Mr. Darcy's Dream (7 page)

“Miss Phoebe is writing letters in the library,” said Betsy, by way of introducing the subject that she was longing to talk about.

“I know,” said Louisa.

“It's a shame she's not looking as well as she ought. Downright pale, and not in the best of spirits, although Miniver tells me your arrival has cheered her up. Well, it's a shame about the engagement, but I dare say she'll get over her disappointment.”

All curiosity about Mr. Drummond vanished from Louisa's mind as, startled, she withdrew her gaze from the gardens outside and stared at Betsy. “What are you talking about? Miss Phoebe is not engaged, nor has she ever been.”

“Not engaged, exactly.”

“Why, even if it were not announced in the paper, news of any engagement would have spread at once to the family. I can't think where you came up with such an idea.”

“It was what Miniver told me,” said Betsy defiantly. “Who should know better than she does what the young lady is up to? And the reason that none of the family heard about it, except her mother and father, was because Sir Giles said no to the man. Miss Phoebe went and picked a wrong 'un, that's clear, she should have known better.”

This was going too far. Betsy might have been Louisa's nurse since she was a girl, but it was not her place to pass any kind of judgement on Miss Phoebe. “That is enough, Betsy.”

Betsy knew that tone of old. She bobbed a curtsy and left the room, as Louisa, her thoughts in a turmoil of questions and conjectures, turned back to look out of the window. Mr. Grayling and Mr. Drummond had gone, leaving the gardener's boy disconsolately shoveling manure around the base of a plant. Could there be any truth in Betsy's report? She had suspected that an unhappy affair of the heart might lie behind Phoebe's present state of mind; poor Phoebe, if she had indeed fallen in love with an unsuitable man.

She would not let her imagination dwell on it. If Phoebe wanted to confide in her, then she would do so. Until then, intrigued as she was, Louisa would make no attempt to question Phoebe about Betsy's story, or to make any enquiries as to whether any of the events related by Betsy had ever taken place.

Martindale House lay only three miles from Pemberley as the crow flies, but by road it was a journey of nearer five miles. It was a house of a very different style from Palladian Pemberley, with its classical façade. Martindale House was an old manor house that had grown and expanded over the centuries, a stone building, situated at the end of a valley, with a pleasing prospect of a rolling landscape visible from its windows.

Like Pemberley, the house had been modernised and improved over the years, and when its present owner, Sir Henry Martindale, had brought his bride home three years before, he had had several of the main rooms refurbished and newly decorated in her honour.

At forty-three, Sir Henry was many years older than his young wife, but theirs was a love match. They had met at the York races, when Kitty Stanhope had gone to stay in Yorkshire with her aunt and uncle, who always held a large house party for the races. Sir Henry had been invited, had seen Kitty dancing with some of the young people after dinner one evening,
and had been enchanted by her gaiety, gracefulness, and the ready laughter which made her mouth so pretty.

Further acquaintance had convinced him that despite her light and lively manners, she was no mere butterfly, but a young lady of sense and intelligence and warm-heartedness. Three weeks later in London, he proposed to her and was accepted, for Kitty had fallen in love with this handsome older man almost as quickly as he had with her.

Kitty's parents, Lord and Lady Stanhope, were far from pleased by the match, but Kitty was of age and it was clear to everyone in the family that she was determined to have Sir Henry. The Stanhopes would have preferred a political marriage for their only daughter, so that Kitty might follow in the steps of her mother and enjoy a success as a glittering hostess among the elite of London society, but Kitty, like her brother, Arthur, had no taste for the political salons and intrigues of London, although their reasons differed. Arthur found that society narrow and self-regarding, while Kitty was at heart a country lover who preferred the tranquillity of rural life to the festivities and bustle of London, and who was very happy to contemplate life as the wife of a rich squire.

That was why, this April, she and her husband were still in the country. Sir Henry Martindale had a seat in Parliament, but went to London as seldom as possible. He enjoyed the life of a country landowner, was on good terms with his neighbours, hunted throughout the winter months, and took his gun out as often as possible when the birds were in season.

