Searching for Pemberley (36 page)

I looked at Beth, who was enjoying sharing her brother's work with a friend. Because of Reed's tragic life, too much of his past had been kept in the shadows, and now his sister was bringing it back into the light of day.

The next drawing was of the parsonage that Charlotte Ledger and William Chatterton called home and Jane Austen called Hunsford Lodge. I remembered how thrilled I was when I realized I was standing in the same room where Will Lacey had asked Elizabeth Garrison to marry him. When Rob and I had toured the parsonage, I remembered thinking that Elizabeth Garrison could not have been more in love with Will Lacey than I was with Rob McAllister. That visit seemed like a lifetime ago.

Moving on to the home of Lady Sylvia Desmet, Reed had drawn Desmet Park from a half dozen angles. “When we saw the house, it was being used for storage by the local council, and the courtyard was full of junk. Reed left out the junk and added planters and a working fountain.

“Oh, by the way, I have some information on Desmet Park for you. According to
The Times,
the Thornhill has been sold to an undisclosed buyer. I guess they figured out how to get it off the ceiling. The contents of the house are to be auctioned off the first Saturday in December, and the house itself is to be sold for the value of its stone. The article said it is one of more than one hundred houses that have been torn down since the end of the war because their owners can no longer afford their upkeep.”

Here was another piece of the Will Lacey/Elizabeth Garrison love story that was being lost. The Edwards farm, the assembly hall, the parsonage, and now Desmet Park, were all going or gone. The thought of so much of Elizabeth Lacey's personal history disappearing depressed me.

“And here is Brighton where Lydia agreed to an elopement with Mr. Wickham. As you can tell from the number of drawings, Reed loved sketching the royal residence, the gardens, the pier, and the sea. I have a soft spot for Brighton because it was where Jack first told me he loved me.”

But that was in 1913. The following year Beth was engaged to Colin Matheson. What had happened in the interim?

BECAUSE THERE WERE TOO many people on too little land, a lack of housing in London had always been a problem, even for the wealthy. One solution was terrace houses, and this was the style of housing in Holland Park. The Alcotts lived in a five-story, cream-colored stucco townhouse with bay windows and an elevated ground floor with the servants' entrances under the stairs. Even though the townhouses were similar, I found the whole area to be warm and welcoming.

The interior of the house was always as neat as a pin, which was due to the efforts of three women, all from Gibraltar, who descended on the house every Wednesday, and who went through it like whirling dervishes. When I asked Patricia why they were all from Gibraltar, she said, “That's a very interesting story,” and she told me a little bit about Holland Park and Kensington during the war.

“In the autumn of 1938, it looked as if Britain would go to war over Hitler's designs on Czechoslovakia, and in anticipation of air raids, Beth, my girls, and I helped dig
trenches and fill sand bags in Hyde Park. But because of the Munich Pact with Germany, war was avoided, and everyone broke out the champagne. But 'peace in our time' lasted only one year. In September 1939, we were once again at war with Germany because of its invasion of Poland, and we all went back to digging trenches. We also worked a garden allotment in Holland Park because two dozen War Office workers boarded in this house, sleeping in shifts, and they ate lots of potatoes and vegetables. With most of the servants in uniform or working in war industries, the house was run by Mrs. Redgrave, the housekeeper, Mrs. Bradshaw, and Andrews.”

It was hard to picture Lady Patricia Alcott filling sandbags. She was an elegant lady with strawberry-blonde hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, and a lovely figure, who cared a lot about how she looked and the clothes she wore. But according to Beth, her cousin had “steel in her spine” and needed it when Rand had been so badly wounded in the First War. She stuck with him through endless visits to plastic surgeons where his cheek and eye socket were reconstructed. He had been fitted for a glass eye, but the fragile prosthetic broke easily and needed frequent replacements. Eventually, Rand decided to leave the socket empty and to wear a patch.

“I will tell you one story that may give you an idea of the determination of the British to 'carry on.' After war was declared, the government started a metal collection drive. I think you had it in the States where everyone brought in their old pots, pans, and washtubs.”

