Mr. Darcy's Dream (15 page)

That was what she most missed, the lifting high spirits and the sense of happiness and merriment that she felt she had always experienced when a girl at Pemberley. She had hoped that coming to Pemberley would restore that sense of well-being, but she reflected rather sadly that she now truly appreciated those lines of Horace, where he remarked that a change of climate did not bring about any change of mood.

Martindale House had only caught the tail end of the storm. There had been some minor damage to roof tiles and chimneys, and the next day Sir Henry had ridden round his estates with his bailiff, making note of fallen trees, broken fences, repairs needed to outbuildings and to tenants' cottages. Sir Henry was a good landlord, taking care of both his land and his tenants. He invited Arthur Stanhope to go with him, but his brother-in-law declined. One day, Stanhope would inherit his father's land and estates, but these represented only a small part of the substantial Stanhope fortune. He knew that when he came into possession of his inheritance, he would employ an able man such as Hugh Drummond to manage his estates; indeed, perhaps Hugh Drummond himself, if he could be weaned away from Mr. Darcy's employment.

Kitty knew how he felt, and rebuked him for it. “With a population so volatile, and things being so bad for so many people in the country, landowners must shoulder their responsibilities, and look after those who work for them.”

“I know my limitations, Kitty. There are others much better
qualified than I am to take care of such things. I have served my country in the army, I have played my part in ensuring that her old freedoms have survived. And as far as I can see, I shall spend the rest of my life doing my duty by my country. But my talents do not lie, as Sir Henry's do, in looking after land and property in the country. It is more realistic for me to pay another man to do that, and to do those things which I can do, which others may not do so well.”

She shook her head. She was in her own small parlour, where she had just given the directions for the day to her housekeeper, and was now sorting through the letters that had arrived for her that morning. She held one up and stopped. “Here is a letter from Mother, complaining that you are spending so much time out of London. You do not even have the excuse of being called abroad.”

Arthur Stanhope had expected nothing else. His mother would have conveniently forgotten that she had urged him to visit Kitty in Derbyshire. He had resigned himself to the fact that he could never please either of his parents. His mother had brought him up with a rigid sense of duty but little affection, and affection was not within his father's range of emotion—other than the casual affection that he might feel for a pretty opera girl, or his latest dashing mistress.

“There is not much news from London,” said Kitty. “At least, not the kind of news that would interest you, merely tittle-tattle and gossip. The season has got off to a good start, Mama tells me. Phoebe Hawkins's sister”—she was looking down at her letter, and did not see her brother start at the name—“Miss Sarah Hawkins, is taking the town by storm, apparently, although Mama does not see why when she is not, in her opinion, much of a beauty.”

Her brother had turned away, and gone across to the window. “I can't see why my mother takes any interest in the Hawkins family.”

Kitty was surprised at the harshness of his tone. “It is only a passing remark, and you know how she resents it when any of the country gentry produce daughters who outshine the progeny of the Whigs. She wishes you to go back to London. I suppose she hopes that you may take your part in the festivities, and doubtless meet and propose to some dashing girl from one of our great families. I wish you would, Arthur. It would do you good to marry and settle down, and my marriage to Sir Henry being such a disappointment—”

He whirled around. “Disappointment? Disappointment to whom?”

There was a long silence. Kitty was looking down at her feet. “A disappointment to our parents, that is all I mean. Henry is rich, which is good, and he is not a Tory, which is also good, despite being a landowner who prefers the country life, but it was not the great match that they would have liked for me. I married for love, which they see as a mistake. I didn't,” she finished in a desolate voice, “but who knows, they may be right.”

“To the devil with love,” said Arthur Stanhope vehemently. “Passion is something that anyone can deal with. But once love's barbed arrows are dug deep in your flesh, there's no escaping.”

Kitty laughed, but with no real merriment. “You are very poetic this morning, Arthur. Don't tell me that blind Cupid has been loosing his arrows in your direction, for I shan't believe it. No, you stick to your beautiful actresses, until one day you'll realise you need a heir, and will propose to the nearest available girl, who will proceed to make your life a misery.”

