Searching for Pemberley (6 page)

“I hope you're hungry,” Beth said, directing me to the dining room. “I've been saving up my meat coupons for a special occasion.” The table was beautifully laid out with Meissen china, silverware with gold edging, and Waterford glasses. On the table was as elegant a meal as you could prepare in post-war England. I complimented her on the beautiful setting, and she told me everything had been handed down to her by her mother, who was from Boston.

When the Crowells learned that I had lived in Washington during the war, they wanted to know how it compared to wartime London. They were surprised to hear that rationing for food and gasoline had been strictly enforced, and that everyone carried around their government-issued coupon books. When my cousin had married in '44, her friends had to donate their food coupons so that we would have enough sugar and flour to bake and frost a wedding cake. The commodity in shortest supply was gasoline, and if your occupation wasn't classified as “essential” to achieving victory, then you were entitled to only four gallons of gas per week. As a result, trains were packed, and if you were actually able to grab a seat, you considered yourself lucky. After eating Hostess cupcakes that had been cut up into little squares, we went into the living room where I was to hear the story of Celia,
Pride and Prejudice's
Kitty Bennet.

“Celia's story is tied up with Caroline Bingham's, Charles's sister,” Beth said, getting comfortable in the chair and abandoning the ramrod position from my previous visit. “Unlike the novel, I don't really think Caroline was all that serious about 'securing' Mr. Lacey. In any event, she set her sights on another and ended up with Lord David Upton, who was active in Tory politics.

“With the last name of Joyce, you may be interested in Lord Upton. After the 1798 rebellion in Ireland, he advocated very harsh treatment for the Irish and was instrumental in pushing through the Act of Union between Great Britain and Ireland. He was often in the newspapers, which published his rants on a regular basis.”

My grandfather, Michael Joyce, a faithful member of the Ancient Order of Hibernians, was also known to rant, but against the British. One evening when my father was staring into the bottom of his beer glass, he told me that his father had once killed a man in Ireland, and I thought, “Only one?” My grandfather was a tough, mean old man who walked around carrying a six-foot switch that was a foot taller than he was. On occasion, he could be nice, but you always approached him as you would a strange dog. Would he attack or not?

“Upton and Caroline's marriage probably was not a love match, but few marriages of England's upper class were. However, she became a prominent and influential hostess in London and lived in an elegant townhouse in Mayfair. Their opulent lifestyle was made possible because George Bingham's investments continued to make money for all the family.

“At this time, London was flooded with émigrés who had fled the political upheaval in France. As a diehard monarchist, Upton was appalled by the horrors inflicted on the aristocracy by the French Revolutionaries, and his home became a gathering place for these refugees. It was there that Celia met a young Frenchman and fell in love. Everyone would have advised her against continuing this relationship. Because of the increasing violence in France, there was the possibility that the young man would never be able to return to his own country. Since Celia
had no money and all of the young man's wealth and property were in France, they had nothing to marry on. Instead, she married Tyndall Stanton, a wealthy businessman, and achieved her own degree of success in society. Celia, who was childless, was devoted to her two nieces, Lucy's daughters, Antoinette and Marie, and introduced them into London society.”

At this point, Beth excused herself and went into the kitchen. Jack had been washing the china and glasses, and we could hear his progress.

“Literally, a bull in a china shop,” Beth said, returning to the living room. “I should have told him to leave them for me.

“When Celia was in her early thirties, Tyndall died quite suddenly, and she inherited a substantial amount of money, as well as the lease on the London townhouse. After her mourning period, she wed her comte, who was, as fate would have it, a widower. Eventually, Celia, her French lord, and his three children returned to his estate near Limoges. She died when she was about fifty from injuries received in a carriage accident.”

I guess I went slack-jawed because Beth said, “You are as surprised as I was when I read her obituary. Because Celia was the widow of Tyndall Stanton, her death notice was published in the London papers. She had converted to Catholicism and was buried in a Catholic church near her estate.”

