1
NEWCASTLE, ENGLAND. 1832
It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a fun-loving lady, who will not see her thirty-fifth birthday again, is likely to be exceedingly irritated by having to present to her social circle a daughter who is eighteen years of age. It means that all present will know that she is not as young as she pretends to be!
Lydia Allerton, once Bennet, once Wickham, was just such a lady and her distaste for the evening’s event was beginning to show in her tone of voice as she rushed into her daughter’s bedroom, surrounded by a cloud of strong perfume, impatiently waving away the little maid who was just putting the finishing touches to Cassandra Wickham’s very sophisticated evening hairstyle.
“Really, Cassie, what are you doing to be so tardy? Your dear Papa and I are going to all this trouble to bring you out at the regimental ball, the event of the season, and you sit there, frowning, as if you were headed for a funeral. Do stop pulling such a long face; you will give yourself wrinkles before you are nineteen!”
Cassandra Wickham stared into the dressing-table mirror: she hardly recognised the girl she saw there: her long, amber toned hair had been put up in an elaborate arrangement and because she had refused to colour her cheeks, she looked pale. At her mother’s words, she bit her lip so the phrase, “The Colonel isn’t my real father” didn’t escape. This was not the evening for an argument, although the words hurt her heart. It was ten years since she had lost her dear papa but the pain had never completely gone away.
“Mama, I really don’t want to go. I shan’t enjoy it at all. And this dress …” She hesitated and pulled at the bodice of the bright pink satin gown her mother had chosen. It was cut so very low and there wasn’t even a ruffle of lace to cover the top of her breasts. Indeed, it seemed to Cassandra almost indecent to go out in public dressed like this. She tugged at the puff-sleeves, trying to bring them higher onto her shoulders.
“La! Of course you want to go. What is wrong with you, child?” She frowned and then rubbed her forehead, anxious that no crease should form, but really the girl annoyed her so much sometimes. “Why, I was well married by your age and lived for balls and dancing and young men. Did I ever tell you of the time I spent in Brighton with poor dear Wickham? Think of all the officers you will meet tonight!”
Lydia twirled round the room, her own bright green silk, over-garlanded with flounces and pink roses, flashing in the candle-light, her face too powdered and rouged, but every ounce of her passion for life showing in her vulgar movements. She adored balls and dancing and the militia and failed to understand that her only child did not follow her inclinations. But then she also failed to understand that her daughter had not inherited a single part of her own self-centred approach to life and mocked her curiosity about the world, her desire to know about far off countries and people.
Cassandra sighed: she loved her mother, but she didn’t understand her. Lydia never read a book or a newspaper, had no interest in anything that happened outside of the regiment, talked only regimental gossip, which officer was to be promoted, whose wife was flirting with whose husband. She ought to act like a staid matron, but tonight, as usual, she was behaving like a young girl, and a very silly one at that. Sometimes, Cassandra had the strangest feeling—that although she was only eighteen, she was older than her mother even though Lydia had been married, widowed and married for a second time.
“The General himself might be there tonight, think of that! And dear Major Downham promised to attend, I do declare, although he has just recently been widowed, poor man, as well as so many very eligible young Lieutenants.
I’m sure your Aunt Kitty Collins would give anything to have the chance to bring out poor Catherine Collins at such an affair. As you know, she wrote to me only recently wondering if she had left it too late to arrange one. I told her that it was, not to bother. Why, Catherine must be over twenty by now. Why should Kitty arrange and pay for a dance for that exceedingly plain girl? She is a very distant cousin. Anyway, I’m sure any dance at Meryton would be the dullest thing imaginable compared to ours here in Newcastle.”
Cassandra pulled on her long white gloves, thankful that at least some bare flesh would be covered. She thought it best not to reply to her mama who tended to get resentful about any comments regarding her sister Kitty whom, having been destined by friends and family for certain spinsterhood, had to their surprise and annoyance—because no one likes to be proved wrong—suddenly married their cousin, Mr Collins, when he was sadly widowed The fact that recently the head of the family, Mr Bennet, had died and thus Mr and Mrs Collins, with his daughter Catherine and their new little girl, Harriet, were now in residence at Longbourn—the house and estate being entailed away from the Bennet family through the male line—only infuriated her more.
