabriele, the post is still in confusion.’

  Elizabeth fell silent. She had written repeatedly to Jane and her father since the onset of the cholera scare, but received not a single reply. The last communication had arrived in September, bringing the alarming news of Lydia’s supposed elopement with Mr Wickham. Her instinct had been to return immediately, but how could this be arranged without obliging Sir Ambrose to curtail his visit? So she had held off a few more weeks, hoping for reassuring news; then the cholera had struck, and Sir Ambrose had been confined to his bed with distressing symptoms.

  Although irked by the regime imposed by Gabriele, with Orsini’s support, Elizabeth had not feared for her own safety, nor that of Regina or Céline. They were assured that cholera was not infectious. It was caused by evil miasmas that gathered in poor areas of the city, where people lived in squalor. Orsini had dealt with dozens of cases among his wealthy clientele, without contracting the disease himself. He had treated Sir Ambrose with opium and regular bleeding, and recommended a restricted diet of beef tea and diluted wine. But the disease had proved too virulent, and in early December Regina’s husband had passed away, leaving the family again in mourning, and Céline distraught.

  Gabriele came into the drawing room, wearing his habitual frown.

  ‘Signorina? I am awaiting you in the music room nearly half an hour.’

  Elizabeth rose slowly to her feet. Gabriele’s attentions were becoming suffocating, but at least the music helped pass the time …

  ‘No, no, no!’ Gabriele Carandini deposited his violin and bow on a divan and joined Elizabeth at the piano. ‘It is marked rallentando.’ He pointed at the sheet music, his elbow coming so close to her ear that Elizabeth had to lean away.

  ‘I did slow down,’ she said.

  ‘Not enough! Look, we are reaching the end of the development section, and the main theme is about to return. Do you not see?’

  There was a tap on the door, and the maid Sofia entered timidly.

  ‘Scusatemi.’ Excuse me. She edged towards Elizabeth, and whispered in Italian, ‘Lady Regina requests your presence in the parlour. Two gentlemen have arrived. From England.’

  Elizabeth gasped, and turned to Gabriele, who glared at the maid in irritation.

  ‘We are not finished.’ He ran to the divan and picked up his violin. ‘Miss Bennet will come later.’

  ‘No!’ Elizabeth faced him, hands on hips, amazed at his unfeeling reaction. Could this be Mr Gardiner, or even her father? She wanted to ask Sofia, but in her excitement the Italian words escaped her. ‘We will continue later.’

  As they entered the parlour, she heard Regina talking in English, her voice hushed; her mother sat beside her on the window seat, intent as she struggled to follow. The visitors had been seated in the library chairs. Elizabeth recognised a gangling young man as Sir Ambrose’s brother, Edward. They had met briefly at the wedding, where he had chatted to her with a relaxed charm that reminded her of Bingley; now he sat rigidly as Regina described Sir Ambrose’s final days, and their efforts to inform the family in England.

  The other gentleman had his back to her. She realised straight away that he could not be Mr Gardiner, nor her father; he was too tall and strongly built. In fact he reminded her of …

  Regina ran over to enfold her hands and usher her into the room. ‘Elisabetta, come and meet our visitors. You know Mr Edward, my brother-in-law. And this gentleman—’ The other man turned, giving Elizabeth such a shock that her legs nearly gave way, and she clung to Regina for support. ‘—is his friend, Mr Darcy. With whom I believe you are already acquainted?’

  ‘Miss Bennet.’ Darcy bowed stiffly, his unease as great as her own. ‘Excuse such an unexpected intrusion.’

  Elizabeth managed a token curtsy. ‘But why …’

  Darcy held an arm towards Edward. ‘I am accompanying Mr Havers, a friend from university. It seems we are too late, since sadly his brother has passed away. Lady Havers is kindly bringing us up-to-date. Afterwards, he would like to see his niece …’

  Elizabeth asked Regina, ‘Where is Céline?’

  ‘Playing with Maddalena,’ Regina said. ‘I thought it better to leave her there for the moment.’

  Elizabeth addressed the whole room. ‘I’m sorry for interrupting. We should allow Lady Havers to continue her narrative.’

  ‘I wonder …’ Darcy said to Regina. ‘Is there another reception room where I could have a word in private with Miss Bennet?’

  The salotto was across the hallway. Elizabeth heard echoes of Gabriele’s violin as he played the sonata on his own. She grimaced: this stubborn refusal to greet the visitors was typical of Regina’s brother. He had to finish his practice first, as if to underline the importance of what he was doing.

  She asked Sofia in Italian to bring coffee and cake, and left the door ajar so that they would remain in open view.

  ‘I did not know you were acquainted with the Havers family,’ Elizabeth said, offering Darcy the divan. He sat near her armchair, so that they were just a yard apart and could speak quietly.