After finishing the dishes, Jack, who had been sitting quietly while Beth continued the story, now jumped at the chance to put in his two cents. “In the nineteenth century, carriage accidents were common. A city is a very noisy place, and runaway horses were a part of urban life. In the country, carriages turned over or broke down when a wheel flew off or an axle broke. They were as dangerous then as cars are now. It was rich people who died
or were crippled in these accidents since they were the ones who had the carriages.”

“I have seen Celia's portrait,” Beth said, taking back the story, “and for all that Jane Austen had to say about Jane's beauty, Celia was just as lovely, with the blonde hair and blue eyes that both Jane and she had inherited from their mother. However, to me, her portrait shows a beautiful woman but one lacking in intelligence. And that, my dear, is all I know of Celia.”

I was glad Celia had found happiness with her French lord and that she loved her nieces, but what was even more interesting was how much information Jack and Beth had on Celia. Even allowing for a dedicated Aunt Margie, Beth and Jack knew a lot about her.

With Celia out of the way, I wanted to get to the much more interesting letter from Will Lacey to his cousin, Anne Desmet. “The letter certainly explains his sour mood when he showed up at the dance in Hertfordshire,” I said. “Do you know who Mrs. Manyard was?”

“Yes, I do,” Beth said. “Her maiden name was Elaine Trench, and she was an actress who performed at the Royal Theatre, Drury Lane. Before marrying Anne Devereaux, David Lacey, whom Jane Austen referred to as Old Mr. Darcy, had a liaison with Miss Trench. She was lowborn but had risen in the ranks as a result of a successful stage career. Their relationship was duly noted in the scandal sheets, which kept everyone up to date on society gossip and who was sleeping with whom, especially if the romance involved the Prince of Wales.

“After Anne Lacey died, David started seeing Elaine again. She was a widow and, as far as I know, only had the one child, Roger Manyard, a dissolute young man. His story puts me in mind of Mr. Wickham.”

I was hesitant about asking the next question, but if I didn't get a reasonable explanation as to how the Crowells came to have the letter from Will to his cousin, then any further questions were pointless. “I was wondering where you got the letter,” I finally asked.

“When the Pratts moved into Montclair, the Laceys asked if they could continue to use the storage area below stairs. The Pratts are distant relations of the Laceys, and they had no objections. The storage area contained several chests that had belonged to the mother of Edward Lacey, the last Lacey heir to reside at Montclair. In those chests were diaries, letters, accounts, and other personal papers belonging to several generations of Laceys. Before returning to Australia, the Pratts, knowing that Jack's family had been in service at Montclair for generations, left the papers in our care.

“Over the years, we've gone through many of them, but sorting through the lot proved to be a major project. We were able to devote some time to it during the brutally cold winter of 1946–47. Because of freezing temperatures and the difficulty of moving coal along the rivers or even by rail, we were unable to get any coal in Crofton. So we closed up the house, and Jack and I moved in with my cousin in Holland Park. It was a little better in London, but it was a terrible time in England. You had to queue up for everything. And the snow! I can't ever remember having so much snow in one winter. To shake off our post-war blues, Jack and I spent many an afternoon going through those dusty old papers.”

The Crowells were making a believer out of me. Whenever I doubted the likelihood of Elizabeth Garrison and William Lacey being Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy, they provided reasonable explanations for the events in the book.

At that point, Jack stood up and told his wife he was heading to the Hare and Hound for a pint. “I won't be long,” he said, kissing Beth and winking at me.

“Jack just can't sit still. He never could,” Beth said as soon as she heard the front door close. “Even with his wonky knee, he still plays football with some of the men from the village.”

On our ride from the station when Jack told me Michael was coming home, he had asked me to make sure Beth didn't go to bed early, and when I saw her yawning, I started quizzing her about some of the minor events and characters mentioned in
Pride and Prejudice
. Because Beth was tired, she was giving me very short answers.

“Did Charlotte really have a sister Maria?”

“Yes. I believe Mary Garrison and she were good friends.”

“Was there such a person as Mary King?”

“I have no idea.”

