‘You have been to Rome before, I suppose?’ asked Elizabeth.
Her spirits had risen since leaving Venice and Darcy seemed in a happier mood, too.
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Is there anywhere you have not been?’ she teased him.
‘China!’ he said, and then added, ‘yet.’
‘Perhaps we will go there one day,’ she said.
‘Would you like to go?’
‘I think, for the moment, I am content to remain in Europe. It has enough new sights to satisfy me, sometimes too many! I am glad to be in the country again.’
‘Would you like to ride?’ he asked.
Elizabeth’s mare had made the sea voyage with the Darcy coach and was now trotting along behind them, together with Darcy’s own mount.
‘Yes, I think I would.’
Darcy knocked on the roof of the carriage and it began to slow, pulling up before it had gone much further.
‘I should have worn my habit,’ said Elizabeth as he handed her out.
‘There is no one to see you here, only me, and I cannot fault your appearance,’ he said with a smile.
Her mare’s reins were untethered from the back of the coach, as were the reins of Darcy’s horse, and he helped her to mount before mounting himself. The coach set off again and they rode beside it, keeping to the highway when it was bordered by walls but riding over the fields when they could, enjoying the freshness of the wind as it blew past their faces.
They rode intermittently as they travelled south, returning to the carriage when Elizabeth was tired or when showers made it unenjoyable, until at last they neared Rome. They passed by a pine forest that filled the air with a clean, sweet scent and beyond it they could see the Mediterranean Sea. The water was a deep and vibrant blue, changing shade where the water grew deeper, and stretching into the distance, where it met the horizon in a barely perceptible line of differing shades of azure.
The coachman had been given directions to the villa but even so he had to stop a number of times and ask the way.
The Prince had called it a villa, and Elizabeth had no idea what to expect, whether it would be a small gentleman’s residence or a vast estate, but at last they saw it in the distance. The villa was three storeys high, but it gave the impression of being a low building because it was so vast. It was symmetrical, with tall arched windows and balconies adorning the façade. As she and Darcy turned into the gates, they found themselves travelling through formal gardens. On either side of the impressive driveway there were flowerbeds laid out in rectangles and squares. The flowerbeds were edged with low hedging and filled with flowers which bloomed as profusely as if it were August and not November. The whole was a riot of colour: pink and red and orange, backed with splashes of green.
The flowerbeds were divided by gravel walkways which were raked to a smooth surface. Where the paths crossed, fountains played. They were adorned with statues of mythical figures, mermaids and griffins and satyrs, which threw water into the air. The statues’ faces were turned towards the spray, and they seemed to watch it as it hung at its exuberant apex for a moment before descending as a shower of brilliant diamonds, winking and sparkling in the sunlight.
‘I never knew anything like this existed,’ said Elizabeth, as she let down the window in order to get a better view. ‘Last November I was looking at the rain in Hertfordshire and now here I am, in the midst of all this beauty, at the same time of year.’
Darcy smiled with the whole of him. His joy in her pleasure was tangible, filling the carriage with energy, like the after effects of a thunder storm.
And indeed, Elizabeth felt as though she had weathered a storm. The dark dreams were behind her and a few weeks of light-hearted pleasure in the villa were just what she needed.
The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive and they drew nearer and nearer to the villa with every turn of the wheels. When Elizabeth could tear her eyes away from the gardens she turned her attention to the villa itself. Its entranceway was on the first floor, and it was approached by two flights of steps, one leading up from the east and one leading up from the west and then meeting on a terrace in the middle.
The carriage came to a halt and liveried footmen flooded down the steps to form a living avenue of purple and gold, through which came the Prince. He was dressed in cloth of gold and looked at home amongst all the splendours of his home, but he welcomed them warmly, without ostentation, and led them up the east flight of steps to the front door.