  ‘Only Edward really.’

  ‘I’m sorry that he has come so far, only to learn such tragic news.’

  Darcy nodded, as if unsure how to reply, then drew a bundle of papers from his coat pocket.

  ‘Miss Bennet, having heard from Mr Bingley that you were in Venice, I took
the liberty of bringing letters from your family.’

  Elizabeth accepted the package with a trembling hand. ‘But how …’

  She paused, blushing at their mutual disquiet, and after a pause he said, ‘You will no doubt prefer to read them in the privacy of your room. Would you allow me, however, to assure you that all is well? I visited Bingley at Netherfield shortly before leaving England, and was glad to find all your family in excellent health.’

  Elizabeth stared at him. ‘Including … my youngest sister?’

  ‘You have heard no news?’

  ‘Only …’ Her eyes moistened. ‘Excuse me, Mr Darcy. I cannot say.’

  He extended a hand, as if to comfort her, then caught himself and withdrew. ‘Miss Lydia is now married to Mr Wickham, and living in the north, where her husband has accepted a commission in the army.’

  ‘Oh!’ Elizabeth shuddered with relief, and this time there was no holding back tears. If only he would leave her now! She buried face in hands, emerging to find him waiting patiently; a clean handkerchief had appeared on the arm of her chair.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She dried her eyes, glancing towards the doorway to check that this intimate gesture had not been observed, then hesitated, unsure what to do with the used handkerchief.

  ‘Keep it,’ Darcy said. ‘I have plenty more.’

  She muttered her thanks, and after a short pause continued: ‘Mr Darcy, you should return to your friend. I am unfit for company.’

  He looked disappointed. ‘But think, is there anything you wish to ask me urgently?’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear that Mr Bingley has returned to Netherfield. I thought …’ She sighed. ‘I never expected to meet either of you again.’

  Darcy smiled, not ironically but with what appeared genuine pleasure. ‘He has indeed returned, and is now a happy man, as you will learn when you read your letters.’

  Bedrooms had been reallocated after the funeral. Céline now shared with Maddalena, and Elizabeth with Regina, who had preferred to leave the chamber where her husband had lain. Grateful for solitude, Elizabeth sank into a soft corner chair that she used for reading, and opened her letters.

  Everyone had written except Lydia: there was even a sarcastic note from Caroline Bingley, praising her enterprise in travelling so far away, and congratulating the family on its new in-law. Kitty bemoaned the loss of the militia; Mary listed the piano pieces she had recently learned; Mrs Bennet fretted over Elizabeth’s wardrobe; Mr Bennet affectionately hoped she was well, and asked her to return as soon as possible so that he might have some sensible conversation. All of them referred her to Jane for an account of what had transpired.

  Jane’s letter, filling four sheets front and back, opened with an appeal for confidentiality: the truth of how Wickham had been found, and persuaded to marry Lydia, had been withheld from everyone else, even Mr Bennet. In her impatience Elizabeth raced through this section, her stomach aflutter, occasionally murmuring out loud in disbelief: This cannot be! Jane must surely have misunderstood. But the letter included verbatim citations from Mrs Gardiner, and Elizabeth recognized her aunt’s clear, rational style. The story also made sense, for who else but Darcy had the resources to locate the fugitives, and proffer £10,000 to pay off Wickham’s debts and induce him to marry?

  Having re-read Jane’s narrative more carefully, Elizabeth put the letter aside. If this were true, as it must be, her entire dealings with Wickham and Darcy had to be re-evaluated. Wickham’s allegation against Darcy was false: he had not been deprived of the living, but had renounced it in return for the generous sum of £3,000. And it was this allegation that she had hurled in Darcy’s face after his proposal at Hunsford. Another point immediately struck her. Darcy’s letter! If she had only put sense above convention and accepted his explanation, none of this would have happened. She could have informed her father, he would have acted promptly, and Lydia would have been protected. It was she, Elizabeth, who was the villain. She had rejected and abused a good man, refused to heed his warnings, and put her sister in grave danger. She had been so confident in her own judgement, so cavalier in exposing Darcy’s faults and cutting him down to size. And she had accused him of pride! How he must despise her …

  In which case, why had he done all this? What could possibly have spurred him to go to such trouble and expense, merely to save Lydia, a foolish girl who was not his responsibility? Could it have been for herself? Was it conceivable that he still loved her?

  No. It was inconceivable. Her own follies apart, Darcy would never contemplate a match that made him brother-in-law of Wickham.

  In that case, why come to Italy? Was he concerned for her safety? So concerned that he would cross a whole continent to assist a woman who had treated him so ill?

