Elizabeth Aston - The True Darcy Spirit

As soon as she received her brother’s letter, Mrs. Cathcart put on her newest bonnet and sailed round to her near neighbour in Henrietta Street, a Mrs. Quail, to talk the matter over. Mrs. Quail had but one daughter, a plain girl somewhat older than Cassandra, who had recently become engaged to a worthy gentleman who had a good estate and a seat in Parliament.

Together, over several cups of tea, made by Mrs. Quail herself, for she was not inclined to hand over the key to her tea chest to any of the servants, with it the best China, and costing an amazing number of shillings the pound, the two women discussed the marriageable talent presently in Bath.

“Mr. Bedford might do. A civil, agreeable young man, but they say he is of a consumptive constitution, and while it is no bad thing to be a widow, it is best postponed for a few years in the case of such a young woman as Miss Darcy.” There was always Sir Gilbert Jesperson, but somehow he did not seem to be the marrying kind, no end of keen mamas had dangled their daughters in front of him, but to no avail.

“They say,” Mrs. Quail said, lowering her voice, although there were no others present in her handsome drawing room, “that he has a mistress in keeping, and that it suits him very well to remain single.”

Mrs. Cathcart professed herself shocked, although the mistress came as no news to her. “In these immoral times, men do marry and keep the mistress as well, but I could not condone such behaviour. We will leave Sir Gilbert to one side.”

“There is Mr. Makepiece—only he is rather old, is he not past forty?”

“An older man might do very well for my niece. She is a headstrong girl, not at all well brought up, although it pains me to say so, and an older man might suit her very well, an older man has more authority over a young wife, you know.”

“I did hear, it was only a rumour, to be sure, that Mr. Makepiece has offered for Miss Carteret.”

Mrs. Cathcart’s eyebrows shot up. “That I had not heard.” She gave a sniff. “I would have thought a mere Honourable not high enough for Lady Dalrymple’s daughter, such airs as that woman gives herself, for you cannot say that a viscountcy is the same thing as an earldom.”

Mr. Frankson was considered, and rejected, too much of the shop about him, although of course he was very wealthy. “I do not think my dear brother would approve the connection,” Mrs. Cathcart said. “Tobacco is profitable, but low.”

A pause, while both ladies took small sips of the fragrantly scented tea, and then Mrs. Quail put down her cup and gave a little cry of triumph. “I have it! Why did I not think of him at once? Mr. Wexford is come to Bath, to take the waters. He would be the very man for your niece.”

“Mr. Wexford? I do not know the name, and why does he take the waters? An invalid is not a good prospect as a husband, even for my niece, for there is the question of children to be considered. Is Mr. Wexford an elderly gentleman—I assume he is a gentleman?”

“No, no, he is in his thirties, and not at all an invalid. He had a bad fall from his horse a while back, and the doctors have recommended the hot baths for his knee, which has not perfectly healed. Otherwise, he is of a sound constitution. He has a good estate not far from Bath, at Combe Magna, and is of an excellent sound family. He was engaged to be married some years ago, but the young lady, she was a Gregson, if I remember rightly, was killed in a carriage accident, a tragic affair. It was before you came to Bath, otherwise you would know all about it, and about Mr. Wexford.”

Mrs. Cathcart didn’t care to admit to any gaps in her knowledge. “I have heard his name and of his misfortune, of course, now you remind me. I believe he has not recently been in Bath?”

“No, but here he is now, just at this very time when we need him, what could be more fortunate?”

“You are acquainted with him, I take it?”

“Indeed, I am, for his late father and my dear husband were at Cambridge together.”

“A man of some fortune, you say?”

“What my husband would call a very tidy fortune, no great wealth, but sufficient to keep a wife in comfort. Pray”—coming to the heart of the matter with feigned indifference—“what may Miss Darcy’s portion be?”

“As to that, there is a son, you know, and two more daughters to be provided for.”

Mrs. Cathcart was striking a delicate balance here. Whilst she knew that her brother wanted her to find a husband for Cassandra that would take her with the smallest possible share of the fortune that was to be divided among the girls by their mother, which meant in practice by Mr. Partington, she liked the consequence of having a niece, even a stepniece, who was in possession of a handsome fortune. “All these Darcys are as rich as may be,” she added carelessly.

And although Mrs. Cathcart was eager to find a match for Cassandra, she would prefer that her niece didn’t marry a richer man than her own daughters had. Mr. Wexford sounded as though he might do very well.

“I do not know why I did not think of him sooner,” said Mrs. Quail. “And you say that your niece is a high-spirited girl—”

“I shall soon put her in a better way of behaving.”

“Miss Gregson, you see, was a lively girl. So another such might well take his fancy. If you wish, I will write to him directly, my servant can very quickly find out where he lodges, and then we may arrange for a meeting. When does Miss Darcy arrive?”

Cassandra went to bed on the night of her arrival in Bath tired after the journey, and no longer in good spirits. Mrs. Cathcart was worse than she remembered her: officious, disapproving, and moralising. Cassandra had had to endure a lecture over supper on her folly, how grave could be the consequences of any straying from the true path of virtue, and how her aunt, if she might call herself so, expected conduct of the most correct kind while she was in Bath.

“For bad news travels fast, you know, and we cannot count on word of your shocking behaviour in Rosings not having already reached Bath.”

Cassandra, endeavouring not to yawn, felt quite sure it had, Mrs. Cathcart would have seen to that, if she were any judge. And it was all so absurd, over an embrace in the garden that had never in fact taken place. You would think she had attempted to run off with a groom; almost she wished she had, if it had spared her the prospect of several weeks in Mrs. Cathcart’s company.

“And there is to be none of that drawing and sketching and painting while you are here. My brother is strongly of the opinion that you have been allowed too much freedom in that direction, and what should be one of many accomplishments has taken on too much importance in your life.”

Cassandra, before she went to bed, asked Petifer to hide the sketchbooks and crayons and water-colours and brushes she had brought with her; she wouldn’t put it past her aunt to remove them if she knew about them.

The next morning, with the natural ebullience of youth, Cassandra awoke feeling that things weren’t so very bad. True, there was the oppressive Mrs. Cathcart, but then there was also Bath: new sights and scenes, shops and people, and the sun was shining, and who knew what the day might bring?

The first thing the day brought was the sturdy, thin-lipped Miss Quail, come at her mother’s bidding, to take Miss Darcy out for a walk, and show her something of Bath.

“Of course,” said her mother, “Mrs. Cathcart will go with her to write her name in the visitors’ book and all that kind of thing, but first she may learn her way around with you, for it is to be understood that she may never go out unless under supervision.”

Mrs. Cathcart had, the previous evening, relieved Cassandra of the sum of money which Mr. Partington had bestowed upon her when she’d left Rosings. Since she knew to the penny how much this was, it was clear that it had been arranged beforehand. “It is not suitable for a young girl to have so much money”—it was, Cassandra thought, a miserly sum, to last her for a long stay—“so I will take care of it, and you may ask me for such small sums as you may need to disburse while you are here. There cannot be many expenses, you know, while you are my guest.”