Arthur Stanhope took his leave of his sister and Sir Henry that evening, for he was setting off for London early in the morning. He left saddened by Kitty's unhappiness and cynicism about marriage. He was on his way back to London not because of the summons from his mother, but because he had business there that needed attending to. And besides, what point was there in staying any longer at Martindale House? Kitty was miserable, and he wasn't sure why. There might be an obvious reason, but he felt there was more to it than that. It might be possible to help restore good relations between her and her husband, but he felt sure that the deep-seated source of the problem would be less easy to solve. His mother would be triumphant, if he told her half the truth. He wouldn't. He would simply say to her that a long, chilly winter, and sullen spring skies, had pulled Kitty's spirits down.

He travelled fast, wanting to do the journey to London in one day, since he much disliked staying at inns. He changed horses frequently, and keeping up a steady pace was in London by the evening. He was weary from the long drive when he arrived at his house in Melbury Street, and as he went into the house, he told his man, Lismore, to call for something to eat, and a bottle of wine to be ready for him as soon as he had taken a shower. This was a newfangled contraption, much disapproved of by his valet, which he had recently had installed in a new bathroom next to his bedchamber. An hour later, with these material comforts satisfied, he sat in his study, flicking through the papers that lay on his desk, making notes in a firm, swift hand, occasionally putting aside some letter or bill to be dealt with or discussed later.

He looked up to see Lismore standing at the door, perfectly quiet and perfectly composed. “What is it?” he said.

“A servant came round from her ladyship's house,” Lis
more said with an impassive face. He had no need to say who her ladyship was, it always meant Lady Stanhope. “He brought a message.”

“Out with it.”

“Her ladyship's compliments, and she hopes that she will see you at the Gowersons' ball this evening.”

“The devil she does,” Stanhope muttered to himself, carrying on with a letter he was writing. He finished it, signed it, sprinkled some sand on to it and shook it off, then read it through.

“Lady Stanhope's man is waiting for a reply.”

“Do you think there is any point in my explaining to her ladyship that I have been driving all day and that my head is full of such places as Leicester and Kettering and Luton, and I have yet to adjust to London life?”

Lismore gave a discreet cough. “I do not believe her ladyship will be much impressed.”

No, thought Stanhope. Being a woman of astounding vitality and insensitivity, her ladyship never paid the least attention to anyone else's situation. He knew that if she had been travelling all day, it would be nothing for her to arrive home, change into a ball gown, and sally forth to dine, attend a soirée, and then to spend the rest of the night until the early hours at a ball. He supposed he had his mother to thank for his own superabundance of energy and stamina, but he had often wished, as did other members of her family, that she would occasionally succumb to any kind of weakness.

Reluctantly, he went out to his bedchamber, to find that his valet had already laid out the proper clothes for a ball. He cursed him for his presumption, but allowed himself to be dressed in the breeches, waistcoat, and perfectly fitting black coat. He tied his own stock, shaping the piece of linen into
intricate folds with long, deft fingers, and allowed his man to add a final touch of polish to his gleaming pumps. A cloak and a cane, which concealed a slender, lethal sword, and he was ready to go, a perfect example of a well-bred Englishman in perfectly correct evening dress.

As his mother told him, when he finally ran across her some two hours later, “It amazes me how in outward appearance you are simply an English gentleman. Whereas, to anyone who knows you, your head is full of fidgets and maggots that have no place inside any Englishman's skull.”

Arthur Stanhope knew better than to respond to this. He enquired courteously as to her well-being, and the health and welfare of his father, “whom I see is not attending the ball this evening.”

“He may come later, he is dining with some friends at the club.”

Arthur Stanhope waited for his mother to come to the point, which she swiftly did. “I hear that Miss Phoebe Hawkins is at present in Derbyshire. She has been sent to Pemberley, which is what happens to all those Darcy girls when they are in some scrape or other. Have you met her there?”