I smiled, thinking about my mother's eagerness to contribute to the war effort. Over the years, an unsightly pile of junk had accumulated in the backyard because my grandfather didn't throw
anything away. Mom gladly waved down the truck collecting the scrap metal, and with a clear conscience, rid herself of everything that would stick to a magnet.

“The government decided the wrought iron fences around the parks and some of the most expensive homes in town also needed to come down. This caused a lot of unhappiness because some of the railings were hundreds of years old. The Duke of Bedford flatly refused to allow his to be removed, and a statue of his ancestor in Bedford Square was defaced as a result. But for the most part, down they came, including the iron railings around Kensington Gardens. However, the beautiful gates were saved, and every evening, a park official closed the gates and made his rounds calling, 'All Out.''' Laughing, Patricia said, “Now, keep in mind, the railings are gone. Anyone could walk into the park whenever they wanted to, but it was important to keep up standards and to hold true to tradition.

“As for the ladies from Gibraltar, because of its strategic importance as the gateway to the Mediterranean, the Army decided that the 12,000 civilians living on the peninsula had to be evacuated to England. Although Gibraltans are British subjects, most of them are of Maltese descent and look Italian. When Mussolini brought Italy into the war as an ally of Germany, the Italians had a rough time of it here. That passed, but it was not our finest hour.

“Someone in Whitehall made the decision to place many of these evacuees in two blocks of flats in Kensington near Lancaster Gate, and a few residents complained, saying the Gibraltans were physically, emotionally, and financially ill-suited to be living in Kensington. However, that was a minority view, and the local scout troops integrated hundreds of boys into their
ranks. Most evacuees returned to Gibraltar when the war ended, but some stayed on, including the amazing three ladies who clean our house.

“By the way, you may happen upon our former footman, Jim Budd. He does odd jobs around the house. He was captured on Crete and spent nearly four years in a German POW camp. He may seem a bit odd, but he's a good man.”

I did happen upon Jim Budd in the pantry where he was stuffing his coat pockets with tins of Spam I had brought from AAFES. His hoarding was a result of his years in the POW camp where he was chronically undernourished, and it was no secret because, on one occasion, Mrs. Gooding asked that I get a tin of sardines out of Jim's bottom drawer. In addition to acting as the on-site repairman, Jim's job included collecting the ration coupons from everyone in the house and waiting in line to buy rationed items. Even on the coldest days, I never heard him complain about the long waits.

Mrs. Gooding was starting to warm up to me, but Andrews was another story. He seemed to bristle whenever I went downstairs, and I didn't know what I had done to offend him. I finally asked Mrs. Gooding. With a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, she said, “It's got nothing to do with you, dear.

“You see, during the war, the male servants went into the military, and because of mandatory national service, the girls were hired on at the factories, making bombs or building airplanes and the like. Even though unemployment is very high right now, most of them don't want to come back into service. It's a dead-end job, you see, so most of the work is hired out.” The ash on Mrs. Gooding's cigarette was now an inch long. It was only when tiny flakes started to fall onto her sweater that
she finally flicked off the ash. “It's been hard on Mr. Andrews because, before the war, the Alcotts always had guests, and some very important people they were. Lady Patricia says that when they start entertaining again, she's going to hire a caterer.” Stabbing the air with her cigarette, Mrs. Gooding said, “Where does that leave me, I ask you? Planning the menus and telling the caterers where everything is, that's where. But I've got nowhere to go. So I'm staying right where I am until they carry me out feet first.”

I HAD BEEN LIVING at the Alcotts for about three weeks when I came home from work to a darkened house. Because of energy conservation, only the light in the foyer was left on. Tonight there was no light in the foyer, but there was one coming from under the door to the morning room. When I opened the door, I didn't see anyone, so I shut the light as I had been instructed to do. Out of the darkness came a voice saying, “If you don't mind.”

I was so startled that I let out a very loud, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

“None of the above,” the voice said. “I am, however, Geoff Alcott.” Rising from his chair and extending his hand, he asked, “Are you the Canadian or an intruder?”