  Again, no. He must have other reasons. It would be entirely in character for him to accompany his impecunious friend. As a cultured man he would be eager to tour Europe—an experience blocked for over a decade by the war. He could have no special interest in her …

  Except, perhaps, to reassure Jane, now to become the wife of his best friend. And perhaps most of all, to relieve his resentment at being insulted and falsely accused by one whom he had loved.

  As she wallowed in shame, Elizabeth felt no warmth towards Darcy. He was an honourable man, no doubt, but he could not love her now, nor could she feel comfortable with him. It was as if all his actions had been designed to highlight her inadequacies. She had accused him of separating Jane from Bingley; now they were engaged. She had accused him of casting off the companion of his youth; now Wickham was exposed as a scoundrel who had risked the reputation of her family. It was only through Darcy’s selfless intervention that they had been saved.

  If only he would leave her be, return to England, and let her drown in shame!

  6

  The dining room was designed to impress, with its long oval table, chandeliers, and windows overlooking the Grand Canal. Darcy waited while the family assembled, hoping that Elizabeth had been reassured by the letters from Longbourn. When she arrived, looking dazed but composed, he followed her to the table, only to find his path blocked by Gabriele Carandini, who pushed in with a muttered apology to claim the place at her side.

  Frustrated, Darcy seated himself next to Gabriele, who threw him an irritated glance before resuming a conversation in Italian with Elizabeth. Two footmen served broth with rice. By listening carefully Darcy could follow the gist of what Gabriele was saying, a classical education in Latin proving useful for once by allowing him to guess words. It seemed that now that the danger from cholera had abated, Elizabeth was to embark on a voyage of cultural discovery, including visits to art galleries and the opera—and all under Gabriele’s tutelage.

  It was simple fare, warming and filling. With Gabriele monopolising Elizabeth, and Regina captivating Edward, Darcy was left to himself. He ate in silence, trying to divine Elizabeth’s response to Gabriele. There was something relentless, even obsessional, in the Italian’s manner; his nasal voice grated the nerves. Elizabeth, when able to get a word in, replied politely, but Darcy could find no trace of her usual sparkle, except for one or two attempts at gentle irony which seemed to go over Gabriel’s head—indeed, he paid little attention to anything she said, treating her interjections as an opportunity to catch his breath before resuming his own lecture.

  As he surveyed the gathering, Darcy noted that he was not the only person eavesdropping this conversation. Signora Carandini was too subtle to stare, but every few seconds her gaze flicked to Elizabeth, as if to assess her son’s progress; she also glanced often at Edward, a hint of a smile forming as she saw him falling under Regina’s spell.

  As the soup plates were cleared away, Signora Carandini clapped her hands, gaining the attention of everyone except Gabriele, who continued his addresses to Elizabeth as if they were the only people in the room. A louder clap from his mother silenced him, and she began what Darcy guessed was a welcoming speech.

  ‘My mother is honoured,’ Re
gina translated, ‘to receive our distinguished visitors. She hopes that despite our sad bereavement Sir Edward will accept the family’s hospitality and spend some time in Venice. We regret we cannot accommodate his friend Mr Darcy.’ Regina reddened as she faced Darcy. ‘You are welcome to visit any time. But no doubt you will be eager to continue your tour and see Florence and Rome as well as Venice.’

  Aware of Signora Carandini’s alert gaze, Darcy replied with relaxed composure. ‘I perfectly understand. For the time being I will find a hotel and remain in Venice.’

  He glanced at Elizabeth, but could not tell whether her expression was anxious or relieved. As if alarmed by his scrutiny she looked away, and to cover her embarrassment he addressed Gabriele. ‘While I am here, Signor Carandini, there is a business matter we should discuss. Before his untimely death, your father was eager to renew his trading arrangement with Mr Gardiner. On learning of my plan to visit Italy, Mr Gardiner entrusted me with a document proposing terms for a regular order of glass beads, for sale to jewellers in London. If you can propose a convenient time we can go over the details …’

  He broke off, disconcerted by Carandini’s strained expression. It was as if he were listening to Darcy under duress, while seeking the earliest opportunity to resume his conversation with Elizabeth—who, by contrast, was giving Darcy her full attention.

  There was an awkward pause, before Gabriele replied wearily: ‘I regret you have been misinformed. I have never played any part in the running of the, ah, business.’

  Darcy frowned. ‘I assumed that as eldest son …’

  ‘I am owner.’ He took a deep breath, his chest swelling. ‘Not manager. I am interested only in music and other cultural pursuits.’

  ‘Then with whom should I speak?’

  ‘My cousin. Mario. Also Carandini.’

  It was like squeezing liquid from stone. ‘And how do I find Signor Mario? Does he live nearby?’

  ‘Murano, near the factory. You must take a boat.’