Stanhope was relieved that he could with almost complete truth say that no, he had not had that pleasure. He was wary. How much did his mother know? It was a mystery how she knew anything about his attachment to Phoebe. God knew, the whole wretched business had been short-lived and conducted in the utmost secrecy. There never was any point, however, in trying to work out how Lady Stanhope came by her information. He had more than once remarked to a friend that had she been in charge of intelligence before the Battle of Waterloo, Napoleon would never have slipped over the border unnoticed.

“I am glad to hear it,” his mother said. “I am sure she is a very good kind of girl, if a trifle plain, but as you must know, the Stanhopes and the Hawkins have never been on good terms.”

That was all he was going to get out of his mother that evening. What she had to say was full of code and hidden meaning, which he could decipher well enough. With his temper rising, he went into the ballroom, intending to find Phoebe's younger sister and ask her for a dance. That would annoy his mother, and allow him to talk about Phoebe.

This wasn't so easy. Since he had arrived late, most of the more attractive young ladies had filled up their dance cards. But he soon found a friend, a former fellow officer, whom he persuaded to give up his dance with the delectable Sarah Hawkins.

“I wouldn't do it for everyone,” his friend said. “And I'll expect a favour in return one of these days. Perhaps an invitation to dine with the divine Mrs. V,” and he tipped his friend a knowing wink.

As he waited for his dance with Phoebe's sister, he thought about the divine Mrs. Vereker, the tempestuous, beautiful, wilful actress who had been in his keeping for five unforgettable years. Before he met Phoebe Hawkins, he shunned occasions like this, preferring simply to dine at home or attend small parties with his intimate friends, and then inevitably to go on to spend the rest of the evening and night with Emma Vereker.

The night he met Phoebe, all that had changed. And Mrs. Vereker, nobody's fool and more than wise in the ways of men and lovers, had noticed at once a difference in him.

That evening, she had drawn back from his embrace and held him at arm's length, searching his face with her voluptuous eyes. “Well, well, what have we here?” she said in her
entrancing, husky voice, which always seemed to be on the brim of trembling into either laughter or rage. “I do believe we have the picture of a man in love.” He denied it to her, as he denied it to himself. How could he possibly be in love with a girl on first meeting? What was there about Phoebe to arouse such passion? She was well-looking enough, and a young woman who would catch many men's fancy, he would judge, with her sparkling, lively ways and a quick wit, unusual in a debutante. When he'd asked her to dance, she informed him that she wasn't exactly a debutante. This was her second season, and she was enjoying it a great deal more than the first one.

When he asked why, she had laughed, and said that her family had given up on her, and that all the dull men were devoting their time to the new crop of girls making their come-out. “For one's bloom passes very quickly,” she said with perfect good humour.

He had seen Phoebe across the room the minute he arrived in Mrs. Rowan's apartments. It wasn't a ball like this one, but a small private dance, the kind of party given before the season proper began by the hostesses who had come to London early. He had almost not gone, but at the last minute the friend with whom he had been going to dine sent round a message saying that he had a foul cold, and proposed to spend the evening not out on the town and eating beefsteaks, but with his head over a pot of steam and imbibing hot toddies.

So he had gone to Mrs. Rowan's party, always glad to see her, and hoping to have a few words with Pagoda Portal, a man he both liked and admired. He had seen Phoebe talking to Pagoda, looking up at him with a wicked expression on her face and flirting outrageously. It was clear that Pagoda liked Phoebe immensely, which was unusual; Pagoda Portal generally found
very young women not in the least interesting, preferring more sophisticated and mature acquaintances. It was another point in Phoebe's favour, that she was so at home in Mrs. Rowan's salon. Henrietta Rowan, Pagoda Portal's long-standing companion, and undoubtedly his mistress, was a woman of charm and sensibility, who drew around her the liveliest and cleverest people in London. She had told Stanhope, “I cannot bear a fool. I have nobody to please but myself, and possibly Pagoda, and therefore I choose only to invite those whose company I enjoy, which means that no one who is a bore, or in any way tedious, may cross my threshold.”

So very few young women were to be found at Mrs. Rowan's. Among them, he remembered, were several of the Darcy women. And of course through her mother, Phoebe was a Darcy. She shared something of her cousin Camilla's liveliness, and her more distant cousin Cassandra's intelligence and honesty.