The True Darcy Spirit. Elizabeth Aston

although she had learned to be careful about keeping some of her artistic pursuits out of sight of her stepfather, was not, by nature, a dissembler. Her frank and open manners were one of the characteristics that Mr. Partington disliked, and she was not entirely sure how she might go about achieving any degree of independence for herself. She felt uncomfortable being under scrutiny all the time; there must be a way to be alone.

      The next day was Sunday, and here she saw an opportunity. Although Mrs. Carthcart’s brother was a clergyman of the Established Church, she had married a Methodist, and she herself chose to worship among the small group who gathered at the chapel of the Countess of Huntington, feeling that the aristocratic foundations of the Methodist sect gave it extra lustre. She rather hoped that she could require Cassandra to go with her, but here Cassandra felt on sure ground. She was a member of the Church of England, her mama would be upset to learn that she had not attended divine service at a suitable church.

      “Such as the Abbey,” she suggested. “I shall go to the Abbey.”

      And, she thought, sit at the back, and slip out while no one is looking, and have at least a chance of a walk by myself.

      Mrs. Cathcart had to agree. She could not foist either of the Quails on to Cassandra, for they were also Methodists. “You must take your maid, it will not do for you to be out unaccompanied.”

      Nothing could suit Cassandra’s purposes better, and she sallied forth to attend the service, with Petifer beside her, both of them pleased to be out of the house. “For a more witless set of servants I never saw,” she told Cassandra.

      They duly slipped out of the Abbey, Petifer shaking her head when she realised what Cassandra was about. They walked swiftly away from the Abbey, into one of the smaller, quieter streets on the other side of Union Street. There, after a short tussle, they parted, Petifer agreeing to spend an hour looking around the town, while Cassandra spent some time on her own.

      “Don’t look so put out, Petifer; you have seen for yourself how many young ladies go about alone. There won’t be so very many people about at this time, they will be at home or in church until after twelve.”

      “Where are you going?”

      “Only up Milsom Street and from there up into the Broad Walk, the air will be pleasant up there.” Cassandra went briskly off, very pleased of the opportunity to stretch her legs and have the pleasure of her own company for a while. She had a small sketchbook tucked in her reticule, and after a stroll along the Broad Walk, she sat herself on a bench and became absorbed in drawing the details of the scene around her.

      She felt, rather than saw, a hovering presence, and looked up. A young man was standing a few feet away, watching her intently. As she saw him, he bowed, and apologised for disturbing her.

      “You do not do so, and you will not do so if you walk on,” she said. He was a gentleman, by his voices and clothes. A good-looking man, with dark red hair and a pale complexion that spoke of Celtic ancestry. She wondered if he were going to make a nuisance of himself, try to scrape her acquaintance, but he took off his hat, bowed once more, and apologised again for disturbing her, then strode away.

      Her work interrupted, she made an impromptu sketch of the redheaded man she had just encountered, for there was a liveliness about him that she liked. Then she returned to her earlier sketch, working diligently and, as so often when absorbed in a picture, losing all sense of time.

      She was jolted out of her work by Petifer’s indignant voice sounding in her ears: “I knew how it would be, once you sat down and took out that sketchbook. The service finished a good while ago, everyone is out of church now.”

      “We were to meet in the lower part of town,” said Cassandra, as she tucked away her sketchbook and pencil.

      “I knew I would still be there waiting for you an hour hence, so I came to find you.”

      “What time does Mrs. Cathcart return from church, do you suppose?” Cassandra asked as they set off down the hill and back towards Laura Place.

      “It’s a long service at that chapel she goes to, from what the servants say, and I think they talk together afterwards.”

      “If we hurry, we shall be home before her,” Cassandra said, and quickened her pace.

      Which they were, by a few moments, but that was enough for Petifer to vanish into the basement, and for Cassandra to run upstairs and whisk off her hat. As they ate a nuncheon of cold meats, Mrs. Cathcart interrogated Cassandra on the sermon she had heard, which questions Cassandra was hard put to answer, falling back in the end on memories of one of the Hunsford parson’s less dull sermons. However, Mrs. Cathcart wasn’t really interested in what passed for a sermon in the Church of England, and instead bored Cassandra with a detailed account of the excellent sermon that the Reverend Snook had preached.

      Cassandra was startled by Mrs. Cathcart’s enthusiasm for fire and brimstone and the tortures of the damned, and she wondered whether her aunt felt that she was numbered among the sinners and likely to pay for those sins in the world to come.

      “Tomorrow,” Mrs. Cathcart informed her, “I have arranged a treat for you.”

      Cassandra’s heart sank.

      “We are to go for a picnic, on Lansdowne. Bath is very stuffy just now, and it will do us good to breathe a fresher air for a few hours. Mrs. Quail and her daughter will accompany us, and some others. We shall be quite a little party.”

       Chapter Eight

      Mr. Northcott, who was engaged to Miss Quail, was a stolid young man with a large nose and an air of self-consequence. Miss Quail hung upon his arm and simpered and smirked, while Mrs. Quail beamed her approval: “Such a handsome young couple, don’t you think? And”—in a whisper—“an income of at least two thousand a year.”

      They went in an open carriage, with the young ladies sitting forward, and Mr. Northcott trotting alongside on horseback. It was a slow haul up the steep hills, but the air became noticeably better as they made the ascent, and Cassandra was, after all, glad that she had come.

      Mrs. Quail had arranged a meeting place, a shady spot beneath some trees, and they were the first to arrive. “We are waiting for Mrs. Lawson and her daughter, a most amiable creature, very young, only just out of the schoolroom,” Mrs. Quail told Cassandra. “And my dear friend Mr. Wexford, and a guest of his, a Mr. Eyre, I believe, make up our party. Now, here, even as I speak, is Mrs. Lawson’s carriage arriving, and close on their heels Mr. Wexford and his friend.”

      When Cassandra had met the redheaded man on the Broad Walk, she had had no idea who he was, had supposed that she might meet him again while she was in Bath, although it seemed unlikely that he would move in Mrs. Cathcart’s circle. Yet there was a kind of inevitability to this, their second meeting.

      Cassandra was introduced, first to Mrs. Lawson, then to Mr. Wexford, by Mrs. Quail, and finally the man with the red hair, who had been standing back, was ushered forward with something like pride by Mr. Wexford. Mr. Wexford was very tall, very thin, and had a bland but agreeable enough countenance. Had Cassandra been asked five minutes after they were introduced to describe him, she could not have done so.

      “This is Lieutenant Eyre, of the Royal Navy, who is presently staying with me, while waiting for a ship,” said Mr. Wexford.

      Mr. Eyre’s manners were excellent, even if his mouth twitched when Mrs. Cathcart, disapproval written all over her, began to question him about his antecedents. Mrs. Quail discovered more by drawing Mr. Wexford to one side and plying him with questions about his guest.

      “He seems a pleasant young man, is he cast ashore on half pay?” This was the fate of many naval officers, with the war over, and chances of promotion hard to come by.

      “He is, but he has many good friends, and hopes to have another ship soon.” Lowering his voice, Mr. Wexford went on, “He is the Earl of