Chapter 21
In the following days Elizabeth sampled the advantages of living in London, from royal theatres, to concerts at Hanover Square Rooms, to walks in Vauxhall Gardens.
Meanwhile, letters passed back and forth.
Jane to Elizabeth, announcing a wedding date in November.
Bingley to Darcy, ditto. Elizabeth to her family, describing highlights of her visit but with no mention of her quest, or friendship with the Darcys, or Lydia and Wickham.
She had confided in Mr Gardiner, who was fascinated to learn that the Leightons were in England—and Concetta Basso too.
But her uncle and aunt agreed to keep these discoveries private.
Darcy remained attentive, allowing their friendship to develop without pressure.
To the Gardiners his intentions were clear—and to Georgiana too, Elizabeth assumed.
But she welcomed Darcy’s reticence. She knew, in her heart, that if he proposed she would accept.
But with so much on her mind, she preferred to wait.
Darcy had written to Professor Wharton to check whether his old teacher was available.
Perhaps a visit to Cambridge would provide fresh revelations; more likely, it would confirm what her father had already said.
In either case the investigation would be over, all paths having been explored.
On a morning call to play duets with Georgiana, Elizabeth learned that Wharton had replied.
My dear Darcy
Delighted to receive your note, and yes, a student actually interested in the subject is not soon forgotten!
If you would like to come Sunday afternoon, you will find me at home and glad of your company.
You should be advised that my situation in life has been transformed in a way hardly to be expected but much to be welcomed: not wishing to deprive you of mental exertion, I leave this riddle unanswered for now. Yours etc., CW.
Plans could now be made. Elizabeth would return to Longbourn with the Darcys, detouring first to Cambridge. The Gardiners would leave later to attend Jane’s wedding.
Early on Saturday morning Darcy’s carriage arrived at Gracechurch Street to begin the 70-mile journey.
Passing through flat countryside they reached Bishop’s Stortford in the afternoon, changed horses again, and pressed on for two more hours to an inn.
Sunday dawned cool and bright, and by mid-morning they reached the ancient university town, found accommodation, and strolled in the grounds of Darcy’s old college.
After lunch Georgiana rested at the inn, leaving Darcy and Elizabeth to make the momentous visit alone.
The Whartons lived half a mile across the river in a broad thoroughfare called Chesterton Road.
Their house was set well back, with a yew hedge giving privacy and a front lawn bordered with roses.
A maid let them into a hall where they were joined by a middle-aged man with longish grey hair swept back from a domed forehead, penetrating eyes, and a humorous set to the mouth.
In dress he was practical: a brown coat, a waistcoat of the same colour, a loose ruff at the neck.
‘My dear fellow!’ He interrupted the greeting as he became aware of Elizabeth. ‘Have I the honour …’
Darcy extended an arm. ‘Allow me to present Miss Bennet, soon to become sister-in-law of Charles Bingley. Miss Bennet is accompanying my sister and me to attend the wedding.’
‘Bingley! I remember, charming fellow.’ He bowed to Elizabeth.
‘Forgive me, madam, for leaping to conclusions, a capital error. Well, Darcy, as you may have guessed I have embraced the marital state. My wife has been unwell, but is convalescent and we believe out of danger, although easily tired. She is in the conservatory and having been starved of company would like to greet you.’
Darcy smiled at Elizabeth. ‘We would be delighted.’
Hardly able to breathe, Elizabeth followed Professor Wharton as he led to the end of the corridor, where a conservatory full of orchids and other exotic plants overlooked the back garden.
Reclining on a wicker chair was a lady in a plain grey gown, dark hair showing beneath a cap, with a pale face of ethereal beauty.
It seemed she had been dozing, for as they entered she blinked, revealing large brown eyes.
‘My wife, Concetta.’ Wharton went to her side. ‘Dearest, may I introduce Mr Darcy, and Miss Bennet.’
The lady gasped. ‘Mio Dio.’ She blinked again, staring at Elizabeth, who recognised her, not as the fanciulla, but the older lady in the portrait by Mario Pavan.
‘Excuse me.’ Concetta sat up straighter, her shocked expression replaced by a warm smile.
‘A pleasure to meet one of Cecil’s students, Mr Darcy.
I’m sure you will have much to talk about!
Perhaps in the meantime I could entertain Miss Bennet?
’ She called to a maid, standing at the door.
‘Pot of tea? Plate of almond cakes?’ A glance at Elizabeth. ‘You approve?’
‘Certainly.’
Concetta pointed to an armchair at her side as the gentlemen left. The maid, hovering, asked, ‘Shall I bring a cup for Miss Simona as well, ma’am?’
‘Leave her in her room for now.’ Concetta spoke perfect English, with an accent that gave every utterance a musical lilt.
The door closed; they were alone.
‘You are not here by accident, I surmise,’ Concetta said with a smile.
‘We learned from Mrs Leighton that you had decided to remain in England.’
‘Excuse my shock! There is something in your face so reminiscent of your father.’ She broke off, suddenly tense. ‘He is …’
‘In good health.’
‘But unable to accompany you?’
Elizabeth leaned closer, and speaking softly, explained how recently she had learned of the Pavans—or the Leightons or de Montmorencys. She did not mention the paintings, only a chance occurrence, and a sense that her father and uncle were evading the truth.
‘So you have been investigating on your own account.’ Concetta smiled. ‘Aided by Mr Darcy.’
‘My father did finally confide in me. But he lost contact years ago with the Leightons and had no idea you and Sylvie were living in England. He told me of Sylvie’s, ah, problem, and their move to the island of Lido. But he could not say for certain what happened to the baby.’