As they reached the terrace, Elizabeth saw that its roof was supported by marble columns, around which sculpted sirens were entwined. Elizabeth was reminded of her first visit to Rosings with its many splendours, though Rosings paled beside the villa, and she wondered what Mr Collins would make of it. She imagined him walking in front of her and telling her about the weight of the columns, the size of the sculptures, the number of windows, and reciting an account of what the glazing had originally cost.
‘Something has amused you?’ asked the Prince.
‘Not really—well, yes. I have a friend whose husband is impressed by large houses. I was just imagining his reaction to the villa.’
‘Ah! Yes, we have such people in Italy. You, yourself, are not impressed.’
‘On the contrary, I am,’ said Elizabeth, looking around her as they entered the hall and admiring the frescoes, the marble statues, and the paintings. ‘It’s a truly remarkable home and very beautiful.’
‘But you do not admire it as vocally as your friend. Nor, I think, as obsequiously?’
There was humour in his voice.
‘No,’ she admitted, thinking, That would be impossible!
‘Besides, you have a beautiful home of your own. I hear that Pemberley is very fine.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Elizabeth, with a glance at Darcy. ‘And full of memories.’
‘Already? But how can that be? I understood that this was your wedding tour? But ah! You visited it before your wedding, of course.’
‘Elizabeth came there with her aunt and uncle,’ said Darcy. ‘Not very often, but they are days that neither of us will ever forget.’
Elizabeth smiled at him and they shared a private moment as they remembered the occasion when she had unexpectedly met him again. It had been a moment full of awkwardness and embarrassment but nonetheless exquisite for all that—full of apprehension and yet full of hope, too.
‘I pray you will treat the villa as your home,’ said the Prince. ‘There is a fine library and a music room, and I beg you will use them at any time. You will find a great deal of company in the villa, for I have many guests, and I hope you will find them amusing and entertaining. You will meet some of your countrymen here, as well as people from all over Europe and beyond.’
Having made them thoroughly welcome he left them to the housekeeper, who inclined her head respectfully and then showed them to their apartment. The rooms were elegant and fresh, with marble-topped furniture everywhere and huge ornate mirrors on every wall. Elizabeth saw that her dress had become disordered and she repaired the damage before going downstairs.
She found the other guests, as well as Darcy and the Prince, in the garden. The heat of the day had gone and there was a cooling breeze which made walking out of doors a delight.
Elizabeth soon felt at home. The Prince gave her a glass of wine, which he took from the tray of one of the footmen who wandered the grounds with refreshments, and introduced her to a dozen English guests, several of whom knew Hertfordshire. To her surprise, one of them, Sir Edward Bartholomew, knew Sir William Lucas, as they had been knighted at the same time.
‘I remember it well,’ he said. ‘These very knees have knelt before the King, and these very shoulders have felt the touch of his sword as he dubbed me Sir Edward Bartholomew. I have never known a prouder moment than when he invested me with my insignia. I was nothing but a humble shopkeeper until my knighthood, Mrs Darcy, I never thought I would rise to such heights.’
‘But
we all thought it,’ said his wife loyally. Turning to Elizabeth, she said, ‘Sir Edward has made a great contribution to our neighbourhood and his mayoralty was exemplary. Everyone said so.’
Sir Edward smiled modestly and said that it was nothing, adding, ‘Sir William Lucas feels as I do, that it is an honour to serve our country and that we are amply rewarded by this recognition of our services. His family are well, I hope? His wife and his charming daughters?’
‘We met them all in London,’ Lady Bartholomew explained, ‘or at least we met the older children. The others were felt to be too young to understand the honour being bestowed on their father.’
‘Yes, they are all well,’ said Elizabeth, as she sipped her wine. ‘His eldest daughter, Charlotte, is now married. She married a relation of mine, a Mr Collins, who is a clergyman in Kent.’
Lady Bartholomew looked surprised, but quickly hid her astonishment and said, ‘I am very pleased to hear it. She was a most sensible and agreeable young woman. She is not settled too far from home, I hope?’