“Neither,” I said, waiting for my heart to stop pounding. “I'm Maggie Joyce. I'm boarding here.”

“I apologize for startling you, but no one informed me we had a boarder, even my father, whom I saw three days ago.” Looking around, he said, “Where the hell is everyone? Don't we have servants anymore?”

Taking off my coat and hat, I said, “Your father is probably at his club. Your mother is in Surrey with your sister, Lily. Mrs. Gooding is gone for a few days, and it's Andrews's night off. So it's just me, and possibly Jim Budd.”

I had been warned about Geoff. According to just about everyone, he was extremely intelligent, loved to argue, and exasperated everyone who came in contact with him—with one exception—his father.

“Ah, an American,” he said. “Let's see. You are from somewhere on the East Coast. I attended university in Connecticut, so I know you're not from New England, nor are you from New York City. There's a certain nasal intonation, so I'm going to guess…”

“I can help you out here,” I said. When I had first moved to Washington, I had been the butt of numerous jokes because of my nasal accent and my hick colloquialisms. “I'm from eastern Pennsylvania.”

“Damn. I was going to say Pennsylvania,” he said in a schoolboy voice. “How is it that we are so fortunate as to be graced with your presence?”

“I am a friend of Beth and Jack Crowell's. When the Canadian boarder left, your mother asked if I would like to come and live here. I'm staying in Violet's bedroom.”

“The Beatrix Potter suite, as it's known around here,” he said, correcting me. Slumping into his chair, Geoff apologized. “Sorry. The Channel crossing was rather nasty.”

Geoff had seen my typewriter and asked what I was doing. I explained about the Catons' plans to convert Montclair into a hotel and to market the mansion as the ancestral home of Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy. “Mrs. Caton has asked me to write a booklet giving a brief
history of the Lacey family, especially its connection to the characters in
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“I may be able to help you with your research. While at St. Paul's, I was assigned a history project that required family research. Since Mother was not a saver—if one of her children wished to preserve any of his or her school papers, they had to do it themselves—I have my school reports upstairs. If you can delay your research for tonight, I will give you my papers, and you may go through them tomorrow at your leisure.”

After a long day, I was more than ready to let it go for the evening.

“I'll leave the papers on the table in the foyer,” Geoff said, standing and stretching. “Please be kind. I was very young when I wrote them.”

Geoff did leave the papers, and they were a treasure trove. When I came home from work the next evening, I immediately set to work incorporating his research. I was busily typing when Geoff came up behind me and, once again, startled me. I couldn't decide if he was doing it on purpose or not. I was having flashbacks of growing up with a brother who thought there was nothing funnier than scaring the daylight out of his sisters.

“I am here to make amends,” he said and handed me a can of Danish ham. “I have a reputation for being obnoxious, and I certainly lived up to it last night. I smuggled this ham into the country from Belgium, and I am inviting you to join me for dinner.”

It was only a one-pound can, but the thought of real ham made my mouth water. Since arriving in England, I had eaten only spiced ham, or Spam, as it was known to millions of servicemen who had been forced to eat it during the war. I was able to get it
from AAFES, but I never made the mistake of confusing it with real ham. I offered to set up a tray with cheese and crackers.

A cold front had moved through the city, and the house was chilly in every room, except the study. When I returned from the kitchen, I found Geoff sitting in a chair with his shoes off and his feet in front of a space heater holding a broken key from the ham. Without the key, the can couldn't be opened. I decided a broken key was not going to keep me from eating ham, so I took the can downstairs and went at it with a variety of kitchen utensils until it surrendered. When I came in with a plate of sliced ham, Geoff started clapping.

“May I ask what you were doing in Brussels?”

“In March, the Western European nations signed the Treaty of Brussels establishing a military alliance. Since the United States has all of the money and most of the military materiel, we are now working on an agreement that would bring your country into the alliance. My current role is to deliver papers to the Foreign Office here in London regarding those negotiations.” Sighing, he said, “You would think there was no such thing as the telephone, telegraph, or teletype the way I go back and forth across the Channel.”