Concetta frowned. ‘Did you ask Sylvie?’
‘I preferred not to intrude.’
‘It was a difficult time.’ Concetta sighed. ‘But you were right not to distress Sylvie. Some things are best left in the past.’ She looked up as the maid returned with a tray. ‘We will have tea. And you will tell me about Thomas.’
Elizabeth poured, while Concetta plied her with questions. Just sisters then? And only one married? The youngest? How strange, the customs of the English! She was acute, funny, and Elizabeth could understand how she had fascinated her father.
Footsteps sounded from the corridor, and expecting the return of Darcy, Elizabeth looked round as the door was thrown open and a young lady stepped in.
With a gasp Elizabeth jumped up.
The young lady froze, hands on hips, staring at her. The face was a little older. The hair was up. The expression was not sad and contemplative, but furious. But those eyes, the shape of the face, so like Elizabeth’s …
Fanciulla con lettera.
Found at last.
While Elizabeth absorbed this shock, the young lady glared at Concetta and unleashed a stream of Italian, to which Concetta replied with equal vigour. Hands flew as they gestured and shouted, as if alone in the room, until the young woman swivelled to face Elizabeth with arm outstretched.
‘You! Upstairs!’
While Elizabeth turned to Concetta for explanation, the young lady advanced and grabbed her hand. ‘Excuse me but you will come NOW!’ Another glare at Concetta, and Elizabeth was dragged out of the conservatory and up to a large chamber used both for sleeping and as a boudoir.
‘My room.’ The young woman extended a hand. ‘I am Simona. You are …’
‘Miss Bennet. Elizabeth.’
‘Mother sent a message that I was to stay upstairs while she received visitors.’ A scowl. ‘And on descending what do I find? A stranger that might be my twin!’
‘Miss Basso, I’m sorry if …’
‘Pavan. Basso is a name we do not use.’
‘I thought Basso was your father’s name.’
‘I grew up thinking so. Only when—that man died did mother explain that actually he was not my father at all. At which I rejoiced, since Basso did not love me. Or her. So we reverted to Pavan.’
Elizabeth sighed, as her suspicions were confirmed. ‘So you were—adopted.’
‘Adopted?’ Simona stared at her. ‘What do you mean? My mother is downstairs.’
‘That cannot be!’ Elizabeth tried to calm down and speak normally. ‘I’m sorry, Miss, ah, Simona. But my father overheard a conversation between Concetta and her husband in which he lamented her inability to have children.’
‘What?’ Simona froze, aghast, then waved this idea away. ‘That is ridiculous. If I had been adopted, everyone would have known. Pavans, Bassos, servants, everyone. What they didn’t realise was that Enzo Basso was not my father.’
‘They might have agreed to keep it from you.’ Elizabeth touched her arm. ‘It is hard, Simona, but your father, I believe, was an Englishman, and your mother the daughter of a French noble.’
Simona looked away a moment, then with sudden resolve grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her to the door. ‘Only my mother knows. We will force her to tell the truth!’
Passing by Wharton’s study Elizabeth heard the gentlemen engaged in a humorous discussion, oblivious of the drama about to unfold in the conservatory.
They found Concetta awake, waiting: she must have heard them on the stairs.
Simona launched into Italian again, and at one point Concetta gasped, as if an enigma had suddenly become clear.
‘Basta! Enough.’ Concetta raised a hand, then turned to Elizabeth. ‘I promised not to tell. But now there is no alternative.’ She gestured for them to sit close, either side of her recliner, before continuing very quietly. ‘Everything I told Simona was true. But my dear—may I call you Elizabeth?’
‘Yes.’
‘What I said to your father was also true. In three years of marriage I did not conceive. A doctor examined me and said I was malformed and could not have children. But after your father left Venice I discovered I was indeed pregnant—to the doctor’s consternation.
The explanation, he claimed, lay in the extraordinary potency of my husband.
So powerful was his seed that it flourished even in the barren wasteland that was his wife.
’ A sly grin appeared at the edges of Concetta’s lips.
Simona looked across at Elizabeth. ‘I told you.’
‘The doctor was simply mistaken?’ Elizabeth said.
‘Years later, I made friends with a younger doctor who explained it to me. Infertility can be due to either partner. However, it is the man, not the woman, who pays the doctor’s fee and recommends him to friends.
In consequence, when a marriage is childless, a doctor’s best strategy is to protect the husband’s pride by assigning fault to the wife.
’ She sighed deeply. ‘In two decades of marriage I had just one confinement. And that was after I had lain just a few days with a man who was not my husband.’
A shiver passed through Elizabeth. She looked up at Simona, and recalled the intense emotion she had felt on first seeing the fanciulla painting, the instinct that they were kin.
‘An Englishman you said.’ Simona spoke to her mother. ‘A man you loved.’
‘We had just a week.’ Concetta turned to Elizabeth.
‘I’m sorry, dear. It was wrong of us, no doubt.
But to be trapped in a loveless marriage …
’ She made a helpless gesture. ‘We knew what we were doing. It was a dream, it could not last, and we believed there could be no consequences.’ A smile at Simona.
‘Instead, Thomas left me a gift. My treasure.’
A long silence, then Elizabeth said, ‘And Sylvie’s baby?’
‘Went to the foundling hospital.’ Concetta shrugged. ‘I would have taken her. But I knew my husband would never agree.’
‘Who’s Sylvie?’ Simona demanded.
Concetta patted her hand. ‘A story for another time.’