‘My husband thinks it is an easy distance, but I think not, for it is nearly fifty miles,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Little more than half a day’s journey on good roads,’ said Darcy.
‘Ah, good roads, how I long for some!’ said another Englishwoman, Mrs Prestin. ‘We seem to have been jolted this way and that ever since leaving England.’
The other guests joined in the conversation, the French and Italians declaring that travelling was far easier in their own countries than anywhere else, and one, a Monsieur Repar, claiming humorously that he had been overset three times in his carriage when visiting England.
‘It is good to hear you laughing,’ said the Prince, coming up beside Elizabeth. ‘I knew you would love my home. I am honoured to have you here, and your husband, too. I like very much the English, and any friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam is always welcome here.’
In the warm, balmy air, Elizabeth felt her spirits revive. She and Darcy were able to take advantage of a lull in the conversation to drift away from the different groups and walk by themselves through the gardens, where the whiteness of the gravel paths contrasted with the scarlet flowers and the sea’s clear blue.
‘Happy?’ asked Darcy.
‘Yes, very,’ said Lizzy, taking his arm.
‘I thought, when we were in Venice, that you might want to go home.’
‘Perhaps I did, but I feel differently now. I don’t suppose we will ever come so far again so let us make the most of it whilst we are here.’
As one of the footmen walked past she attempted to put her glass, now empty, on his tray, but he turned away at the last moment and the glass fell to the ground where it broke into pieces.
Elizabeth gave an exclamation of annoyance and bent down to pick up the glass before one of the other guests should tread on it, but Darcy, bending down beside her with preternatural speed, said urgently, ‘Don’t!’
He caught her hand and jerked it back, but the action pulled her fingers over the jagged edge and a spurt of blood gushed from the wound in a fountain of brilliant scarlet. She felt a terrible energy in him, and he began to tremble.
‘Go inside at once!’ he said, standing up and backing away from her. ‘Have your maid bind your wound. Now!’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, perplexed, as she stood up. ‘Only give me your handkerchief, that is all I need.’
‘Come,’ said Lady Bartholomew, who had seen the accident and who had approached to help. ‘Your husband is right. In this hot climate any wound, no matter how small, can soon go bad.’ In a lower voice she said to Elizabeth, ‘It often happens this way, many gentleman cannot stand the sight of blood. They are often very squeamish. Humour your husband in this. He will not want to appear weak in front of the other guests.’
Elizabeth allowed Lady Bartholomew to lead her away, but as she went into the villa she felt a sense of alarm and profound unease, for the look on Darcy’s face had not been squeamish. It had been ravenous.
Chapter 11
My dearest Jane,
We are now in the south of Italy, near Rome, and the weather is so warm that today I did not even need to wear my shawl when I went outside. You, I suppose, are wrapped up in your pelisse and cloak! The days here are long and move at a leisurely pace. There are impromptu balls almost every evening, and if we are not dancing, then we are playing at cards or backgammon, and if not that, then we play the piano and sing. In the daytime we walk in the gardens. I am just about to go outside and play at croquet. I am becoming quite a proficient!
My dear Darcy remains an enigma. Sometimes when he looks at me I feel a sense of expectation, but sometimes I am filled with an unaccountable unease. I am longing to talk to you again, and yet I am not longing to return home. I have not yet had my fill of Italy. And so, for the moment, adieu.
The game of croquet was about to begin when Elizabeth joined the rest of her party on the lawns behind the villa. Sir Edward and Lady Bartholomew were there, as well as Monsieur Repar, Mrs Prestin, and Darcy. Darcy looked up as she joined them, and there was something hungry in his look.
‘There you are, Mrs Darcy! You are just in time to start us off,’ said Sir Edward jovially.