But at least she did write to Kitty; letters from her other sister, Mary, went unanswered. To the astonishment of the entire family, Mary had married an elderly, learned cleric, The Reverend Malliot, and was now undertaking missionary work out in Africa. They had a daughter, Miriam, but no one in the family had ever seen her. She had been born on a sailing vessel as the Malliots headed for their life of service in the wilds of that savage land.
“Now remember, Cassie,” her mother scolded as they made their way downstairs to the hall. “I don’t want to catch you talking about any silly old books to your partners. No one wants to marry a girl who talks about things they don’t understand.”
“Mama, I am going to a ball to dance and hopefully enjoy myself, not look for a husband. And anyway, Dr Courtney was interested in my views on The Last of the Mohicans when I met him by chance in town the other day. He was purchasing a volume of essays at the bookstore.”
Lydia tapped her arm with her fan. “Dr Courtney, Dr Courtney indeed, who is Dr Courtney to be talking to a young lady about fiendish savages in a foreign land! He should be ashamed of himself, and you, too, Miss, for conversing with him in public about such things.”
“It was all perfectly proper, Mama. You know he is a gentleman. His father is Sir Edgar Courtney. He owns a big estate close to the coast, near Alnwick, I believe.”
Lydia sniffed disdainfully. “A doctor is, of course, not a tradesman, but I would have more time for the man if he joined the colours and wore a uniform. He is not the eldest son, I believe? Does he have property near here?”
Cassandra shook her head. “He has two older brothers and he mentioned a sister, as well. I believe he practices medicine in a county further south. He is staying in Newcastle to attend a friend’s wedding. I’m sure he has a house of his own, although he did not mention it particularly.”
“Two elder brothers! Well, the Courtney estate and title will certainly not come to him. I suggest you turn your attention to some of the officers you will meet tonight.”
“Mama! I do not look at every gentleman I see with thoughts of having him as a husband.”
Lydia tapped her cheek sharply with her fan. “Then, my dear, you are a very foolish girl. We may have very rich relations, but you can be sure none of their money will come our way. It is a disgrace that neither of your aunts, who have the funds and ability to do so, have once offered to bring you out into society. Why even my own Aunt and Uncle Gardiner over in Ireland seem to have sewn up their pockets although I suppose that is no great surprise seeing they have lost most of their money and have relied on Lizzie to settle them in some small way over there. No, it is up to me and your stepfather to do our very best to secure you a husband and a settled future. And Colonel Allerton will be sure to put himself in the forefront of those dreadful battles he talks about if another one occurs. If he should go the same way as my poor, dear Wickham, what would become of us then?”
Cassandra hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. Dr Richard Courtney was not, of course, her family’s own medic, because they were cared for by the regimental doctor. But she had met the dark-haired gentleman four times now at various functions and had danced with him once, although he had not actually partnered her -they had met on a lengthways, swung round each other and clapped hands briefly.
They had been formally introduced the same evening by the mother of a friend. It had been so unusual to converse with someone who actually read and liked books—most of the young officers of her acquaintance did not—preferring young ladies who might occasionally flick through the pages of fashion magazines, but did not tackle tales of high adventure in the wilds of the Americas.
She wondered, the colour creeping into her cheeks, if he would be at the ball tonight. Of course, he might have a prior attachment, but she had liked the kindness and intelligence she saw in his grey eyes and he had smiled so warmly at her when they parted in town the other day. From his conversation she had judged that here was a decent man, a man of compassion, a man to be trusted.
He had accompanied her from the bookshop and walked beside her to where her friend’s carriage was waiting. He had taken her hand and helped her to mount the steps and she was sure she had not imagined that he had squeezed her fingers slightly before parting. She had mentioned the ball and he had smiled and nodded. Surely that meant he would be attending. Perhaps he would, at least, ask her to dance.
Just then the door to the library opened and Colonel Allerton came into the hall; tall, heavy-set, the medals on his dress uniform gleaming. He smiled broadly at his wife and step-daughter and brushed the heavy black moustache that curled across his face, hiding lips that were too red and too wet for Cassandra’s liking.
