Mr. Darcy's Dream (24 page)

Sir Henry gave a kind of howl, and Mr. Stanhope turned to him with some surprise.

“I beg, Arthur, that you do not go into this any further. I had no idea you knew so much. I have gone to great pains to cover up the involvement of my sister's son in this despicable episode, for I knew it would break my sister's heart were she ever to discover that Charles had betrayed his country.”

“You're a perfect fool, Henry. Charles Harlow never betrayed anyone. A truer, more gallant soldier never existed. He served his country, and died for it.”

“That's not the story that Miss Verney will tell,” observed George Warren dispassionately. “You'll find that Sir Henry has been willing to pay a considerable price to have the shameful details kept from public knowledge.”

“I do not care to ask just how much you have already paid to Miss Verney, Henry.”

Sir Henry coloured, and muttered something inaudible.

“As it happens, you have spent your money unnecessarily. Yes, it was a so-called English gentleman who betrayed his country and sold its secrets, but the man who did this was not Charles Harlow, but the man you see standing before you now.”

Sir Henry looked at Mr. Stanhope in complete disbelief. “But his father is Lord Warren, it is impossible. Besides, Warren was never in the army.”

“I would think the better of him if he had been,” was the laconic answer. “But Mr. Warren is not the kind of man to put his own life in danger. How he came by the secrets I do not know. Given his predilection for blackmail, one may only guess. However, once I was alerted to the presence of George Warren in the vicinity, and I saw him together with Miss Verney at the Harlows' fête, my suspicions were aroused. A letter to London brought a speedy response, and I can tell you with certainty that Mr. Warren, and not Charles Harlow, was responsible for the breach in our security.”

Even as he spoke, Miss Verney was sliding from her bed, and with swift grace began to put on a travelling dress. “I think it very unlikely that you will be able to prove anything,” she told Mr. Stanhope in completely calm tones. “George, do not stand there with your mouth gaping, it will do no good. I think it is time for us to leave Derbyshire.”

“You are mistaken,” said Mr. Stanhope. “The time has come for Mr. Warren to leave England, and to leave England for good. I dare say you, Miss Verney, will go with him, and good riddance to both of you; you make a fine pair.”

It was late in the afternoon when Miniver finally chivvied Phoebe back indoors to change for dinner and the ball. “There is everyone else gone upstairs to dress an hour ago, and guests will be arriving for dinner at any minute, and here you are looking like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards. Miss Louisa went upstairs quite half an hour ago, and she's not in anything like the state that you are. Although she looks completely moonstruck, I can't think what's come over her. Betsy was speaking to her and I don't think she heard a word she said. Got something on her mind, has Miss Louisa.”

Three quarters of an hour later, Phoebe was ready to go down to dinner. She was dreading it, and her sense of apprehension was increased by the knowledge that her parents were at Pemberley, for Sarah had come bounding into her bedchamber to announce her arrival, and to tell her that she had a new dress to wear for the ball tonight of pale pink satin adorned with little knots of cornflowers. “What are you wearing, Phoebe? Oh, one of the dresses you had made in London. And roses for your hair. How pretty!”

Until the last minute, Phoebe had hoped against hope that
her parents would not be able to come to the ball. When last she heard from her mother, it had seemed unlikely that they would make the journey from London, but here was Sarah, full of talk of her dances and parties and successes, and with a great deal to say about a young man called James. “He will be here tonight, and you will be able to meet him. He is staying with the Harlows, and he has asked me to keep the first dance for him. Who are you going to dance with? Have you many beaux in Derbyshire? Or has it been very quiet? I am sure all the eligible men must be in London.”

She rattled on, while Miniver deftly dressed Phoebe's hair. She drew it back from her forehead, and set the wreath of fresh roses among the dark curls. “That is a very becoming style,” observed Sarah, “but won't the roses wither and droop during the evening?”

“I have two more made up,” said Miniver. “Fresh flowers are right for a summer ball in the country.”

“And they match the clusters of roses on your lace hem,” said Sarah approvingly.

Phoebe was dressed entirely in white, except for the dash of colour from the silk roses set into the flounces of her dress. Although her face was still inclined to be pale, the country air and sunshine had given colour to her cheeks, increased not by the excitement of the ball, but rather alarm as to what she feared was going to be a difficult evening. She felt sure that Mr. Stanhope would once again attempt to have a private conversation with her and she was determined not to give him the opportunity. Apart from not wanting to talk to him, what would be her parents' reaction, if they saw him with her?

Miniver told Sarah to run along. “One of your earrings is loose and you must fix it if you don't want to lose it.” When she had gone, she told Phoebe that there was nothing wrong
with Sarah's earring. “You take a few minutes to sit down and compose yourself. What a way to carry on before a ball, running around all day, like one of the servants.”

