Mr. Darcy's Dream (22 page)

Stop running away, stand still, and talk to him like a grown woman; tell him why you sent him that letter, ask him not to seek you out, make it clear you have nothing to say to him. She didn't trust herself. Face-to-face with him in this pastoral landscape, how could she be sure she would act as her reason told her? And if she didn't, if he once more pressed his suit, told her he loved her, if once again she melted into his kiss, how would her resolve stand up to that? If it didn't, if she
succumbed, as her heart would urge her to, how many years of misery might she be bringing down upon herself? Consider how her mother had been affected by one lapse from the straight road of marital fidelity; how would it be if it happened over and over again?

Phoebe had not forgotten the key to the maze, and Louisa was mistaken in thinking it was a regular pattern, for it was more subtle than that. Phoebe could see the whole maze laid out in front of her, as though she were a bird soaring above it and looking down on its twists and turns and cunning undulations. It was a knack she had, and she was never more grateful for it than now, as she flew towards the centre of the maze. From there, she knew a short way out, and would emerge at the other side while her pursuer ran to and fro between the high hedges.

It was with astonishment that she took a turn and found herself running headlong into Louisa. “Good heavens, what are you doing in here, and why are you so distraught? Who is calling your name? Where is Mr. Drummond, why are you alone?”

“It is Mr. Bagot, I didn't want to talk to him—”

As she said these words, Mr. Stanhope stepped into the little clearing. He was, Phoebe noticed with resentment, perfectly cool and composed, as though he had just stepped out of his dressing room, not a wrinkle in his well-fitting coat, not a stain on his pantaloons, his frothy stock a miracle of white perfection. A dandy; a rake and a dandy, a snare for any woman weak enough to be taken in by him.

“Quite right,” he was saying to Louisa. “The man is a bore. He approaches, we had best be on our way. Miss Hawkins, I fancy you should be our guide?”

Phoebe had a suspicion that he knew his way around the
maze as well as she did, but this was no time to find out. Without another word, she led the way on to a narrow, wavering path, with hardly room for a person to pass, and they were out of sight by the time a panting Mr. Bagot arrived at the spot they had just left. He whirled round, then chose a broader, more inviting path and went on his eager way.

“He will find himself back at the entrance in a trice,” said Phoebe, leaning back against the hedge and laughing. “How unwise for a clergyman to choose the broad path instead of the narrow one.”

“Destruction instead of salvation,” agreed Mr. Stanhope. “Are we nearly at the centre?”

A few more lefts and rights, and they were standing in the clear space at the heart of the maze. It was a charming place, with an antique statue of Aphrodite poised as though about to bathe, above a shell-shaped pool into which the water plashed from a conch shell held aloft by Cupid.

“Ah, Eros and his bows of desire,” remarked Stanhope, looking appreciatively at Venus's naked beauty.

Louisa blushed, and Phoebe said tartly, “Love's darts is how the poets describe his weapons.”

“Love, desire; Aphrodite rules over both.”

“And a lot more besides. Louisa, shall we find our way out of the maze directly?”

“Yes, indeed, there is nothing I want more, what a horrid place it is, so hot and damp and confusing. Mr. Stanhope—”

“Mr. Stanhope may stay and feast his eyes upon the goddess's shapely form, or he may accompany us, it is up to him.”

Phoebe felt bolder now that Louisa was at her side. The look she gave Mr. Stanhope was one of defiance, which didn't waver as he looked back at her.

They reached the small exit from the maze in a very few
minutes, and there Phoebe, holding on to Louisa's hand, nodded a good-bye to Mr. Stanhope, and set off towards the house at great speed.

“Jack,” she cried, hailing her friend with enthusiasm.

He was delighted to see her, had been looking for her, they were going to start the dancing, all informal, no lists, no lining up in order, free and easy was the rule today. Inside the great hall, a group of musicians was striking up a waltz. Jack's hand slid round Phoebe's slim waist, and he twirled her on to the floor.

Mr. Stanhope stood in the doorway, watching the dancers. Phoebe always danced well, for she was light and graceful on her feet and had an instinctive feel for the music. She was well-partnered, she and Jack danced wonderfully together. A man in a claret coat who was standing nearby had noticed it as well, and with a knowing nod of his head, said, “We shall see Mr. Jack and Miss Phoebe wed yet. Their wedding day will be a day to make merry, for they are a handsome couple, and nothing would please their families more than to see them man and wife.”