“Why, my dear Lydia, what a delightful sight. Two young women to accompany me to the ball. What more could a man desire?”
“La, Sir, you are too kind,” Lydia giggled flirtatiously and spun round on her heels to show him her gown. “Here you see a little old lady like myself, showing off this great tall girl to the elite of the regiment. She is the one to receive your admiration tonight.”
Colonel Allerton smiled at Cassandra and for one moment a nursery book she remembered reading when little about a fox hunting a chicken flashed through her mind.
“Yes, indeed. Come here, child. Let me have a good look at you.” He pulled her forward and pushed the wrap off her shoulders.
Cassandra stood very still, hating the feeling of his thick fingers touching her warm skin. Surely one’s step-papa should not let his touch linger so long on the tender skin just above the edge of her dress. She pulled away a little; she had always disliked him.
When she was eight, her own father, “my poor dear Wickham” as her mama called him, had died out in India where the regiment was then stationed. His patrol had been ambushed and there had been no survivors. When the news had reached England, Lydia Wickham had spent one week of hysterics, another of enjoying her widowhood and the condolences of friends and family and then, within a scandalously short four months, she was engaged to marry Colonel Allerton.
Memories of her father were few but Cassandra cherished them. A walk in the snow, her hand held tightly in his, the scratch of his face against her soft cheek when he stooped to kiss her; being held against him, high up on his horse as they cantered round a meadow, with her mama’s shrieks of concern mingling with her papa’s laughter.
In her treasure box on her dressing-table, were some of her most prized possessions. A dark blue shawl sent all the way from India for her to wear when she was grown up and two little wooden animals, a fox and a rabbit that her father had carved from a piece of wood he found one day when they were out for a walk. She vowed she would never part with them.
Cassandra often felt guilty of her feelings towards Colonel Allerton. She knew there was no good reason to dislike him so much. He obviously had enough feelings for her mother to marry her. They kept a good table; she’d always had the lessons in music and sewing that he thought fit for a young lady, and even new clothes whenever her mother deemed it necessary. When she was young, she’d tried hard to keep out of his way, but as she had grown older, she hated the way he looked at her and once he had entered the bathroom just as her maid was helping her out of the bath. He’d laughed and left at once, but for some reason, Cassandra had never thought it the accident he claimed.
“Yes, you’ll do very well, my dear. Very well,” he said now and the gleam in his dark, shrewd eyes made a shiver run across her skin.
Three hours later, the regimental ball was in full swing. The air in the long, low-ceilinged room was hot and heavy—the chalk from the dance floor had been disturbed by polished boots and fancy dancing slippers and sent flying upwards where it mingled with the drifting smoke of many tall candles, a myriad of perfumes and perspiration and the greasy smells from food laid out in the room next door.
Cassandra’s head was spinning from the loud music, the chatter and laughter, the glitter of jewels and medals, the scarlet tunics and vivid colours of the ballgowns. She had been surprised and secretly pleased to be asked to dance immediately. Indeed, she had danced a great deal—every time she went to sit out, either her mama or Colonel Allerton was there, introducing her to yet another gentleman, another officer. There was a little part of her that was pleased to be so honoured; she knew most girls would have been thrilled to have been so acknowledged at their first public outing. But there was another part that felt she was making too much show in the low-cut satin dress and that some tendrils of hair were escaping from the upswept arrangement to tumble down the back of her neck.
Two officers had danced with her twice—they were both over forty, and had little conversation except to ask her age and whether she rode and, oddly, one of them, whether she had knowledge of small children, nieces and nephews, perhaps? They had both held her hands too tightly for comfort: one of them had breath that offended her so much she had almost choked when his face came close to hers and the other’s face was so red above his tight stock that she’d worried he might have a fit right there on the dance floor. His hands had been hot and damp and she had forced herself not to rub hers against her dress to wipe away the moisture.
