Mr. Darcy's Dream (12 page)

Arthur Stanhope made every attempt to appear perfectly normal as he sat in a comfortable armchair in front of Hugh Drummond's fire. He was angry with himself for being thrown so off balance by his meeting with Phoebe. It was infuriating that she was so close at hand, and so ungettatable. He had come to Derbyshire for the express purpose of seeking her out. Of course, he was concerned with Kitty's well-being, but he was a great deal more concerned with trying to make sense of what had passed between him and Phoebe. She had given a promise to her father not to see him, but although Sir Giles had demanded a similar assurance from him, he had not agreed, he was not to be bound by Sir Giles's authority.

Of course, a sudden and unexpected meeting with both of them on horseback in the pouring rain made an impossible situation for any kind of conversation. And it was clear she was avoiding him. Was that to fall in with her father's orders, or was it her decision? Did she truly want to have nothing more to do with him? Could she have believed the accusations that Sir Giles had levelled in his face—accusations that had made him white with anger, and had sent him away from
Aubrey Square with unspoken words of rebuttal on his lips, words which his pride would not allow him to say? He looked moodily into the flames, only listening with half an ear to what Hugh was saying.

His friend soon took him to task, accusing him of not hearing a word of what he had just been saying. “You were commenting upon the likely severity of the weather,” Stanhope said.

“Indeed I was, but I also went on to say that although I had hoped you would dine with me and we could spend the evening together, I think that if you are to have any hope of getting back to Martindale House tonight, you had better leave almost at once.”

Stanhope protested at this, saying that he was hardly likely to be bothered by a wet evening. “Good God, Hugh, compared to the conditions that we went through in the Peninsula, let alone at Waterloo, this is nothing.”

“We were soldiers then. In time of peace, when social obligations, not military ones, hold sway, one's behaviour has to moderate accordingly. Your sister will worry if you were not to return this evening, although you are perfectly welcome to spend a night here if you wish.”

Stanhope got up and went over to the door. As he opened it, a gust of wind and rain blew in, making the fire hiss and emit a burst of smoke. “It does seem to be getting worse,” he said. “And my mare doesn't like this weather at all; I think I will have an uneasy ride of it. I shall leave you to your papers, and set off right away. Lend me a cloak, there's a good fellow.”

They went into the small kitchen adjacent to the room in which they had been sitting, and from there through a heavy wooden door that led into the small stable. There were two stalls, in one of which was the cob that Mr. Darcy had provided
for Hugh's use while he was at Pemberley, and in the other Stanhope's mare, pulling wisps of hay from a net and looking very peaceful. She turned her head as Stanhope came in, and looked at him with knowing eyes. Stanhope slapped her rump. “I'm afraid you've still some work to do,” he said, and she flicked her ears back and forth in response.

He saddled and bridled her swiftly and efficiently, while Hugh held a lantern to illuminate the dim stable. Then he led the mare out into the small cobbled yard. She tossed her head, showed the whites of her eyes, and stepped sideways on nervous hooves. Stanhope mounted, raised his whip in salutation to Hugh, and guided the mare out of the yard and on to the track beyond.

Although barely dusk, it was already gloomy outside. It was the night of the full moon, but heavy, scudding clouds obscured most of the moon's light, and Stanhope knew he would have a dark ride of it back to Martindale House. He would normally have ridden cross-country, but instead he struck out on to the main road. It would be a longer ride, but a safer and easier one, given the increasing power of the wind and the rain sweeping down from the hillside.

The wild ferocity of the weather matched his mood. He kept up a steady pace, too experienced a rider to let his attention wander from the road, although all the while a thread of other thoughts were occupying another part of his mind. With this, and his eyes on the road ahead, he rode on for several yards past the still figure lying on the side of the road, before his conscious mind registered what he had seen.

He turned back at once, and flung himself from his horse's back. He threw the reins over the mare's head, and tugged at her bridle to pull her forward with him. She whickered, and he heard an answering whinny come back from the darkness. It
was clear what had happened. A rider had been thrown from his horse, which, perhaps lamed, had stayed nearby instead of bolting back to its stable.

Stanhope heard a groan. Which meant that whoever it was certainly wasn't dead. Indeed, even as Stanhope bent over him, the man sat up, clutching a hand to his forehead. His face was smeared with mud; mud mingled with blood, as Stanhope saw quite clearly when the moon for a moment sailed out from behind a cloud, lighting up the whole scene. At the same moment he saw the shadowy outline of a horse, and abandoning the figure to his groans led his mare forward and quickly seized the trailing reins of the other horse.

Stanhope recognised the horse before its rider. The man sitting beside the ditch was Henry Martindale, his brother-in-law. Even as he helped him to his feet, it occurred to Stanhope to wonder exactly why Sir Henry was a mile or so from the gates of Pemberley, on the road which led in completely the opposite direction to the one he was supposed to have taken today.