Kitty sat in the drawing-room at Martindale House, a slightly pensive look on her face as she regarded her brother. “It is very pleasant to see you, Arthur, but I'm not sure to what we owe the courtesy of your visit. You normally never stay for more than two days at a time before you grow restless and are
off somewhere else, and yet you have been here already for two days and are talking of making a stay of several more.”

“I have a sudden inclination to rusticate,” said Arthur untruthfully. He didn't like the country, was not a sporting man, and found the prospect of a wet English spring positively depressing. Since he had been on Wellington's staff in Paris after the Battle of Waterloo, he had found himself in his element in the foreign capitals of Europe. After selling out of the army, he had determined on pursuing a diplomatic career, much to his father's fury.

His father, who hated all things French with a deadly passion, had never set foot out of England. When it was pointed out to him that he might make his way to Germany or Italy via the Low Countries, he had simply raised his eyebrows in astonishment at the notion that any Englishman would want to spend a minute abroad that he might spend in his own country. He had no objections to foreigners as such, distinguished men from many parts of Europe were welcomed at his wife's parties and assemblies, but his interests were essentially insular.

Kitty laughed at her brother, her face lightening into the warm smile that Sir Henry had found so attractive. “I don't believe a word of it. You have some ulterior motive, with you there is always an ulterior motive. Have you accrued huge gambling debts and are escaping your creditors perhaps? Or have you killed your man in a duel and are lying low lest you be taken up for the crime?”

Now it was Arthur's turn to raise his eyebrows, which he did in a very similar way to his father. “I am simply here to enjoy your and Martindale's company, Kitty. What other reason could I have?” He moved across to the fireplace, a wide, deep stone embrasure, and tossed another log on the fire. He kicked it into place with an elegant boot, and dusted his hands.
“You seem very dull here at the moment, Kitty,” he went on, keen to change the subject. “When I come, I am used to having a house full of guests. Have you given up on your friends?”

“Not at all. You are here at a quiet time, that is all. We are expecting several friends, and will make up a house party on the occasion of the coming-of-age of Henry's nephew, Jack Harlow. You know the Harlows?”

“Of course I do,” said Stanhope. “Charles Harlow served in my regiment.”

There was a silence as both men remembered Charles, who had fought and fallen with great courage at Waterloo. “And although the family will not be at Pemberley until later in the year, I hear that two of the Darcy family are expected, indeed have probably already arrived, so you see, we are not so thin of company in Derbyshire as you suggest.”

Arthur said nothing. Kitty went on, “Phoebe Hawkins is not very happy, I hear. I am not sure whether you are acquainted with her.” She didn't wait for a reply and continued, “She is a girl of character; how I laughed when she argued with Sir Henry at the Portlands' dance in London last year, she quite rolled him up, as you would put it.”

“She argues with everyone,” said Arthur.

“I know the family are very anxious that she should find a good husband,” said Kitty, “but Sir Henry says that he cannot think of any man short of Genghis Khan who would be inclined to take her on. It is unkind, for she is in no way a termagant, and is besides very handsome.”

“She is intelligent,” said Arthur, striving for a tone of indifference. “Men do not like a clever woman.”

While they spoke, Arthur was watching Kitty from under hooded eyelids. There was a slight droop to her mouth, a slight diminution of her usual spirits. Perhaps she was breeding.
After all, she and Martindale had been married for three years, it was high time there was a family on the way, and Sir Henry would be glad of an heir.

The door opened and Sir Henry came in. He was still a handsome man, with a good figure. A couple of spaniels gambolled at his heels.

“Not those dogs in here, please,” exclaimed Kitty as one of them licked her. “They have such muddy paws.”

Sir Henry looked at his wife for a moment, then strode back to the door, opened it, and pushed the dogs through, calling to a servant to come and take care of them. Then he shut the door again and returned to the room.

Last time Arthur had been here, a year ago, Sir Henry would not have come into the sitting room with his dogs, and his first action would have been to go over to his wife and greet her. Now he almost ignored her, instead choosing to tell Arthur about his luck with a rod that morning. “High time you took up fishing, Arthur,” he said jovially.

Stanhope could imagine nothing he would like to do less than stand on a riverbank with a rod in his hand on a chilly spring day. He noticed that Kitty had taken up her embroidery frame and was stabbing the needle in and out in a way that boded ill for the neat setting of her stitches. Not breeding, he decided. There were some estrangement there, doubtless a quarrel of some kind. He knew all about women and quarrels and arguments. Although he was surprised that the affection that existed between Kitty and Henry had not got the better of any disagreements they might have.