Mr. Stanhope prided himself on keeping a cool head in whatever circumstances he might find himself, but nothing in his life previously had prepared him for the surge of jealousy that swept over him at the stranger's words.

By God, they would not dance and make merry at the wedding of Phoebe and Jack Harlow, not if he had anything to do with it.

The next days passed in a whirl of activity for Phoebe, who was too busy to notice Louisa's air of quiet happiness as she helped with the preparations for the ball and, unbeknownst to Phoebe, spent delighted half-hours in Mr. Drummond's company.

The day of the ball dawned. A faint mist hung over the river at Pemberley and curled softly up the lawns and meadows on either side. The sky was a clear pale blue, with the faint outline of the moon, nearly at its full, visible as dawn broke.

The great house was abuzz with activity soon after dawn, as all the servants in the house were up and about before their usual hour of six o'clock. They came yawning and stretching into the servants' hall, pink and sleepy, but already alive with the excitement of the day. M. Joules was in the kitchens, summoning his staff as a general might before a battle. They had been at work for days with the preparations for the day of the ball, and he had now only hours to get ready a dinner of several courses for thirty people, many of them of the highest rank, and a ball supper for four hundred.

In London, Mrs. Darcy would have employed Gunter's to see to the ball supper, but in the country the great houses had
to provide all the food themselves. Although the household was large at Pemberley, there were not enough staff to deal with all this extra work, and help had been drafted in from all the villages and towns around.

The unpleasant job of cutting the ice blocks in the ice house, and bringing them up to the house, had fallen to two or three of the brawniest estate workers. It was hard work, hacking at the huge lump of ice, and a messy business, since the ice, cut from the lake in January and hauled up to the ice house to be covered in straw, was thoroughly dirty by this time of year. It would be needed in the kitchens to keep the fresh food cold, and to chill the ices and ice puddings that would be served in the evening.

The work was made harder by the fact that the ceiling of the ice house, plentifully provided with hooks, now had joints of meat, salmon, and turkeys hanging there to keep them fresh. All of these had to be brought up to the house, and more supplies were arriving every minute. Salmon and trout came from the local rivers, but the lobsters, which would be made into patties for the supper, had travelled overnight from the coast.

Mrs. Makepeace was nowhere to be seen. Her duties lay not in the kitchen, or the servants' hall, but upstairs, making sure that everyone staying in the house had everything they needed, and checking and preparing the rooms for the guests who would be arriving during the day.

Sally whisked into the kitchen, and announced that Miss Verney was demanding to know where the children's breakfasts were. “You would think on a morning like this, when everyone is so busy, she would have the courtesy to come down and get it herself. But, oh no, she is far too grand for that, far too much the lady. You know she is to be at the ball this evening, at least she is allowed to put on an evening dress and hover on the
landing with the children so that they may see what is going on. I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't go down and mingle with the guests, she is fool enough to do that.”

“You better keep your tongue still on that front, Sal,” said a passing parlour maid. “Mrs. Manningtree's maid, that Figgins, says that Lady Mordaunt thinks the world of Miss Verney, and won't hear a word against her. Figgins has no time for her, and nor, she says, do the rest of the staff in Paris. They dislike the way she gives herself such airs. And they say she cannot control the children, who are ill-behaved, and do not mind their manners.”

M. Joules came in from the bakehouse, where he had been checking on the baking of a large batch of cheesecakes. With the day already hot, and bidding to become still hotter, the temperature in the bakehouse was not at all comfortable, and perspiration streamed down his forehead as he called for a jug of fresh lemonade to be brought into the kitchen.

Mr. Rutland put in a brief appearance in the servants' hall. He was on constant duty that day, and in his element. He reported on the new arrivals: the Earl and Countess of Earnshaw were come, as were Lord and Lady Rutherford, the Marquis and Marchioness of Lewisham and several other members of the nobility with lesser titles. “Lord and Lady Warren were asked, but declined,” he said.