Henry was cursing now, and trying to wipe the blood and mud from his face with the back of his sleeve. He uttered a word of thanks to Stanhope, and reached out a hand to take his horse's bridle.

“Can you ride?” asked Stanhope.

“I have to,” said Henry. “I can hardly spend a night out here in the ditch.”

“No, but if you are badly hurt, or feeling faint, you are likely to fall off your horse again. I can leave you here while I go for help.”

Sir Henry felt his ribs and his arm. He winced. “I landed on that side. But I shall ride back. If you could just give me a leg up.”

Stanhope helped Sir Henry into the saddle, and then mounted his own horse with some difficulty since, disturbed still further by the strange activities, she was circling and snatching at her bit. But once Stanhope was on her back, she calmed down, and seemed quietened by the presence of the other horse. Sir Henry was riding an old hunter, a placid enough animal, luckily for him, for otherwise he would have had a long walk back to Martindale.

It took them nearly an hour to get back to Martindale House, and as the horses clattered into the stable, a figure came flying through the rain and the wind calling out to them. Kitty flung her arms around her husband, pushing his hair back and exclaiming as she saw the blood on his face.

He pushed her away. “Take care, my dear, I am a very dirty creature. There is no need for you to fly into fancies, I simply had a fall. But Titan here is as solid as a rock and didn't run off, I was in no danger. As it was, Arthur came past, caught the horse, pushed me back into the saddle, and so we rode home. Now I need to wash my face and hands, change my clothes, and I'm sure you will be able to provide us with a good dinner. It is vile weather, and I don't wish to be out in it a moment longer than I have to.”

He paused to have a few words with his groom, to make sure that everything necessary had been done in the stables against the forthcoming storm.

“I do not believe we shall have the worst of it here,” said Stanhope as they went indoors. “Either the wind is slackening, or the path of the storm lies some way to the west of here. I fancy they will be in for a rough night of it at Pemberley, though.”

The groom had been sent indoors by Mr. Jessop to make sure that Miss Phoebe was all right, and, since no one had seen her, a general search was started. Miniver found her sitting on the floor with her back against the conservatory door, grasping her legs with her hands, her head sunk on to her knees. At first, Miniver thought she had suffered a fall, and was in pain. But Phoebe got to her feet, shaking off her maid's attempts to help her up. “I am perfectly all right. Just damp.”

A glance at Phoebe's face told Miniver that this was not the time for fuss or comfort or calming words. So instead she became brisk. She drove Phoebe upstairs, told her in sharp tones to remove her habit, and issued instructions for the footmen to bring up hot water so that Phoebe could take a bath in front of the fire in her room.

Louisa, who had been worried about Phoebe being out in the rising storm, heard she had returned and at once came to her room. She knocked and entered, took a quick look at Phoebe, and then sat quietly down on the sofa to talk about the news that she had had that day from her mother. Phoebe sat in the hot water, sheltered by a screen from any possible
draughts, and began to feel the tension and distress drain out of her.

The windowpanes rattled, and Miniver went over to check that the heavy red curtains were properly drawn. With the soft light of the oil lamps and candles, and the glow from the fire, the room was a warm haven of peace and tranquillity. Miniver dried Phoebe in a towel warmed in front of the fire, put her into a dressing gown, and began to lay out an evening dress, for once holding her tongue, and working in silence.

When Phoebe was dressed, and Miniver had brushed and arranged her hair, Louisa invited her to come to her room while she changed. “I do not think that Miss Verney will be joining us this evening,” she said. “She has the headache, and has apparently been lying down in her room all afternoon. The nursery maids have been looking after the children, and I had them in the drawing-room for an hour. They are very lively, and I think you are right in your judgement; I am not at all sure that Miss Verney is the right kind of person to be looking after them.”

Phoebe would not allow her thoughts to wander, not for a second. The only way she could cope with her tumultuous emotions was to shut a door on the past and exist entirely in the present moment. She picked up on a word that Louisa had used. “Apparently?”

“I saw a woman in a cloak at the side of the house earlier this afternoon. At first I thought it was you, but she was not dressed for riding. She headed off in the direction of the lake. I am fairly certain it was not one of the servants, and therefore by process of elimination, it must have been Miss Verney.”

“Miss Verney may be one of those unfortunates who is much influenced by the weather. With a storm coming, and
a bad headache, she may have felt that a walk in the fresh air would do her more good than lying down on her bed.”

Louisa, usually inclined to give anyone the benefit of the doubt, was still sceptical. “I think in that case she would have been walking neither so quickly nor so furtively. It is my belief that she had left the house to go to meet someone.”