“I was just saying to Arthur,” said Kitty, “that Louisa Bingley and Phoebe Hawkins are to be at Pemberley. I intend to go and call on them tomorrow or the day after, as soon as I hear that they have both arrived. Do you care to accompany me?”

“Perhaps. Or, if not, I am sure that Arthur will go with you.” Sir Henry's voice and manner were abrupt.

Definitely something amiss. Well, it was none of his business, although he didn't care to see Kitty looking woebegone. Husbands and wives had their ups and downs, and he himself had never been sure that the disparity in age was such a good thing. Then he saw Kitty give her husband a swift look, an almost pleading look, but with such love in it he knew at once that whatever was the problem with Kitty, there was no lessening of her feelings for her husband.

The drawing-room at Martindale House was a comfortable apartment. The warm red carpet, and the red upholstery of the sofas and chairs, gave it a cheerful aspect on a grey evening, and Sir Henry now rang for servants to draw the curtains and light the candles. “I'm away to my study,” he observed, speaking more to Arthur than to his wife. “I have any number of accounts to look over.”

After he had gone, Arthur dropped into the chair beside his sister. He hardly knew where to begin, but he felt he must make some effort to find out why Kitty was unhappy. He was some years older than Kitty, and they had never been particularly close, but he was genuinely fond of her. “You're content here at Martindale House, are you?” he began. “Or are you pining for the delights of the London season after all?”

Kitty bent her head, searching in her work basket for a new thread. She didn't look at her brother as she spoke, but said in a calm, even voice, “No, not at all. I am very happy to be here.”

Arthur determined on a more direct approach. “Yet all does not seem quite well between you and Sir Henry,” he said.

She shook her head. “Sir Henry and I have had a slight difference of opinion, that is all. He has some private worry, which he will not disclose to me, but he will soon be his usual
self again, I feel sure.” She lay down her embroidery and closed her work basket, and then stood up. “Now I, like Henry, have duties to attend to. Will you come with me tomorrow to Pemberley?” She paused. “And with Sir Henry, of course, if he decides to come.”

“Certainly,” said Arthur. “In truth, I was there yesterday.”

Kitty, who was halfway to the door, stopped and shot an enquiring look at her brother. “Pemberley? Yesterday? You never said. Why?”

“I rode over because there is now in Mr. Darcy's employ an old friend of mine. In fact you may remember him, we were at Cambridge together and also colleagues in the army. Hugh Drummond.”

Kitty looked thoughtful. Then she said, “He has sandy-coloured hair, and an open, agreeable countenance.”

“That sounds like him.”

“What is he doing at Pemberley?”

“He is making a stay of several weeks, I gather. He is in the employ of Mr. Darcy, who has dreamed up some very ambitious plans for the garden, and it is Hugh's job to superintend the whole business. He has invited me to go over to the lodge where he is staying one evening, and I shall certainly do so. But you may renew your acquaintance with him tomorrow, for he is sure to be somewhere around.”

“I look forward to seeing him again,” said Kitty politely, although she looked as though she had matters quite other than Hugh Drummond on her mind.

Phoebe and Louisa were feeling very dull, shut up in the house while the rain lashed against the windows. They had some idea of venturing outside for a visit to the hothouses, to look at the pineapple plants, but this plan was thwarted by the tumultuous arrival upon the scene of the children from the nurseries. One cousin was exciting enough, but two were better, and the four of them, cunningly managing to escape the clutches of both governess and nursery maid, arrived panting and laughing at the library door, just as Phoebe and Louisa came out. They were welcomed with hugs, but fell silent as their governess appeared, a cross expression on her face.

Louisa greeted Miss Verney with a smile, and the governess, with only a fleeting answering smile, apologised for the noisy behaviour of the children. “They are very naughty, I told them they must not come down and disturb you.”

“Oh, no, we are delighted to see them,” said Phoebe. “Louisa, it is still so damp and grey outside, let us postpone the trip to see the pineapples and instead see whether some of our old games are still in the sitting room.”