Sally snorted. “Mr. George Warren is quite enough of that family to have around. He waylaid Molly in the corridor just now, and complimented her on her pretty feet. She was that shocked, and set up screeching. She stopped soon enough when Mrs. Makepeace came on the scene and gave her a quick slap. I told her, never mind your feet, it's when the gentlemen start wanting to look at other parts of you that you have to worry.”

“And we'll have no coarseness in here, Sally, thank you,” said Mrs. Makepeace, coming into the servants' hall to take a quick breakfast. “You just keep your mind on young Colin, and don't go making remarks about Mr. Warren or any other of the guests.”

The servants were pleased to see these members of the nobility arriving in their state, but their real pleasure was reserved for the members of the family. They had begun to arrive the day before, when Mr. and Mrs. Wytton with their infant daughter, Hermione, reached Pemberley at midday. Hot on their heels came Mrs. Wytton's younger sister, Alethea, and her husband, Titus Manningtree. Lady Mordaunt had come alone, as Sir Joshua had been too busy with business to attend, and she had, Mrs. Makepeace told the other servants, sat up half the night in her bedchamber talking to her twin sister, Belle. “Miss Alethea, Mrs. Manningtree, I should say, was up at the crack of dawn,” she reported, “and is now seated at the pianoforte in the drawing-room, playing away as though she had never left the house at all. That only leaves Mrs. Barcombe, and Mrs. Wytton says that she will be here by this afternoon.”

 

The outdoor gardeners had been up at dawn to cut and bring in the fruit and vegetables from the kitchen garden and the orchards, while the indoor men set about selecting the finest fruits from the glasshouses, and the flowers that had been brought into bloom especially for this day.

Phoebe had given particular directions as to just what flowers she would need, and how they must be cut for the arrangements she had planned. Miniver was put out to find that Phoebe had risen by six o'clock, saying that she would be too tired by the end of the day to enjoy the ball if she rose so early.

Even as she spoke, Miniver knew her words were in vain, and indeed Phoebe, full of energy and enthusiasm, did not look as though anything would tire her. Dressed in an old round gown, she hurried out to supervise the work of the indoor gardeners, and to make sure that the estate carpenters had finished laying the wooden flooring in the new glasshouse, completed only two days before and a gleaming glory which, busy as they were, every servant still stopped to gape at as he or she went past.

From there she went into the flower hothouses, fragrant with the heavy scent of summer flowers, gorgeous with glossy leaves and waxy blooms. The indoor gardeners, quiet and efficient in their big green aprons and gloves, were cutting and sorting and arranging the great armfuls of flowers which would be carried into the house and out to the glasshouse. Phoebe saw Mr. Grayling, and paused to have a word about the flowers for the dinner table before she went outside again to make sure that the roses were coming in from the rose garden.

Louisa found her there, still for a moment, with her face buried in a handful of rose petals. “To me, roses are the very essence of summer,” Phoebe said.

Louisa rubbed one of the velvety petals between her fingers. “I like roses, too, but it saddens me the way they are so exquisite in their perfection and then in a moment they turn and fade. And some of the varieties of rose are too sumptuous for my taste. It would never do to have wildflowers in the house or on the tables, but I must say that I prefer the snowdrop or the bluebell to these voluptuous blooms.”

“You would be hard done by to find snowdrops in June,” said Phoebe drily. “Spring wildflowers are lovely in their way, yes, but I love the glory of hothouse flowers. They seem to
suit a ball, which is after all a very artificial affair. The gentle little flowers of wayside and hedgerow can have no place in a ballroom.”

They walked back to the house together, passing servants going to and fro, taking chairs from this part of the house to that part of the house, arranging tables on the terrace, maids hurrying past with piles of linen, garden boys making sure that the huge tubs on the terrace to the south of the house were in a state of perfection.

“I came to find you,” said Louisa, “to tell you that our uncle and aunt have arrived. Aunt Elizabeth has brought with her armfuls of extraordinary plants, I believe that Mr. Grayling has been summoned to put them in some subtropical part of his glasshouses. Mr. Darcy is, of course, eager to see what has been done in the gardens, and in particular to look over the new glasshouse. Mr. Drummond was on his way there, in a very nervous state.”

“It is so beautiful, it is such an extraordinary structure that Mr. Darcy must be pleased. I am sure there is nothing like it in the whole of England, and it will set quite a fashion.”

