The True Darcy Spirit. Elizabeth Aston

all her money, although it seemed sadly depleted; she must have spent more in Bath than she had thought.

      “It’s only a temporary difficulty,” James said. “I shall come back from Ireland with full pockets, and this will last us meanwhile.”

      Cassandra could not bear to be parted from him. “Must you go to Ireland?”

      “I wouldn’t leave you dear heart, not for an hour, if it were not necessary. My godfather has not been well for some years, and he looks forward to my visits, I cannot disappoint him. And you know, he has named me in his will, I do not want to incur his displeasure. I shall leave on Tuesday, and be back by that day se’ennight, if I travel fast.”

      What a fool she had been, how wrapped up in her love and in James! Cassandra looked about the best bedchamber with an aching sadness; how could she imagine that her dream could shatter in such a way?

      “Shall we be married when you return from Ireland?” she had asked him.

      “I have it all in hand, do not concern yourself about it.” He gave her a hearty kiss. “I am going to leave you in here for an hour, no more, for I have some business to conduct, and Mrs. Dodd has given me the use of her parlour. I beg you will not stir from here, do not come downstairs, for I would not have you seen.”

      “Is this business with someone I know?” she asked in a teasing voice.

      “No, why should it be? Of course not. What put such an idea in your head?”

      “Do not snap at me, it was a remark, I do not mean to meddle in your private affairs.”

      “My affairs are your affairs, but in matters of business, you know, one deals face-to-face, and does better with no distractions.” Another kiss, and he was gone, shutting the door firmly behind him.

      The room overlooked a small yard, in which grew a mulberry tree. Cassandra opened the casement as wide as it would go and sat herself down on the wide window seat with her sketching book, happy to spend an hour catching the exact shape of a leaf, and, more difficult, the movement of the leaves in the slight breeze.

      It was a hot day. The sun shone down on the garden, and the sounds of London, the city that was never still, never quiet, were all around her. She could hear voices, someone singing a popular catch, someone bawling out the details of sweetmeats he had to sell, a groom talking to a horse. Closer now, that was James’s voice, coming up from the room below; the window downstairs must be open, too. She smiled, just the timbre of his voice made her feel warm inside.

      She stiffened, as another voice reached her ears. An all too familiar voice. No, it couldn’t be, it was impossible, it was another man who sounded the same, that was all. She kneeled on the window seat and leant out as far as she could. James and whoever he was with had moved closer to the window downstairs, now she could hear them more clearly.

      Good God, she was not mistaken. Mr. Partington was there, downstairs, talking to James. He had traced her, how was it possible? Her heart was thumping, and she bit her lip, should she run downstairs, be at James’s side?

      Her reason, striking with cold clarity, told her that this was no unforeseen encounter. James had known that Mr. Partington was coming. There had been an appointment, her stepfather was expected, this was no sudden discovery.

      No, she cried to herself, inside her head, no, that wasn’t right. James had gone down to see someone else, and then, out of the blue, in had walked Mr. Partington.

      Nonsense, said her reason, and now her ears confirmed it. She could hear what they were saying; Mr. Partington had raised his voice, was almost shouting at James. Who seemed to be keeping his temper admirably, but what was he saying?

      She sat and listened numbly, unable to take in James’s betrayal. Yes, he would marry her, but if, and only if…and not until he had assurances, written settlements, lawyers’ letters, stating that Cassandra came to him with a fortune. With, in fact, twenty thousand pounds. Yes, they were living together as man and wife; no, he would not be stigmatised as a rogue, for he would let it be known that Miss Darcy had made all the running, had fallen so desperately in love with him that she would live with him upon any terms. Her name would be dragged through the mud, not his, for that was the way of the world.

      Horror crept over Cassandra. This could not be James speaking, her merry, open-hearted, kind James.

      Only it was. There it was. He didn’t mind whether he married her or not, but he could not marry a woman without money, so, if she had no fortune, then she would have no wedding ring put upon her finger by James Eyre. No, Mr. Partington need not bluster and talk of prosecution for abduction of a minor, that would simply ensure that the tale spread more quickly. “The broadsheets, you know, sir,” James said. “They love a scandal of this nature.”

      More furious words from Mr. Partington, which she could not quite catch, and then the sound of James’s laughter, the laughter that had so enchanted her. And he seemed genuinely amused. No, Mr. Partington might try to break him, but it would not wash. He had no ship, was a half-pay lieutenant, but he still had friends and his family had influence enough to make sure his career would not suffer.

      Then the two men below moved away from the window, and Cassandra heard no more.

      She had heard quite enough, and although it was half an hour before James came bounding up the stairs and burst into the room in the best of spirits, it seemed to her as though only minutes had passed.

      “Well, my dearest,” he began, “there is my business concluded, and most successfully, too.”

      The words echoed in her ears as she began to sort out her possessions, her few possessions. The row that ensued had been so passionate, so vehement, that it brought Mrs. Dodd to the door, banging and shouting out to be heard, fearful that they were killing one another. Then James had thrown some clothes into a portmanteau and stormed out, he was leaving for Ireland directly, anything to get away from such a shrew; when he returned, all would be settled and they would marry directly. “Only you will enact me no such scenes when we are wed, by God you will not.”

      No, indeed, she wouldn’t, for they wouldn’t be wed.

      She had sat down, his angry words ringing in her head, to write a note to Mr. Partington. He would be staying at Aubrey Square, she had heard a mention of Mr. Fitzwilliam’s name. She asked him to wait on her, she had something of the first importance to say.

      Back came a curt, impersonal note. Mr. Partington had no wish to see or speak to Miss Darcy, now or ever again. Any communications would henceforth be through a lawyer, and any letter to her mother would be torn up, burnt, destroyed, unread.

      She wasn’t going to dwell on it. These memories were bitter, she must lock them away, she had enough to do in the present, there was no time to let what was past take up her thoughts and energies. Her immediate need was money; were she to take the room offered by Mrs. Nettleton, she might be expected to pay in advance. All the money she had in the world was the few coins in her purse.

      She could go back to Mr. Horatio Darcy and ask for an advance on her income, but she would much rather not. She had had enough of her cousin with his supercilious ways and scorn, thank you.

      As she shook out a pelisse, something fluttered to the floor. A note! It was the money that Emily had given her, from Mrs. Croscombe. She had been right in her calculations, she had not spent so much in Bath. Thank God she had not found it sooner, thank God it had been caught up in the pelisse which was too warm to wear in this hot weather, and not in a muslin scarf or dress, where she would have discovered it at once, and handed it over to James.

       Chapter Eleven

      St. James’s Square was situated between Piccadilly and the Thames, a big square with a railed garden in the centre; Cassandra was impressed by its size and elegance. Many of the fine houses, built in the last century, and with the characteristic handsome sash-windowed façades of that time, were let out as