“An assignation,” said Phoebe. “In which case she must be carrying on some kind of intrigue with a servant or perhaps a local farmer. It is not very becoming or appropriate behaviour for a governess, I feel. However, if for whatever reason we are to be spared her presence at dinner tonight, I for one will be grateful. I find her a difficult companion.”

Phoebe was ready now, and she picked up a spangled shawl and draped it over her elbows. As she did so, there was a knock at the door. A footman was there, asking if he might come in and make sure that her windows were securely fastened. “It seems that this side of the house will bear the brunt of the wind,” he explained. “Mr. Lydgate wants all the windows checked.”

“Is the storm expected to be so very severe?” asked Phoebe.

Thomas fixed the clasp of the window more firmly into place, and stood back. “As bad as any there's been these last twenty years, they're saying. All the cows have been brought in, and the horses, too, those that were out to grass on the other side of the river. I reckon we're in for a wicked old night.”

At first, the footman's gloomy predictions seemed extreme. Certainly, the wind rattled the windows and sent smoke from the fire in little puffs across the dining-room, but it was no worse than many storms that both she and Louisa had experienced when at Pemberley.

“Weather always seems more violent in the country,” Louisa said.

“That is because in town, with so many more buildings, one is protected from the worst of the wind.” Phoebe looked down at her plate and wrinkled her nose. “I do hope this is the last of the rhubarb. Mrs. Makepeace persuaded me to order rhubarb tart, for there has been such a glut of the fruit this year. For myself, I find it too sour a fruit, even in a tart.”

After dinner, they withdrew to the small upstairs sitting room, as with the wind in the direction it was blowing, the fire in the big drawing-room was smoking too much to make it pleasant to sit in there.

Pemberley was a well-built house, but this evening as they made their way up to their bedchambers, draughts seem to come at them from every side. The candles they were holding flickered, and Louisa's went out when a sudden gust blew in from a nearby window embrasure.

At last, after so many hours, Phoebe was alone in her bedchamber. She sent Miniver away very quickly, sure that her maid, instead of retiring to her own small room in the servants' wing, would be in the servants' hall with all the rest of the staff, who were, Miniver had told her, in a rare old state on account of the storm.

Phoebe paid no attention to the keening of the wind, the rattling of the windows, or the sound of rain as it began to lash against the windowpanes. The fire in her room burned brightly, and it had not yet begun to smoke, for which Phoebe was grateful. She slid between the linen sheets, carefully warmed by Miniver, but she still found herself shivering. She lay far from sleep, watching the shadows from the fire chase one another over the ceiling and walls of her room.

Why had Mr. Stanhope come to Pemberley? He knew she was there, must have known that she didn't want to see him, when she had refused to come down during his visit, and yet
within no more than a few hours he had come back to Pemberley. No doubt calling upon his friend, Hugh Drummond, but did he believe there was no chance of his meeting Phoebe? Was it a matter of such indifference to him? Did he not feel any awkwardness at the situation? Or had he come to find her? The questions ran round and round in her troubled head, and an hour later she felt that she, like Miss Verney, would succumb to a severe headache.

Finally, she drifted into an uneasy, unhappy sleep, only to be woken some few hours later by a tremendous crash of thunder over her head. She leapt out of bed and ran to the window, dragging back the curtains and tugging at the shutters to reveal an extraordinary scene. The sky was pierced by jagged forks of lightning, and every few seconds the whole landscape was brilliantly illuminated by sheet lightning, which made extraordinary silhouettes of the dramatic clouds. She could see trees swaying under the force of the wind and, even as she watched, she heard a wrenching sound, and gazed, appalled, as one of the great elms shook and then toppled, branches hurtling into the ground as it fell across the drive with a thud that shook in her ears.

The door to her chamber flew open, and Louisa was there, in her nightgown, with her hair in curling papers, holding an oil lamp and calling out, “Where are you, Phoebe? Are you all right?”

Phoebe came out from behind the curtain. “Yes, of course I'm all right. It is dreadful out there, a scene from hell. This terrible wind is bringing trees down all over the park.”

As she spoke there was another great crash followed by a rumbling sound and voices calling out. Louisa started. “Whatever was that?”

“I think it was one of the chimney pots coming down.”
Phoebe came back into the room. “There's no point staying in here, Louisa. I would rather be up, I cannot sleep in the middle of all this. I shall dress, and see if there is anything I can do.”

Louisa's concern was for the plants. “I hope the walls of the kitchen garden may afford some shelter to what is planted in there,” she said. “But as to everything planted in pots, they will be blown to pieces.”

She ran back to her room to put on outdoor clothes. Then, meeting Phoebe on the landing, they went downstairs together, finding Miniver coming up the other way. “I was just coming to make sure you were not disturbed, Miss Phoebe. What, are you dressed? You had better get back to your room, I am sure you will be safer there.”

“I am sure I will be safe anywhere within the house,” said Phoebe. “What's that screaming I can hear?”