“It will seem extraordinary to be dancing in there tonight. It is an original idea, and should be charming if the weather holds,” said Louisa, her mind still on Mr. Drummond.

Both of them looked up into a cloudless blue sky. It was a perfect June day, with the slightest breezes ruffling the leaves and the grass. “Mr. Grayling swears it will hold fine, he says we are in for a spell of warm weather which will last for several days yet.”

“So as long as the moon remembers to rise,” said Phoebe gaily, “we shall do very well in the glasshouse.”

Louisa looked over to the glasshouse, struck anew by how
wonderful it was. “It is fortunate that it is not considered unlucky to gaze at the full moon through glass, as is the superstition with the new moon.”

 

As the day went on, Phoebe had no time for any kind of superstition. She was far too busy, anxious that all her arrangements should work, and that her aunt and uncle would be pleased with what she had done. Mr. Tetbury had arrived from London the previous day, and was at her shoulder with his lists and his practical advice and his considerable skill in organising large parties. She liked him immensely. He was a thin, nervous-looking young man who had been intended for the Church but, having no kind of religious inclination, had instead sought to make a living in this way.

Phoebe admired his prodigious memory, his clear mind, and his eye for details. At a glance, he could tell exactly how many candles would be needed at this time of year in the dining room, in the drawing-rooms, and on the terraces. “It was a stroke of genius, if I may say so, Miss Hawkins, to utilise the new glasshouse, with the ballroom in such disrepair after the storm. Mr. Drummond has spoken to Mr. Darcy about it, and they have agreed that this will be a good opportunity to remodel the ballroom in a more modern style. Mrs. Darcy felt that in any case it was looking rather shabby. The plan is to have doors opening into the orangery, which will be charming.”

“Yes, and when the guests to Pemberley have become used to dancing under glass, as they will tonight,” said Phoebe, “then they will be happy to find that next time they will be able to waltz among the orange trees. Which reminds me, I forgot that I wanted the men to take some of the orange plants from the orangery into the glasshouse. Now the flooring is down, it
looks very beautiful but very empty, and apart from the flowers, I think it would look well to have some of the larger plants. Oranges, lemons, and perhaps some of the potted palms that are in the old glasshouses.”

Mr. Tetbury pulled out a black notebook. “Let me attend to that for you. You have other things to do, I know, and you have also your social obligations to think of. I believe the lady and gentleman over there are wanting to attract your attention, I think they wish to speak to you. That is Mr. Portal, is it not?”

With an exclamation of pleasure, Phoebe turned round and went over to where Pagoda Portal and Mrs. Rowan were standing beneath the bust of a Roman gentleman with eyeless sockets and a large, beaky nose. They greeted her with their customary kindness, and Mrs. Rowan said, in her direct way, that she was glad to see Phoebe in looks once more.

“I am rather flushed just at present, for I have been very busy today. When did you arrive? Did you have a good journey? There are so many friends here, you will find yourselves in excellent company.”

“Indeed we shall,” said Pagoda Portal. “We have only just this minute left Cassandra, she and Horatio drove down from London with the Rutherfords. Now here are still more arrivals, I suspect they are another neighbouring family who have been invited to come early so that the gentlemen may enjoy some fishing.”

“Will you be among their number, Mr. Portal?”

Mrs. Rowan gave Pagoda an affectionate look. “Alas, Mr. Portal is not a fisherman. He has been known to take out a rod, but I must say the results were disastrous, since he and the line and the fly and the fish all became entangled upon the bank. That kind of behaviour does not make you popu
lar with your fellow fishermen, for those gentlemen take their fishing seriously, and since then he leaves others to their riparian sports.”

“I'm not the only one who finds standing upon a river bank wrestling with a fish a dull way to spend an afternoon,” observed Mr. Portal. “Here are the Martindales, and while I feel quite sure that Sir Henry will join the fishing party, I am equally sure that Mr. Stanhope will not.”

Phoebe could not help starting at the sound of his name, and Mrs. Rowan, quick to notice such things, gave her a sharp look. “I know that you are acquainted with Mr. Stanhope, for we had the pleasure of entertaining you both at one or two of my parties in London. Have you seen much of him while he has been in Derbyshire? It is extraordinary that he should be in this part of the world, for it is well-known that he dislikes the country.”