The Darcys and Lord Byron in Venice Part 11 – Diana Birchall

“My dear Lord Byron,” wrote Lady Catherine, then laid down her quill to gaze dreamily out at the canal with a romantic expression that on her normally hard and imperious face, would have been deeply disturbing if any one had been there to observe it.  But she was alone in the palatial chamber that Darcy and Elizabeth had made over to his aunt while she stayed at their grand residence, the Palazzo Mocenigo.  Satin hangings in a dark puce color depended from the heavily carved mahogany bed-frame, and elaborate mosaic tables shone in the bright spring sunlight that streamed through the long windows with their iron carvery. Outside gondolas and work-boats floated across the blue water of the canal.

Lady Catherine only stared unseeing, for her mind was not on the opulent rooms, or the glories of Venice, but on her correspondent.

“I want to tell you, first of all, how delighted I was by your kind reception of me last night; I must not commit myself to paper to revisit all that happened between us, but be assured that I will never forget a moment of it – certainly not the moment when our lips touched, so briefly. But hush!  I do not mean to mention that precious happening, and never shall again.  My purpose in writing now, in short, is to gladly commence what I mean to be a discourse between the two of us that will be of profound benefit to both. For me, the friendship with a man of genius; and for you, the disinterested and kindly advice of a slightly older woman who has only your happiness in mind.”

Lady Catherine leaned back in her lace-and-silk peignoir in pretty shades of rather girlish pinks and blues, and carefully wiped her pen with a felt pen-wiper embroidered with the Darcy crest. She re-read her first paragraph with satisfaction, dipped her pen again in the porcelain ink-well and continued.

“Lord Byron, I know you will forgive me for taking the liberty to presume to give my opinion, because nobody in England – or in Italy – has the merit of being able to form so just an opinion of you, as I have.  I have long been famed for being a very acute judge of human nature; my talents at observation are, I think, better than any one else’s in either the Kingdom or the Republic.  I am quite singular for this.  Will you believe, I not only recognized your genius at once, but also your quality of vulnerableness, quite touching under your air of arrogance and self-conceit that I, and only I, can perceive to be a defense against your very real uncertainty as to your own superiority. I know you are lauded everywhere, and popular beyond precedence with the public, particularly with ladies; but I alone can see what you really are.”

A rapid, impetuous knock sounded on the door and Lady Catherine looked up with extreme irritation. “Good heavens!  Who is it?  Am I never to be undisturbed?” she exclaimed. “Sarah, how dare you knock?”

But it was not the maid who entered. Instead, none other than Lydia rushed in, still in Lizzy’s night dress with a cloak flung over it, as she had been attired last night. Her hair was disarrayed, and her expression was bleary and wild, as if she had tossed and turned for hours with very little sleep.

“Mrs. Wickham!  This is the utter limit. You have no right to enter my chamber. Of what are you thinking?  You must be beside yourself. Withdraw at once.”

“Excuse me, Lady Catherine, but I do have the right,” Lydia said impatiently. “I have very urgent business to discuss with you, I would have you know.  And when you hear what I have to say, you will not dispute my right.”

Lady Catherine rose to her feet to her full stateliness. “This is most unacceptable behavior!  I will ring for the servants and have you taken away. Mr. Darcy will not hear of you accosting me in such a manner.”  She reached for the bell-pull, but Lydia darted forward and stayed her hand.

“Excuse me, madam, but you must by no means summon Darcy. He is the very last person in the world whom you would wish to hear what I have to say!”

“Then say what you will, with haste, and I will be the judge of whom I shall summon!”

“Very well, you asked for it. You must know, Lady Catherine, that I saw you with Lord Byron last night.”

“So you did. And I saw you with him too,” her ladyship retorted.

“But you were in a gondola with him, kissing, and maybe more than that; and if I tell all I know, your reputation will be in tatters!”

“What! I, the most upright and righteous woman in England!”

“You are not in England now,” Lydia hissed, “and you did not behave righteously last night, I can tell you that!  I talked to the gondolier afterward, and he told me what you were doing in that little cabin on his vessel! You and Lord Byron – were making love!”

“Indeed we were not!” Lady Catherine’s heavy brows drew together and she frowned with the expression that made most people quail and long to leave her company. To Lydia’s credit, the younger woman stood her ground.