So Phoebe and Louisa and the children spent a very happy
hour romping in the sitting room. Phoebe played bears with the girls, while Louisa let the two boys beat her at spillikins. Meanwhile, Miss Verney, who did not seem to enjoy seeing her little charges enjoying themselves with such uninhibited shrieks and shouts of laughter, sat at the pianoforte and played some rather mournful tunes. She was an accomplished pianist, Phoebe noticed, in the pauses between growls and pounces, but why could she not play something more cheerful, which the children would enjoy better?

Finally, both Louisa and Phoebe had to admit the justice of Miss Verney's insistence on taking the children away. They were hot and pink-faced and quite probably rather too het up for their own good, as Miss Verney ominously remarked on her way out. “There will be tears before bedtime, I dare say,” were her parting words.

Phoebe wasn't in the least contrite. “They are such fun,” she said, plumping herself down in a chair and fanning herself. “I feel quite exhausted.”

Louisa agreed that the children were tiring, but she thought to herself that Phoebe looked more relaxed and happier than she had done since arriving at Pemberley. “What do you think of Miss Verney, now that you see her with her charges?” she asked. “Have you changed your mind about her?”

“I think the children may prove to be too much for her. They are so very lively, and she doesn't seem inclined to let them play and romp as they need to. Miniver, I may say, has no opinion of her at all, and says she is not popular in the servants' hall. How that woman does gossip!”

“No more than Betsy does,” said Louisa.

“Miniver told me that Miss Verney's parents escaped from France disguised as turnips.”

Both of them burst out laughing.

“Of course, it is no laughing matter. A number of aristocrats did escape from France in carts, buried under cabbages and turnips and other such vegetables,” said Phoebe. “One has to admire them, and although turnips may seem amusing to us now, I don't suppose they found it amusing at the time at all. After all, only think what the penalty would have been if they were caught.”

They were silent for a while, both of them thinking of a cousin of Phoebe's father who had lost her husband to the guillotine during the Terror.

Then Phoebe gave the conversation a more cheerful turn by proposing that they should play a game of backgammon before going upstairs to get ready to dinner. “I suppose Miss Verney will want to dine with us again.”

“She could hardly be expected to eat in the servants' hall, nor would it be fair for her to have to eat with the children upstairs. Our governess always had her meals with the family, except when there was company.”

Phoebe could not riposte with any stories of her own governess. Lady Hawkins had given up on governesses for her forthright daughter, after the fifth one had given in her notice, exclaiming that she would rather tend the lions in the Tower of London than look after Miss Phoebe. Lady Hawkins had decided instead to take the care of Phoebe under her own command, providing tutors for her in music, languages, and, to the dismay of her friends, she also arranged for Phoebe to have lessons in Latin and mathematics from the vicar, a scholar and a good teacher, who had coached her brothers.

Not that Phoebe had ever acquired any great proficiency in Latin, but she had enjoyed the history and mythology of the ancient world which the vicar had imparted to her. “Only think if I had had a governess as melancholy as Miss Verney
seems to be,” Phoebe said thoughtfully. “How dull I should have found her, and how I would have teased her and played tricks on her.”

Louisa, who had a more sympathetic nature, wrinkled her brow. “I can imagine nothing worse than having to find employment as a governess, much as I like children. Governesses are in such a difficult situation in so many households, since they are usually gently born, and in many ways the equals of their employers, and yet must always have a subservient status.”

“You have nothing to reproach yourself with on that score. Your governess was always one of your family, as you just mentioned, and there she is now, happily married, and the greatest of friends with your mama.”

The chef had sent up a most excellent meal, and the three of them dined on spring soup, trout dressed in a Spanish sauce, a very tender cut of lamb served with asparagus, and finished up with an almond pudding and a compote of fruit. Phoebe kept up a constant flow of conversation, amusing Louisa with her droll remarks. Miss Verney seemed less preoccupied, and ventured some remarks of her own.