“It's Polly, one of the kitchen maids. She's having a fit of the hysterics, but Mrs. Makepeace is with her and will deal with her. The wind blew the door of the servants' hall open, and leaves and branches and a great deal of rain came in, and everything inside the room was blown to and fro before they could get the door shut again. A saucepan came down and clipped the side of the silly girl's head, not hurting her, but it gave her such a fright that she set up the screeching you can hear.”

As Miniver finished speaking, there came the sound of shattering glass. “Oh, Lord save us,” cried Miniver, “if that's a window blown in, I can't think of the damage that will be done. Besides, with as many windows as there are at Pemberley, however will we find out which one has shattered?”

Louisa was making to the front door. “That wasn't a window in the house. That was one of the glasshouses going down.”

“You can't go out at the front,” Phoebe shouted at her. “That's where the wind is driving.”

“Miss Louisa must not go out at all,” said Miniver, but even as she spoke, Louisa had darted towards the rear of the house, and was gone.

 

As soon as Louisa was out of the door the wind struck, quite taking her breath away. She steadied herself, and paused for a moment for her eyes to get accustomed to the contrasting light and darkness, and the cataclysm of the thunder breaking overhead. A pot crashed to the ground from the steps, and another rolled around at her feet. She picked it up; whatever plant had been in it had been blown away, and she found herself clutching a pot that contained nothing but some damp soil. She could hear more glass breaking, and fighting against the rain and wind, so strong it made her stagger, she headed in the direction of the sound.

While Phoebe and Louisa were still asleep, Mr. Grayling, Hugh Drummond, and the indoor and outdoor gardeners had been doing their best to protect the plants, the fruit trees, and the garden buildings, the potting sheds, the glasshouses, and the big pinery.

Most of their efforts had been in vain, and Louisa saw shadowy figures going to and fro, carrying pots and plants and armfuls of greenery. Some were being carried into the stable yard, others were being taken into the house itself. Mr. Drummond saw her and shouted to her to go back in.

“No, indeed, I will not. What are you doing?”

“We are trying to rescue the pineapple plants,” he shouted into the wind. “If we cannot get them under shelter, into a place that is reasonably warm, none of them will survive the
night. The big glasshouse is being blown to pieces, and they are exposed to the elements.”

So it was that Louisa found herself at five in the morning walking into the hall of the house holding the leaves of yet another of the precious pineapple plants. It wasn't heavy, but very unwieldy, and to carry any plant in that wind and rain was no easy matter. She put it down with a little sigh of triumph, and pushed the hair back from her forehead with a soil-stained hand. Mr. Drummond came over, looking at her with keen attention. “You have done enough, Miss Bingley, you have done more than could possibly be expected of anyone. All the pineapples are now indoors, and I am very grateful for your help, although I feel no plant in the world is worth a young lady putting herself into danger.”

She smiled at him and shook her head. “It is all right for a Mr. Drummond to put himself at risk, but not a Miss Bingley?” She was astonished at herself, it was the kind of remark that Phoebe would have made, but that was quite alien to her. At that moment Phoebe appeared on the scene. She had been directing the activities inside the house, issuing orders with an easy command that reminded Mrs. Makepeace forcibly of her uncle Mr. Darcy.

“What a ghastly night!” Phoebe said as she sank on to a stone bench, perched between two large leafy plants that had been balanced on it. “Mr. Drummond, you are a hero. Mr. Grayling is singing your praises, which is a rare compliment, you know. He says that for a city gent you have managed uncommonly well.”

Drummond laughed, and coloured up. “Anyone brought up in Norfolk as I have been, Miss Hawkins, is well used to coping with gardens threatened by wild weather.”

“And were you not in the army?” Louisa asked. “From
what I have heard, the conditions that men fought in during the recent wars would make what has happened here tonight no more than a slight disturbance in the weather.”

“I can truthfully say that we rarely saw storms as severe as this during my time in the army. However, here at least I have a roof over my head, and sometimes when I was in Spain my tent blew away and I and my fellow soldiers were forced to spend the night huddled in whatever shelter we could find for ourselves and for our horses.”

The last of his words went unheard, as a crash, even louder than those that had preceded it, echoed around the hall. “As to a roof,” said Phoebe calmly, “I hope you are right on that matter. But it sounds to me as though Pemberley itself may have lost part of its roof tonight.”

 

Phoebe retired to bed for the second time in a long night as dawn broke, a dawn that was nearly as dark as dusk had been the night before. This time she did not lie sleepless, and no uneasy thoughts troubled her mind as she slipped instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep, waking many hours later when Miniver tiptoed into her room carrying a welcome dish of hot chocolate. She had made it so thick that Phoebe could hardly drink it, and had to resort to a spoon. Miniver drew back the curtains, commenting as she did so that the storm was still raging, although not as strongly as it had been at its height.