“Yes, I know of what I speak. You are no better than me, Lady Catherine, you are as good as his concubine!  Ha! Ha!  To think of you, you stiff old witch, subject to Byron’s charms, just like any street harlot!  What do they say about the captain’s lady and Judy O’Grady – well, here is the grand lady and the puttana, for you are one and the same!”

Lydia paused for breath. “Have you finished?” stated Lady Catherine, not ruffled in the least. “What language!  But it is you who are the concubine, you the puttana, and if you do not cease and withdraw  yourself from my chamber at once, I will tell every word you have said to my nephew, and then you will see what will happen!”

“Rather, it is you who will see,” returned Lydia, unperturbed herself. “The mighty have farthest to fall, and when he hears what his dirty auntie has been up to, why, I do believe Mr. Darcy will be glad to pay any sum to have the matter hushed up!”

“You lie!” thundered Lady Catherine.

“Oh, do I? Then what is this, pray tell?” And she lunged over and grabbed the papers on Lady Catherine’s table, knocking over the ink-stand with her impetuous movement. Ink spilled all over Lizzy’s cloak (which fortunately was black), but Lydia paid it not the slightest heed.

“Only look!  The ink is still wet on this letter!  You have been writing to your lover, Lord Byron, that is what.  And let us see what you say – My dear Lord Byron – all that happened between us – the moment our lips touched!  My eye!  You shameless old – “

“Give me that!” Lady Catherine snatched the papers back.  “This proves nothing. It is only a manner of speaking. Any body may write letters to a famous poet.”

“Not a proper lady, she can’t,” contradicted Lydia.  “No lady can correspond with a rake like Byron, without ruining her reputation, as you know very well!  And I will see to it myself that your reputation is ruined. Unless – “

She paused expectantly, and Lady Catherine gasped and was silent for a moment. Then she said, incredulously, “Blackmail. This is blackmail!”

Lydia nodded. “I guess your reputation for being a mighty clever lady is right, after all.”

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were seated at breakfast, on the sunny terrace, watching a small flotilla of sporting boats pass by in an elaborate formation on the Grand Canal just below them.  They were drinking their morning chocolate, and a plateful of pasticiotti, flaky little pastries, just out of the deep oven in the grand kitchen of the palazzo.

Mrs. Darcy sighed with pleasure, and looked at her husband coquettishly, adjusting the exquisite lace cap that sat atop her dark waves of hair.

“I do love a morning when no one bothers us,” she said happily. “I suppose I am a very unsociable creature, but having to make conversation with those I abhor at any time, is worse the earlier in the day it is.”

“I am quite of your opinion,” said her husband, “and to that I would add, that I love best to have you to myself.”

“The children will soon be here, with their freshly washed little faces from the nursery, but it is not the young to whom I object, and certainly not our own young. It is an elder lady I could mention.”

“I wonder where is Lady Catherine this morning,” Darcy commented idly, buttering a pastry and spooning Italian fig jam on top.  “She generally is an early riser.”

“Sarah mentioned that she went out last night,” said Elizabeth casually.

“Oh?” The husband’s and wife’s eyes met. “But where could she go?” Darcy asked. “She knows no one in Venice, I believe, and is hardly given to nighttime excursions.”

Elizabeth laid down her Italian porcelain chocolate cup. “Why, you are right,” she said, “this is a puzzle, to be sure. Who does she know here, in fact – except, well except Lord Byron?”

“But does she know him?” asked Darcy incredulously.

“Why, yes, don’t you remember, she was here when he brought Lydia back. And – and if I am not mistaken, she looked unduly delighted to meet him. Yes, it comes back to me now. She actually simpered, and I could not believe I was seeing her do such a thing!”

“You are right, Elizabeth,” said Darcy, astonished. “But – it cannot be possible. Lady Catherine would never…Byron would never…”

“Are you sure, my love?”

“I am not sure of any thing.”

Elizabeth thought for a moment. “When a lady – a woman – who has never been in love in her life, is stricken with the sweet passion in middle to late years…”

“They sometimes behave in a strange, untoward manner. Is that what you are intimating?”

“I hardly dare entertain such a possibility. But then where is Lady Catherine this morning?”

“And, for that matter, where is Lydia?”

The husband and wife stared at one another, confounded.