She was sitting now on her own; her mother had just been swept away by a young subaltern and Cassandra could hear her loud laugh ringing out from the other side of the hall. Just then a dark blue coat with shiny buttons appeared in front of her and she raised her eyes to find Richard Courtney standing there, frowning down at her.
Cassandra smiled warmly and automatically began to rise, thinking he was about to ask her to dance, but to her mortification, he swung up the tails of his dress coat and sat down next to her.
“Miss Wickham.”
“Dr Courtney.”
“I did not think to see you here tonight.”
“Why Sir, I believe I mentioned when we met in town that I would be attending.”
“Yes, but I had understood … I thought …” He broke off abruptly and then went on, “I did not realise you would be out in public. I thought you would be under the quiet protection of your parents.”
Cassandra stiffened at the obvious annoyance in his voice. Why should it matter to him and why did he have the impudence to comment? They had only spoken a few times. Had he been under some misapprehension, had he imagined she was what, fourteen, fifteen; a child who would sit watching from the little gilt chairs set aside for elderly ladies, chaperones and young girls?
“Indeed, my parents did bring me here tonight. I am turned eighteen, Sir. Indeed, I am late in making a first appearance, but my skirts have been lengthened for several years.”
“I obviously did not expect to see you wearing pinafores!” Cassandra could think of nothing to say in reply. She was bewildered by his irritation and the insulting way he was looking at her. And she suddenly wished her discarded wrap was nearby. He obviously did not approve of her appearance. Perhaps the young ladies of his acquaintance would not wear such a garment, or dance so much.
After a long pause he said, “You seem to have made a conquest of several gentlemen tonight.”
“Conquest? No indeed, Sir. I have been honoured to have been chosen to partner certain of the officers. That is all.”
Dr Courtney stood up abruptly and muttered something under his breath that sounded remarkably like “paraded in a cattle market”, which, of course made no sense at all.
“I will take my leave of you, Miss Wickham. I trust you will enjoy the rest of the evening.” With a brief bow, he turned and strode away into the crowd.
Cassandra stared after him, bewildered and a little angry. What had happened to the warm smile, the friendly words? Her dress was perhaps a little sophisticated for her, but she had only been dancing, not romping or giggling. What was she supposed to have done? Ignored all the officers and waited until Dr Richard Courtney thought it the right time to approach her? She fanned herself vigorously. She refused to be dependent on a man for her enjoyment of the evening. Indeed, she would not wait for any man.
The room suddenly felt very hot and very crowded. She looked in vain for her mother but she was dancing at the far end of the room, laughing uproariously, out of reach. There was no sign of her stepfather.
Cassandra stood up and made her way through the crowd. She had noticed that at the side of the room, doors led into a pleasant indoor garden, full of potted plants, flower arches and shrubbery with glass doors that opened out onto the true garden itself. Lanterns shaped as fruit hung amongst the branches and a fountain splashed and foamed into a stone pond where small golden fish swam amongst the lily pads.
Cassandra was grateful to feel the cooler air on her face and wandered to the far end of the room where a stone bench was placed inside a little arbour made of evergreen branches. She sank down to rest, kicking off the pink satin shoes that were pinching her feet. She knew she would be missed and could not stay away from the ballroom for long, but she wanted just a few moments peace to think about what had just happened. Why had Richard Courtney changed his attitude towards her so violently? He had been so kind, so courteous the last time they met at the bookshop. She couldn’t understand what could have possibly happened to make him so annoyed.
But she had only been seated a few minutes when she heard men’s voices and she shrank back, deeper into the shadows. That was her stepfather speaking! How embarrassing it would be for him to find her out here on her own. Other voices spoke now, there seemed to be three gentlemen with him and they were coming closer.
“Well, Doctor, and have you had the pleasure of dancing with my stepdaughter yet?”
To Cassandra’s horror she realised Dr Courtney was one of the men.
“No, Colonel, I have not. To be frank, I feel she is very young to be out amongst some of this raucous company.”
The Colonel and the other men began to laugh and Cassandra covered her ears with her hands, refusing to listen to the obvious dislike in his tone. Several minutes passed and, at last, she took her fingers away, only to find the men were now standing just the other side of her arbour.