“Was there a reason for the militia to be encamped near Meryton?”

“I imagine they served the same purpose as our Home Guard did during this last war. But Jack would know that better than I.”

I was running out of questions when I heard the Jeep pull into the driveway.

“That didn't take very long,” Beth said, looking at the door and waiting for her husband to come in. Instead, the person who stepped over the threshold was Michael.

Beth put both of her hands up to her face and instantly teared up. When she was finally able to move, she went running into her son's arms, and he picked her off the floor and gave her a big hug.

When I had first seen a picture of Michael, I thought no one was that good-looking, but there he was, except he had
definitely lost weight. The girls in Minooka would have called him a “dreamboat.”

While the reunion continued, I quietly went upstairs. But five minutes later, Beth was knocking on the door, asking me to come down and meet her son. As soon as Michael saw me, he immediately stood up and extended his hand. “It's nice to meet you, Maggie. My parents have been singing your praises in their letters. It's good to have a face to put with their stories.”

While Beth went into the kitchen to make coffee, Jack said he was going to have a whiskey, and Michael said, “Make that two,” and asked if I would like something. After I hesitated, Jack said, “If you don't have a drink, you'll have to drink Beth's coffee.”

“Okay, I'll have a club soda.”

Michael smiled at his father's comment and added, “It's probably too late, but I'll warn you, Mom's cooking isn't much better than her coffee.”

I must have seemed a little tense because Michael leaned over and said, “You're thinking you shouldn't be here, but my parents speak of you as if you were their daughter, although, I confess, I would have a hard time thinking of you as my sister.”

That statement took me by surprise, and I wondered if Michael was flirting with me. Probably not, since he had just met me, and it wouldn't have mattered anyway because he was home for only two days before he had to be at an airfield near London for the flight back to Malta, which was really too bad.

Because they would have so little time together, I told them I was ready to call it a night. Between working that morning and the train ride to Stepton, I really was tired, and I headed to my room before realizing my room was actually Michael's room.

“No worries,” he said. “I'll just take the front bedroom, and I'll use the bathroom down here.” When his father reminded him that the room was no longer heated, he just laughed. “I need to keep to a Spartan regimen, Dad. The Royal Air Force likes us tough.”

The next morning, I was the last one down to breakfast. Although I knew the three Crowells had stayed up late into the night, none of them looked tired. Michael's being home had energized them all.

“Maggie, my parents have told me that you haven't been to the Peak District, and if you don't have anything planned for the day, I'd like to give you a tour.” I smiled and nodded. I wasn't about to say “no” to such a good-looking guy.

“You'll need to put on some good walking shoes, and if you have them, a pair of trousers.”

I ran back upstairs and changed into slacks and a pair of shoes that were as ugly as they were comfortable, and off we went to White Peak. At home, I was used to riding in clunkers that huffed and puffed to get up to forty miles per hour. But Michael was driving the Aston Martin with the top down as fast as it would go. After we entered the park, he slowed to a crawl so I could see the sights.

“When my brother and I were young, Dad and my mother's Uncle Jeremy, who is a geologist, would take us into the District for all-day outings.” Looking out on the Peak's dramatic landscapes, Michael said, “Every time I come here, it looks different.”

Because of gasoline rationing, which Jack was exempt from, there were very few cars on the road, although we did pass a charabanc, an open-air motor coach, and horse-drawn wagons
filled with tourists. Taking advantage of the lack of traffic, Michael stopped in the middle of the road and pointed out interesting sights, including the numerous caves created because of the area's porous limestone. The Peak had an array of colors that changed every time a cloud passed overhead, creating dramatic views at every turn.

I told Michael that one of the things I missed most from back home was driving a car. My brother had a nice side business of buying dilapidated cars and rebuilding them. He worked on the engines while our cousin, Patty Faherty, did the body work. In case the car broke down, Patrick paid me to drive him to the seller and to follow him home. I loved the independence only a car can give you, and since leaving the States two years earlier, I had not sat in the driver's seat of a car.