The Second Mrs Darcy. Elizabeth Aston

every dance, it was delightful.”

      “So your cousins—our cousins—do not lead such a quiet life as your mama supposed?”

      “Oh, well, in comparison to London, of course—but I prefer the country. I would rather live in the country than in town.” She paused, biting her lip, then smiled. “Cousin Jane was used to be fond of dancing when she was young. She took me through the steps of the quadrille, again and again, so that I am now quite an expert. She said she and Cousin Hugh loved to dance, and she only wished they had had the waltz when she was a girl, as she thought it looked most exhilarating, much more enjoyable than minuets and country dances.”

      Octavia blinked. Why was Theodosia suggesting she go to Hertfordshire, to be out of the way, if the Ackworths were as Penelope said?

      “Mama and Aunt Augusta have no notion of what they are like,” Penelope confided. “They never visit there, for they think Meryton provincial and our cousins countrified and unfashionable. They are useful, to send us young ones down into the country when our mamas want to be rid of us, but they don’t realise what fun it is there. Louisa only went once, and she didn’t like it at all, she says the cousins are provincial, but I do not think they are, not at all.”

      So Penelope had a mind of her own, did she? And, although she said nothing that went beyond the line of what was acceptable, she clearly had no illusions and judged for herself. Octavia warmed towards her niece, with her blushes and her eyes bright with the memory of dancing and pleasure.

      Penelope slipped off the bed. “I can hear Grindley’s steps, she’s my maid. I expect Mama wants me to go out shopping or some such thing, and has left instructions as to what I am to wear. I have a new hat I bought myself, which I like very well, but she will say it is hideous, I dare say, and will be angry for me spending my allowance without her permission.”

      She whisked herself out of the room, leaving Octavia with her chocolate grown cold and her thoughts in a whirl. That chit had met someone she cared for in Hertfordshire, that was obvious, although she doubted if Theodosia had any inkling. But what she had to say about her cousins cheered her no end; she had been afraid of another Augusta, another Theodosia, and was relieved that they sounded quite unlike her sisters.

      Octavia rose and dressed, and before she went downstairs, she sat down at the rickety writing table under the window and penned a letter to Messrs. Wilkinson and Winter, informing them of her arrival in London and requesting them not to attempt to contact her in Lothian Street; she would come herself to their premises in King’s Bench Walk as soon as possible.

      How to post the letter, that was the question. Normally, she would have asked one of the footmen to take it for her, or handed it to the butler to post, but she knew Theodosia made it her business to inspect all the post, inwards and outwards, and as soon as her sister saw the name on the letter, her suspicious mind would tell her these were Octavia’s lawyers and the information would be passed to Arthur. Then goodbye to any hopes Octavia had of keeping her inheritance secret.

      No, she would have to contrive so that she went out alone. If Theodosia and Penelope were going out shopping, it was unlikely that Theodosia would ask her to accompany them, so if she lurked in her room until she heard the sounds of their departure, then she might slip out without being interrogated.

      Half an hour later, she heard the sound of a carriage drawing up outside, the front door opening, Theodosia’s imperious voice telling Penelope she looked a fright in that hat, the door closing, hooves clattering away down the street. In a moment she had her pelisse on and was running down the stairs to the hall.

      Coxley was still there. “Are you going out, ma’am? Shall I call a footman to accompany you, or your maid?” he enquired in what Octavia considered a most officious way.

      “No thank you, I am perfectly all right on my own.”

      “Mrs. Cartland would prefer—”

      “Yes, but I would not.”

      “Shall I tell Mrs. Cartland where you are gone?”

      “I shall no doubt be back before Mrs. Cartland returns, but should anyone enquire for me, I am gone to the circulating library.”

      And before he could ask which of the several libraries patronised by the upper echelons of society she intended to visit, she was out of the house and walking rapidly away down the street.

      Like the admiral’s wife mentioned by Penelope, it had taken her a while to find her land legs after being so many months at sea, but she thankfully noticed that the pavement no longer seemed to be coming up to meet her, and she relished the chance to stretch her legs in a brisk walk. She had taken endless dutiful turns around the deck of the Sir John Rokesby, whenever the weather permitted, but it was not the same as walking in London; she had not realised until now how much she had missed London, with its bustle of traffic, the shops, the noise; even though the day was grey, there was a hint of spring in the air.

      She was acutely aware of all the smells and sounds around her, so different from her surroundings of the last few years. Instead of the streets crowded with bullock carts and rickshaws, with the slap of the rickshaw wallah’s bare feet on dusty ground, here were elegant curricles and a footman walking a pair of pugs. The pungent odours and vivid colours of a hot Indian city, of spices and sweating bodies, of ebullient vegetation and fetid water, were replaced by the evocative smell of rain on paving stones, and the scentless yellow petals of the early daffodils planted in a window box.

      She was used to hearing the endless chatter of a dozen different languages, of women dressed in bright silk saris, men in turbans, robes, dhotis, or swaggering in white uniforms. Here the cockney cries of London sounded in her ears, “Carrots and turnips, ho! Sweet China oranges, sweet China! Fresh mackerel, fresh mackerel!” Newsmen bawled out the latest scandal, muffin men held their trays about their heads, shouting their wares, while the road was busy with carriages dashing past, men on horseback trotting by, carts and drays rumbling along at a slower pace.

      People in this smart part of town were dressed in the height of fashion, the men in long-tailed coats, pantaloons, and tall hats, the women in morning dresses of muslin and fine silk, with deep-brimmed hats decorated with flowers. She noticed that the women wore no pelisses; how did they not feel the cold? Well, she would have to pass as dowdy, her blood was thin after her time in a hot climate, she thought it folly to shiver for the sake of a fashionable appearance.

      She had not forgotten her geography, and she went first to the post-office in North Audley Street, where she entrusted her letter to the two-penny post. She came out from the receiving office, and hesitated. She had intended to go to Hookham’s library, which was in Old Bond Street, but it now occurred to her that Theodosia might be in that area, since she had taken Penelope shopping, and if so, she might be seen …

      She laughed at herself and set off down the street. What if Theodosia did see her? She might go where she chose and do what she chose, within the bounds of common civility owed to one’s hosts, and these would not be one whit transgressed by her visiting a circulating library. She would not allow herself to be oppressed by Theodosia’s habit of wanting to take charge of everyone’s doings and movements; she was no longer a girl under her sister’s care. She would go boldly to Old Bond Street, and let Theodosia mind her own business; it was hard on Penelope, who was the business of the moment, but there was nothing that she, Octavia, could do to alter that.

      It didn’t take her long to reach Hookham’s library. She had inscribed her name there when she was in London for her season, and now she wrote down her married name, Mrs. Darcy, paid her subscription, and was free to choose her books.

      This was a special delight; she had been starved of new books in India, and had promised herself a subscription as soon as she reached London. It was an indulgence, circumstanced as she was, but she must just hope that the Worthington inheritance would be enough that she could spare the trifling sum.

      Of course, it might be that her cousins, who sounded modern in their outlook, from what Penelope had said, had plenty of books, including the newest novels, but she would take a good selection with her, in case their taste didn’t