Elizabeth took her shot, knocking the ball cleanly through the hoop, and she was then succeeded by Lady Bartholomew and Mrs Prestin. The gentlemen praised their efforts then took their own turns. There was a friendly rivalry between Sir Edward and Monsieur Repar, and Monsieur Repar smiled broadly when Sir Edward struck the ball poorly, only to be repaid when his own shot went wide and Sir Edward laughed in a friendly fashion.
Darcy played well, but it was Lady Bartholomew who excelled. Every shot she made was clean and the ball went wherever it was meant to go, not too far but just far enough. It sailed through hoops and rolled smoothly across the grass.
She was just about to take her final shot, which would win her the game, when clouds appeared suddenly in the sky and a storm blew up from nowhere. The light dimmed and turned purple, changing the single cloud from a bright puff of gossamer into a dark and swollen mass that throbbed like a livid bruise.
‘Poor fellow, he isn’t seeing the place at its best,’ said Sir Edward as a coach rolled up the drive and disgorged a new visitor. ‘He can hardly see it in this light.’
Lady Bartholomew took her last shot and won the game just in time as a strong wind whipped the ladies’ dresses round their ankles and the rain suddenly threw itself from the sky. They all ran inside, being soaked by the time they reached the sanctuary of the hall. The group dispersed, the gentlemen arranging to meet again once dry and play a game of billiards whilst the ladies announced their intention of writing letters or otherwise occupying themselves in their own rooms.
Elizabeth, once she had changed out of her wet clothes, retired to the library, where she hoped she might find something in English she could read in order to pass the time before dinner. The library was an impressive room, and one she had discovered soon after arriving at the villa. It was very large, with high ceilings, and it was lined with books. But today, despite the tall windows, she found it hard to see, for outside it was almost as dark as night, almost dark enough for her to need a candle. Thinking she would rather not light a candle so early in the day, no matter how dark it was, she persevered without one.
The books were bound in leather with the most exquisite tooling on the covers. Gold lettering spelled out the titles and the authors’ names, which were written in flourishing scripts. She thought of the library at Longbourn, with its well-worn books, and she thought how much her father would love the Prince’s collection.
As she wandered round the room she tilted her head to one side, the better to read the titles, although most of them were in Italian and barely comprehensible to her. But here and there she recognised a few English books: Tom Jones, Robinson Crusoe, Shakespeare’s plays.
She found herself curiously drawn to one corner, where the books were more densely packed than elsewhere,
and one book in particular seemed to call to her.
She took it out and looked at it. It was bound in old, deep red leather and it was ornamented with script in gold lettering, which had been handled so often that it was beginning to flake. She could still see the title, however, Civitates Orbis Terrarum.
Opening the book, she saw that it had been published in 1572 in Cologne and that it was a book of engravings. It contained maps and prospects and birds’ eye views of various cities around the world. There were people in the engravings too, dressed in sixteenth century costume, the women wearing long dresses which flowed into trains behind them and the men wearing short cloaks.
It was fascinating to see views of various cities in times gone by, and as she turned the pages she found herself looking at images of places she recognised. She knew at once when she had arrived at engravings of Venice. There was a view of San Marco and the Palazzo Ducale, and—she felt a creeping fear crawl over her—the Palazzo Ducale was on fire. She had seen it before, that fire, in her dream. It had frightened her, and it frightened her again, so badly that she tried to thrust the book away from her, but somehow the book seemed to be stuck to her fingers and she felt compelled to look at the image.
I must have seen it before, she thought. I must have seen this engraving somewhere and that is why I saw it in my dream. It must have been a memory.
But she knew she had not seen the book before, and that, even if she had, it could not be the source of the image in her dream: the view in the Civitates was looking at the burning palace from the direction of the canal, but in her dream she had seen it from the other direction.
I didn’t dream it, she thought, with a terrifying realisation. I was in the past. I was there.
She dropped the book, letting it fall from numb fingers. Despite its great antiquity and obvious value, she felt only the vaguest sense of relief when it was caught by other hands which stopped it plummeting to the floor, for one of the Prince’s guests had entered the room and had saved it from its fall.