“So, Allerton, what price are you asking?’’ “One hundred guineas, Sir.”
There was a loud, coarse laugh. “Too rich for me, I’m afraid. Although she’s a pretty little thing, I must admit. Flesh like a peach.” Another voice joined in, “Well, Allerton, I’m in dire need of a wife. I have three children under five and miss a warm body in my bed. She’s biddable, do you say?”
“Aye, Sir. You have my word on that. Not like her mother at all! She leads me a merry dance. You can do what you will with this one.”
“Ninety guineas and there’s my hand on it. I’ll come tomorrow and make my offer and the banns can be called straight away. I take it there will be no demur from the girl or your lady wife?”
“None, Sir, I’ll see to that. And here’s my hand to seal it. Now, what do you all say to a brandy?”
The voices and footsteps faded away, leaving Cassandra sitting, unable to move, chilled to the bone with shock. Horrified, she could not believe what she had just heard. Her stepfather had just sold her to one of his friends. Sold her to be married! As if she were a slave. And as the blood began to pound in her head, she realised two things. One, she had no idea how she could stop it happening and two, Dr Richard Courtney, whom she had thought a man of honour, a man she might trust, had stood by and said nothing in her defence!
A summer storm was raging as two nights later, a long way from Northumberland, in the county of Derbyshire, a girl stumbled along a stony path that wound its way through the park of a great country estate. She’d walked a very long way since the money she’d stolen from her mother’s reticule had almost run out and the coach driver refused to take her any further. Cassandra knew he thought she was a beggar or a gypsy: no gentle-bred girl would be travelling alone, of course.
A young boy, no doubt out late on some nefarious business of his own, had directed her to the entrance to Pemberley Woods for two pennies and she had moved quietly past the Lodge, slipping between the gate posts and the holly hedge with only a few snags on her cloak.
It had been raining for many hours and her shawl lay heavy on her head: she hugged it close to her face. The shawl had been the last present her father had sent her from India; she still had the little note that had accompanied it. For my darling Cassie when she grows up. To match the blue of her eyes. It was the last time she had heard from him and she treasured the garment.
Sighing, she walked on, the hem of her skirt inches deep in mud and the sole of one shoe flapping; water was seeping in, soaking her stockings. Thunder rolled again around the hills and she flinched as lightning lit up the great tall trees, gleaming from flying leaves torn off by the violent wind.
She stopped to rest; the carpet bag that contained her precious bundle of books and treasures, wrapped in the few clothes she had brought with her, was soaked through and she tried to hide it under her cloak to keep it sheltered. She was so tired and hungry; she ached all over but she refused to go back. Returning to Newcastle and her parents would mean just one thing and she would rather sleep in a ditch, live with gypsies, beg on the streets of London than be married off to a man for money.
Cassandra had tried talking to her mother when they returned home from the ball, but Lydia was too tired to concentrate and too irritated by Cassandra insisting they leave early. Her husband had stayed behind; she believed he was involved in a card game.
She ridiculed what she called her daughter’s “imaginings”. So an officer was coming to ask Papa for her hand. What was wrong with that? And if it was the gentleman she thought it was, Cassandra would be a fool to turn him down. He had a high position in the regiment, money and a big house, carriages and servants. In fact, she would get no assistance from her parents to say no to such a suitable attachment. It was every young girl’s duty to get herself married and have her own home and family. So she didn’t know the man; that didn’t matter, she would just have to trust her dear stepfather to have made the very best decision for her.
Cassandra had tried to tell Lydia what she had overheard, about the ninety guineas, the payment for her hand, but her mother had fallen asleep in the corner of the carriage and would not be woken. Even when they reached the safety of home, she had stumbled indoors, yawning, and gone straight to her room, telling her daughter to mind her manners and not to forget to put her hair in curling papers if she were to have a suitor in the morning. And Cassandra knew with chilling certainty that there was to be no hope of help from that quarter.
Once her maid had helped her into her nightgown, she had sat on the edge of her bed, trying to decide what to do. For a long while she had studied the miniature of her dear papa, the only likeness she had of him. It had belonged to her mother who had given it to her when she married the colonel.