“I prefer to be busy,” said Phoebe. She looked at her reflection in the glass and pulled a face.

“There's no need to go grimacing at yourself like that, Miss Phoebe. What's the point of my making all this effort to turn you out looking a beauty, if you're going to make faces like that?”

“I am grateful, Miniver, for all your trouble,” said Phoebe. “Although, to be honest, I shall be very glad when this evening is over.”

“Many a young lady has said that before you, and found out before the moon set that her life had changed,” said Miniver cryptically.

Phoebe and Louisa went downstairs together. There was already quite a crowd assembled in the drawing-room, and Phoebe was greeted with affection by her family and by many old friends. She did everything she could to keep on the opposite side of the room to Mr. Stanhope, but was thwarted when the time came for her to go in to dinner. He was at her side and holding out an arm for her to take, and it would have been noticeable if she had drawn back.

She was acutely aware of her mother's pursed lips, and the grave look on her father's face as they saw her go into dinner with Mr. Stanhope. Good heavens, if only they knew how little she wanted to be beside him, and she was profoundly grateful to find that Mr. Portal was seated on her other side.

Dinner was served in the state dining room. It looked its best with the table gleaming with silver and crystal, and the ravishing display of flowers that tumbled from a deep silver dish in the centre of the table. At the head of the table was
a tall silver chalice piled high with cherries and strawberries, and at the other end, a matching silver dish held a magnificent pineapple. M. Joules had surpassed himself, and Phoebe, who had expected to be able to eat nothing, was surprised to find how hungry she was. She had been so occupied during the whole long day that she had not paused to take any of the fruit and cold meats that had been laid out for lunch, and now she set to with a will. Asparagus was followed by salmon with cucumber. Chicken cream and fillet of beef à l'Espagnole came next, served with potatoes and spinach, and then turkey poults and ducks with green peas.

In the first half of the meal she talked resolutely to Mr. Portal, but then, as the guests turned to talk to the people on their other side, she was obliged to make conversation with Mr. Stanhope. She passed remarks about the weather, the number of guests, the works that had been done following the damage of the storm, until finally she ran out of words.

He seemed amused, smiling at her in a way that had made her heart turn over. How could he look at her like that, and mean nothing by it? That, of course, was what made a man into a rake. If he had no charm, no power to attract, then he would hardly enjoy the success among the opposite sex that would win him the reputation of being a rake.

She was further made uncomfortable by where she was sitting, which was directly opposite one of the great classical paintings of Pemberley. It depicted a pastoral scene, an Arcadian landscape. The god Apollo, wearing very little but looking extremely noble, was depicted in hot pursuit of Daphne, who was wearing even less, with her hair flowing behind her. It was an extremely sensuous painting, and when Phoebe saw that Mr. Stanhope had noticed it and his lips were twitching, she was furious to find that she was blushing.

“A fine painting, would you not agree, Miss Hawkins? A Poussin if I'm not mistaken.”

Mr. Portal, whose neighbour on the other side was deep in conversation with Sir Henry Martindale, joined in their conversation. “I never can remember these mythological stories; it comes from my being sent away to India at such an early age, which left me sadly ignorant of the classics. I am sure you, Miss Phoebe, who have studied Latin and know about such things, can tell me the story.”

He looked at her expectantly, and Phoebe reluctantly explained that the god Apollo, having been pierced by an arrow from Cupid's bow, had fallen in love with the nymph Daphne. “She did not welcome his advances, and you may see that at the moment shown in this scene, in her desperate attempts to escape from him, she has called upon her father, a river god, to turn her into a tree. She will become a laurel tree, and as a token of the love felt for her, Apollo will take the laurel as his particular emblem.”

“An admirable account,” said Mr. Stanhope. “Some people question the advantages of education for women, but I myself think everyone in possession of their wits should have the benefit of some classical learning. I feel sorry for Daphne, do not you, Miss Hawkins? I think it might be rather painful to be turned into a tree, and I think she would have done far better to submit to Apollo. After all, the story tells us that she was his first love, and that he was no such philandering fellow as his sire Zeus was. I feel sorry for him, also, to be rejected in such a very forceful manner. One wonders what he had done to offend her.”

“I do not think she was offended, I think she did not care for him, and no doubt had a very good idea that, like most of his kind, his love for her would not be lasting. Myself, I think she was better off as a tree.”

With that, she tucked into an iced pudding, keeping her head down, and, gauche though she knew her behaviour was, refused to say another word to Mr. Stanhope, restricting her words to Mr. Portal.

Dinner finished at about ten o'clock, and the ladies withdrew. Soon, guests would be arriving for the ball, which was due to start at eleven. Back in the great drawing-room, Phoebe was called over by her mother, who was seated on a small sofa.