After dinner, they retired not to the small, upstairs sitting room, but downstairs to the drawing-room. In past centuries this had been a forbidding and formal room, but now, in keeping with the greater informality of the times, it was a delightful room. There was a harp in the corner, and a modern grand pianoforte testified to the musical tastes of the family. Tables and chairs were placed at various points around the room, with a pair of sofas opposite each other in front of the fireplace. The high ceiling was decorated with fine plasterwork, and despite the numerous paintings hanging on the walls, with their heavy gilt frames, the room, which overlooked the gardens to the
rear of the house, had enough light coming in through the long windows to prevent any feeling of gloominess.

Phoebe praised Miss Verney's playing, and asked if she would perform again, firmly placing on the instrument some tunes of a more lively kind than the music she had played earlier. Miss Verney played and then accompanied herself in some songs, while Louisa and Phoebe listened and talked together in quiet voices.

“I have a plan for tomorrow,” announced Phoebe as Miss Verney launched into another sonata. “I am determined to find out all about these works that Mr. Darcy has planned, and for that purpose I think we need to go to the person who is organising it all.”

“You mean Mr. Grayling,” said Louisa.

“No, I do not. I am sure that Betsy, while giving you all the latest news about the household, hasn't neglected to tell you about Mr. Drummond. Miniver is full of him. I noticed him from the window when I was in the library this afternoon, and he looks a capable, gentlemanlike man. I wish to discover whether all the beautiful, natural, romantic parkland is going to be destroyed and terrorised into neat parterres and rigid lines.”

Louisa laughed at these extravagant notions. “As if Mr. Darcy would plan anything ugly for Pemberley. I dare say it is as much to do with drainage and with improving the productivity of the kitchen gardens as anything else. I have often heard him say that Pemberley lags behind many great houses in what it produces in the horticultural line. I shall be sad, though, if the park is to be altered, for I like the landscape here just as it is.”

Louisa took a keen interest in plants and growing things, something she had inherited from her father. “However,” she said, “if it turns out that tomorrow is as dreary as today, or we
wake to find the countryside shrouded in mist, then I shall not go into the gardens, whatever you may say.”

Miss Verney had stopped playing and was listening to them. “I should not be surprised,” she remarked, “since it will be all round the neighbourhood that you are now in residence at Pemberley, if you find that people are calling upon you.”

“I do hope not,” said Phoebe. “I confess that I am not in the mood for company.”

“I expect that most of our neighbours will be in London for the season,” pointed out Louisa. “So I wouldn't concern yourself with the idea that we are likely to be overwhelmed with callers.”

“Sir Henry and Lady Martindale are not in London,” said Miss Verney. She closed the lid of the pianoforte and stood up. “Sir Henry was only here last week, he had some query for the steward.”

Louisa was staring at Phoebe. Whatever had Miss Verney said to make her look like that? “You remember Sir Henry, surely, Phoebe?” she said. “And I am sure you are acquainted with his wife. She is the prettiest creature imaginable. She was Kitty Stanhope, of course, before she married.”

“Lady Martindale?” said Phoebe. “Oh, yes, of course. I believe I may have met her in London last year.”

“Her brother, Arthur Stanhope, is presently staying with her, so Betsy tells me.”

“How surprising that they are not gone to town,” said Phoebe, who had turned quite pale.

Louisa looked at her with some alarm. “Phoebe, are you quite well? You look as though you had seen a ghost. Ring the bell,” she said to Miss Verney, quite sharply. “It will be best if we summon her maid to help her up to her bedchamber. Miss Hawkins has exerted herself too much this evening.”

Miss Verney was eyeing Miss Hawkins with a look of intense curiosity. “You would think she had had some bad news.”

“I am perfectly well,” said Phoebe. “And no,” with an effort at a laugh, “there are no ghosts at Pemberley. I am tired, though, and so I will bid you both good night.”

Mr. Stanhope in Derbyshire! Within a few miles of Pemberley. Why? Did he know she was here? Her mother had made no secret of Phoebe's departure for Pemberley to spend the spring and summer months in the country, so he could have discovered her whereabouts had he wanted to. She had supposed he would be at present in London, or even abroad; instead, he was here in Derbyshire, and in her own neighbourhood.

What a misfortune! She had promised her parents to have no further contact with him, and she intended to keep her word. Not through obedience, but from her own desire never to see him again. As she turned over in bed for the tenth time, she told herself there was no reason at all why they should meet. He would hardly stay long in the country, and for her part, she would not be calling at Martindale House.