Cassandra tried to find an answer to her problem in the merry dark eyes that gazed out from the little painting. How different her life would have been if he was still alive. She could recall watching him ride away as the regiment left to embark on their long voyage overseas. The band had been playing, drums and pipes, people cheering and waving. Papa had looked so magnificent on his horse and he had blown her a kiss as he passed. He had been off to fight, a brave soldier. Well, she could be brave, too.
Now, wearily, Cassandra forced her feet to walk. She had had no choice; she’d had to run, to leave home and there had only been one place she could think of where she might find safety and sanity. The sickness of betrayal flooded her very being and she had to admit that it was not just her stepfather’s wickedness that made her suffer. She had liked Dr Richard Courtney very much, considered him a man of honour, a man of integrity. To have such beliefs shattered so badly was ill indeed.
Grimly, she trudged on and at last, as she reached the summit of a slope, the great mansion of Pemberley lay in the distance before her, lit by the lightning flashes, glistening in the rain, so beautiful, so magnificent. She had only been here once before, when she was very young, but the memory of the place was burned in her brain. There was the river running in front of the property, its banks adorned with flowering bushes and trees, crossed by a bridge wide enough to bring any carriage straight to the entrance steps.
A hiss and crackle overhead and as the thunder crashed, Cassandra found the energy to run down the path, her footsteps echoing on the bridge. In front of her was the imposing door and then she paused, her hand raised. What if they sent her away? What if her aunt and uncle wanted nothing to do with her? She was aware that there had been a rift between the two families in the past but was unclear as to the reason. Her mother had said, rather airily, that her dear papa had indeed been brought up at Pemberley as a child, had lived on the estate where his father had been steward, but that Mr Darcy had quarrelled with him when they were young men.
Well, that may have been the case, but that was all in the past. Papa was dead and it was his daughter who was asking them for help. Surely they would not deny her? Mrs Darcy was her aunt, such a close relation could not turn her away unheard.
Then, with a gesture that, if he had been there, her Uncle Darcy would have admitted seeing many times from his own wife, she tilted her chin in determination and rang the bell.
A few minutes passed and she rang the bell again, desperately, just as a young footman opened the door and gazed in horror at the poor drowned creature standing there. “Miss Cassandra Wickham for Mr and Mrs Darcy,” it said.
The storm that had been brewing all day had finally broken. Sixteen years old Bennetta Darcy knelt on her bedroom window-seat behind the heavy, pale blue brocade curtains and stared out into the dark, windswept park of her home. Thunder rumbled across the Derbyshire hills, lightning flashed and crackled, rain hurled against the glass. She pushed the window open and leant out, loving the spatter of water on her face, the wind tossing her long dark hair into tangles. She laughed, holding out her arms to catch the icy drops. Storms were wonderful, especially when you were on your own and there was no one to scold you back to bed and draw the drapes against the power of nature.
The candles on her dressing-table had long burnt out and this evening there was no glow from Miss Smith’s room next door, her snores reverberating through the dark. Bennetta smiled out into the night. She loved secrets and one of the biggest she knew was that Miss Smith, her governess, had a little black bottle that she kept in her reticule and it was often full of the brandy that her employer kept in the dining-room decanter.
Bennetta knew if she told anyone, then Miss Smith would lose her place here at Pemberley, and would probably be turned out into the world without a reference, which seemed very unfair to her. Papa liked a glass of brandy after his dinner, so why shouldn’t her governess do the same?
She believed, indignantly, that there were a lot of injustices between men and women in life. Goodness, the year was 1832, why shouldn’t she ride astride like her brothers did? Why shouldn’t she have a horse instead of her quiet old pony? She was two years older than Fitzwilliam and both he and their younger brother Henry were allowed to swim in the lake, but her dear papa had looked at her with a sort of terrified bemusement when she asked at dinner one night a few years ago if she couldn’t do the same. He’d gazed across the table at her mama and said, gravely, “She is so much like your sister, it frightens me.”