“I was very distressed to see you sitting next to Mr. Stanhope at dinner,” Lady Hawkins began. “Your father asked him to have no contact with you, and indeed imposed the same restriction upon you.”

“I assure you, Mama, it was not by any desire of mine that Mr. Stanhope was seated next to me. I have made every effort to avoid seeing him, and short of absolute rudeness, which might cause some comment, I cannot do more.”

Across the drawing-room, Phoebe could see Louisa making urgent signs at her. She was only too ready to leave her mother, and took the opportunity to do so when Lady Redburn approached Lady Hawkins, saying in her loud, authoritative way, “Ah, Georgiana, a word or two with you.”

Phoebe did not care to think what malicious words these might be; she was more concerned with Louisa, who looked extremely agitated. She drew her towards a window seat, where they could be private. “What ever is the matter?” Phoebe asked.

Louisa pressed her hands to her cheek as though to push back the blush that suffused her face. “I have not been completely frank with you, Phoebe. I did not tell you that Mr. Drummond has asked me to marry him, and I said I would. He planned to ask my father for his consent this evening, if he
could find time to be alone with him. But I have learned from my mother that she and my father already knew about the attachment between myself and Mr. Drummond.”

Phoebe stared at her. “How is this possible? You have been very secretive, you have not said a word of this to anyone, and although I noticed that you liked Mr. Drummond more than a little, I have not breathed a word of it to anyone.”

“I know just how my parents came to hear of it, for they told me. It was my Aunt Caroline who warned them. She called on my parents, not two days ago, to say that I was in danger of making a fool of myself, and should be got away from Pemberley as quickly as possible. She told them that the man in question must be considered wholly unacceptable, and she was sure that my father would put a stop to it as soon as he had all the details.”

Phoebe made a sound of exasperation. “I do not wish to be critical of your Aunt Caroline, but it seems to me that she is meddling in something that is none of her business. She had it from Mr. Warren, of course, there is nothing in the world that that man likes better than to make trouble. But surely your father is a man of too much sense to listen to that kind of malicious gossip?”

“Thank goodness, he is. He listened to what Aunt Caroline had to say, and then discussed it with my mother, and both of them agreed that they would make no judgements until they had come to Pemberley themselves and ascertained what the situation was. They taxed me with it, and I made a clean breast of what had happened. And,” she went on, her chin going up in a rare gesture of defiance, “I've told them that, whatever they may say, I intend to marry Mr. Drummond.”

This was a Louisa that Phoebe had never seen before. Of course, Louisa was of age, and could marry whom she pleased,
but the old Louisa would have thought long and hard before going against her parents' wishes. “It's amazing that you would contemplate defying your father,” she said.

“It hasn't come to that, fortunately. My father told me just before we went into dinner that he had spoken to Mr. Darcy, who speaks so highly of Mr. Drummond, praising his character and his abilities, that my father is already well disposed to him.”

“So Mr. Darcy would not disapprove of such a match?”

“Mr. Darcy says that it is none of his business, but that my Aunt Caroline's suggestion that once he heard what Mr. Drummond had been up to, he would instantly dismiss him, is far off the mark. I managed to snatch a moment with Mr. Drummond; he is resolute, and will speak to my father as soon as he can. I am sure it will work out all right, and that by the end of the evening, I will be able to proclaim myself an engaged woman, knowing that I am marrying the best man in the world. Oh, Phoebe, I only wish that you could be as happy as I am.”

Phoebe was delighted at Louise's news, and her pleasure in her friend's happiness gave an extra glow to her own looks.

A glow that vanished as she walked a few minutes later into the ballroom, and saw Mr. Stanhope deep in conversation with Mrs. Vereker.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and she found it almost impossible to draw a breath. She reached out a hand to support herself, and found her arm firmly held by Mr. Portal. “Whatever is the matter? You are ill, let me fetch help.”

“No,” said Phoebe in a voice that seemed to come from very far away, “I am not ill. I have just had a shock. I shall be perfectly well in a minute or two, please do not concern yourself with me.”

Mr. Portal guided her towards a little sofa. He made her sit down, and, spreading the tails of his coat, sat down beside her. It was a spindly piece of furniture, with gilt legs, and it creaked ominously as he settled himself. “I know exactly what has put you into this state,” he said in the calmest of voices. “You have just noticed Arthur Stanhope talking to Lady Caltrop.”

“Mr. Stanhope is not talking to Lady Caltrop, whoever she may be. He is talking to Mrs. Vereker. His long-time mistress,” she added with contempt. “I cannot think what she is doing here, her name was most certainly not among those invited, for I wrote the invitations myself.”

“I cannot believe that Lord and Lady Caltrop would be present at a ball at Pemberley had they not been invited.”