The True Darcy Spirit. Elizabeth Aston

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      “It was you with Mr. Lisser, was it not?”

      Belle pouted and hung her head.

      “I am sure it was, so you need not trouble yourself to lie. Why do you not say so?”

      A jumbled, mumbled speech came out, of her parents’ dismay, of not wishing to bring any harm to Henry—

      Henry, forsooth? Cassandra said to herself.

      —of her fear that he might be sent away, that she might be sent away, that they might be parted; the words flowed disjointedly from Belle’s pretty lips, and her violet eyes brimmed with tears.

      “And what if they send me away?” said Cassandra.

      Belle brightened. “Why, it would be the best thing in the world for you to be away from Rosings.”

      “What, under a cloud?”

      “Oh, as to that, talk of clouds is all nonsense. What is a stolen kiss, after all? It is nothing so very much.”

      “Kisses exchanged with a person of our own order might not matter so very much, as you say, but Mr. Lisser is not in that position. Besides, to my mother and stepfather it does matter. Mr. Partington is old-fashioned in his views.”

      Belle cast Cassandra a long, thoughtful look. “He dislikes you, so I dare say he is building it all up, just so that he may send you away.”

      Cassandra was astonished that Belle should have so much insight, for she didn’t care to admit to Mr. Partington’s dislike of her even to herself. She and her stepfather had never got on very well, it was true, but then a man of his type and age would expect to have nothing in common with a young lady, any young lady, let alone one with a mind of her own.

      “I am surprised your mother will allow him to ride roughshod over you,” Belle was saying, “but it is often so in marriages. I shall make very sure that I do not marry a man who has anything of the tyrant in him. Henry has a very sweet disposition, and—”

      “You need not talk of Mr. Lisser in that way, for you know that is all a hum about marriage; you would not be permitted to marry Mr. Lisser.”

      A mulish look came over Belle’s face. “I am very tired, and I want to blow out my candle and go to sleep, so I would be obliged if you would leave me. Besides, you are supposed to stay in your own chamber, there will be more trouble for you if you are found creeping around, you will be locked in.”

      At any other time, Cassandra might have laughed at Belle’s effrontery. Only the situation was too serious for that, and she found herself wishing with all her heart that Belle had never come to Rosings. She sat down to pen a note to Emily, to tell her what had happened, and early the next morning she had a reply.

      Mrs. Partington had driven over to Mrs. Croscombe first thing, supposedly to bring her neighbour a basket of fruit from Rosings’ succession houses, but in fact to bemoan the wickedness of her elder daughter, and complain how ill-natured her husband was at present.

      “She will sacrifice you to have peace at home,” Emily wrote, “and I believe both your parents are anxious lest this means the portrait will not be finished. Mama has said that it is all nonsense to make so much fuss, that she does not believe you at all attached to Mr. Lisser—no mention of Belle was made—and that your mama had much better take up the old plan of your going to London to stay with your cousins the Fitzwilliams.”

      Mr. Partington would not hear of it. What, let loose in London a girl who had shown so clearly that she had such scant respect for the conventions or what was due from a girl of her breeding? It was not to be thought of. And, while he would not speak ill of his dear wife’s family, he had no very good opinion of Lady Fanny, whose life was given over to pleasure and frivolity.

      Mrs. Partington roused herself to protest, “My dear, she is a very good mother to her children.”

      “That is as may be, but I notice that she was unable to control Mr. Darcy’s daughters when they were in London last year.”

      “Three of the girls have made very good matches.”

      “Indeed, you think so? There is Miss Camilla married to a rackety man, never content to stay in England and attend to his estates, while Miss Georgina ran off with Sir Joshua, yes, I know they were married and it was all hushed up and covered over, but that does not excuse the sin. And they are obliged to live in Paris, which is a less censorious, in fact a lax city, but I would not wish for any such fate to befall any daughter of mine, nor even a stepdaughter.”

      “Letty married a clergyman,” said his wife in placatory tones.

      “That is true, but he is not sound on doctrine, he has a very liberal, free-thinking way about him, which I cannot approve. No, it will not do. London is a sink of corruption, a den of iniquity, she cannot go there.”

      Mrs. Partington much disliked it when her husband remembered that he was still an ordained clergyman; fortunately, except when a fit of morality came upon him, he thought more about mangel-wurzels and spring corn than about God these days.

      It seemed, though, when his mind did turn to spiritual matters, that he was much more strict and rigid in his principles than he had ever been when inhabiting the parsonage at Hunsford. Then he had reproved the village girls who got into trouble, but married them just the same, large bellies and all. Now, when he heard of those who had fallen from the narrow path of virtue, he was wont to recommend hellfire and a good whipping as a suitable remedy for the sin.

      “I’m sure you know best,” Mrs. Partington said. “Perhaps Bath, I believe it is a very quiet, genteel place these days.”

      “I was on the very point of suggesting it, had you not interrupted me,” he said. “She shall go to my sister Cathcart, that will be best. And I shall tell her to look around at once for a husband, it is the only thing for Cassandra, then she will pass into another’s hands, and there will be no opportunity for her lax ways to be passed on to our daughters.”

      “No, heaven forbid,” said Mrs. Partington, who hadn’t considered this alarming possibility. Secretly, she thought that Mr. Partington was making too much of it all, as Mrs. Croscombe had forcefully pointed out. Yet at the same time she felt that life at Rosings might go on more agreeably without her older daughter’s presence.

      Mr. Partington was delighted by the opportunity to be rid of Cassandra—for once and for all, if his sister did her duty. And there was no reason why she should not. She had raised three daughters on the strictest principles, and sent three meek and dutiful young ladies off into the arms of highly respectable husbands. Well, she could do the same for the troublesome Miss Darcy. And he would no longer have to put up with that quizzical look she had, as though seeing straight through you, nor with all that haughty Darcy pride and her strong-willed ways.

      “In some ways, she is very like my dear mama,” murmured his wife.

      “Not at all,” said Mr. Partington. “Lady Catherine filled her high position with grace and a strong sense of duty. Cassandra is simply a spoilt young miss. You have indulged her too much, with all this painting and so forth, and now see what has come of it. I told you it would be so.”

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