Mama had seemed taken aback and rather annoyed, but eventually she had laughed and explained gently that ladies did not swim in lakes—ever! But maybe, one day, if she was very good, Papa would let them make an excursion to the seaside and she could enter into the sea in a bathing machine. And that pouting and tossing her head was also not expected behaviour for a Darcy daughter!
Leaning even further out of the window, Bennetta wondered if she could slip downstairs and run across to the stables. Her pony hated thunder and she knew she was the only person who could calm him. She bit her lip, remembering that the pony was, of course, the reason she was here at Pemberley whilst Mama, Papa, Fitz and Henry were in Ireland.
How exciting that would have been—to travel by coach and then on a ship across the Irish Sea to visit the big estate in Ireland that papa owned, to stay with the Gardiners, her great uncle and aunt. She was very fond of them and often wished they had not decided that the responsible position, taking care of Mr Darcy’s Irish affairs, offered to them in their later years when Mr Gardiner’s business had failed, meant they should leave London to live abroad. But she’d broken the rule about riding out around the park on her own once too often and so her punishment was to stay home and miss the visit. Her twin sisters, Anne and Jane, had gone to stay with Aunt Georgiana McGregor in Scotland and although mama had begged papa to let Bennetta go with them, papa had refused.
“She has to learn some discipline, Elizabeth, my dear. She pays no heed to rules and regulations and we all know, to our cost, where that can lead where young ladies are concerned. No, she will stay safely at home at Pemberley—which indeed I do not see as any great punishment. As you know, I would always prefer to be here at home with the family.”
“So unfair,” Bennetta muttered now. “The twins will be painting and sketching in Scotland, Fitz will have his nose in a book the whole trip to Ireland and Henry will be sick on the boat! It’s just because I’m a girl Papa treats me in this way. I wish … I wish … oh, I do wish something exciting would happen to me.”
She had been nowhere, done nothing for her entire sixteen years of life. Oh, how she admired her Aunt Lydia Allerton. Even though it was some years since she’d visited Pemberley, Bennetta had heard enough gossip from the staff to know that her aunt had run away from home to get married to a Mr Wickham when she was only fifteen. Fifteen! A year younger than Bennetta was now. Admittedly, she was a little hazy as to the exact details because every time she tried to find out, people immediately changed the subject, but oh, it sounded so exciting. Of course, she didn’t know anyone with whom she might run away, but being free of all the rules and regulations that Papa kept mentioning would be wonderful.
She wondered what it must be like to have Aunt Allerton as your mama. She knew she had a cousin, Cassandra. Indeed, she was sure she had met her and her aunt when she was very small, but she couldn’t remember them clearly. She had a vague memory of a lot of bright clothes and a loud laugh. And for some reason a picture of her mama looking cross.
Bennetta sighed. “I’m quite sure Cassie doesn’t have to keep to rules and regulations. I imagine she has a glorious life of freedom. I envy her, indeed I do. And my cousin Miriam Malliot! Fancy living out in Africa—what adventures she must have, what wonderful sights she will have seen. All I have to look at is boring Pemberley.”
At least the storm tonight had brought some variety to her dull world. Life was so predictable. Breakfast, a walk—but only on the dry paths and running was forbidden—lessons she hated with the twins and Miss Smith, time with mama, accompanying her on her charitable visits in the nearby villages on the Pemberley estate, riding out but only if accompanied with a groom who never let her gallop, then sitting in the drawing-room every afternoon learning to sew or play the piano. It was all boring, boring, boring, even the visits to her Bingley cousins who were nice girls but hated even getting mud on their shoes. Bennetta longed for adventure, for excitement, for something to … to happen!
Wild, impulsive, able to find mischief in the most sedate occasions, she spoke without thinking and all her mother and father’s training had so far been to no avail. They had never discovered exactly what it was she’d said to her very elderly Great Aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but whatever it was, that eminent lady had refused to visit for over a year. One of the maids had overheard Mrs Darcy say to her sister, Mrs Jane Bingley, “Oh if I only knew what that minx had said, I would repeat it myself!”
“In two years’ time, I will have to come out in public and go to dances and make visits and that will probably be just as boring,” Bennetta muttered, flinging herself down in front of her mirror and studying her reflection. The trouble was, she decided, that she had a very young looking face. Her twin sisters had inherited elegance together with high cheek bones and fair hair. They looked their age, seventeen; she simply looked about ten.
She tugged at the long, curly dark hair that her maid had brushed so diligently just an hour ago. It was now a mass of tangles. Perhaps if she put it up, she would look older. She pulled it to the top of her head, trying to imitate her mama’s elegant look. As she thrust in a handful of hair pins, she thought about growing older; as far as she could see, life would become even more annoying. She disliked dancing—well, to be fair, she disliked the sedate dancing she and her sisters learned every week. But once, she remembered, she had been allowed to attend the Christmas party given for the staff of Pemberley and there had been jolly music and country dancing where everyone spun and whirled and enjoyed themselves. She had loved every moment of that.
The twins were to have a coming out ball after their eighteenth birthday this December. Bennetta wondered if they were excited about it. Anne probably was—as Miss Darcy she always had more to say than her sister; she was outspoken and forthright and she was allowed to have opinions. Why only recently she had argued with Papa about the rebellion in France and would not give way to his views. Jane sometimes seemed like a shadow of her older twin. Bennetta didn’t think that Jane would be looking forward to the coming out ball: she preferred sitting in the Pemberley library, reading her silly old books.
Pulling a face at herself in the mirror, sticking out her tongue and crossing her eyes, Bennetta scattered the hairpins across her dressing-table, letting her black curls cascade down again. She could just imagine how the evening of the ball would progress. Stupid young men with damp, clammy hands would probably ask her to dance, when they had dutifully stood up with Anne and then Jane. She would be third in line, as usual. How nice it would be, just once, to be chosen first.
“I do declare, even if someone does ask me to marry him, sometime in the future, I expect he will have asked both the twins first! So I shall say no. I shall remain here at Pemberley till I am thirty and very, very old, being the “cross your parents must bear” as old Nanny Chilcot used to call me.”
In her own mind, Bennetta was well aware that she was not her parents’ favourite child; indeed she sometimes secretly wondered if her papa even loved her. It was a hurt she carried deep inside her, telling no one of her fear. She accepted it, never thinking to question whether she might be wrong. She had yet to learn that such a state of affairs could exist! After all, she was a daughter of Pemberley, a Darcy.
She couldn’t remember when she had first heard her Nanny gossiping to the under nurses but it had made a lasting impression. “Oooh, the poor Mistress had a dreadful time being brought to bed with that little madam! Worse than when she had the twins, bless them. That was easy as pie even though there were the two of them.
But oh, the trouble there was with Miss Bennetta! The Master, out of his mind with worry, the Mistress almost dying, so the doctors said, and the baby squalling and screaming like a little devil. No wonder the Master couldn’t bring himself to even hold her. And we had to have a wet nurse because the poor Mistress was that ill. And to cap it all, she was another girl, and no heir for Pemberley. And the Mistress’s mother was here then for the birth, having hysterics and causing all sorts of upset, especially as she kept telling the Master she’d had five girls so perhaps her Lizzy would do likewise!”
Another flash of lightning and roll of thunder echoed around the surrounding hills. The blue curtains billowed and rain splashed through the open window. Bennetta wondered vaguely if she should ring for someone to come and wipe up the mess, then remembered that most of the staff had been given a whole day and night off whilst the Darcys were away from home. And even as she was thinking that, she realised she was hungry. Supper seemed a very long way away now and breakfast even further.
“I could faint with hunger and no one would care,” she muttered under her breath. But she knew that she would find cake or bread and cheese in the kitchens and even though there was bound to be a footman or maid on duty, she knew no one would give her away.
Pulling on a robe over her nightgown and without waiting to find slippers, she padded barefoot out of her room and along the wide, dark corridor heading for the back stairway that the servants used to reach the family’s bedrooms. Then, just as she reached the top of the main stairs, she heard the great front door bell jangling. Once, then again.
A gust of cold wind swept through the hall and up the grand staircase and Bennetta heard a girl’s voice clearly saying, “Miss Cassandra Wickham for Mr and Mrs Darcy.”