Mr. Darcy's Dream (21 page)

Louisa might be happy, but for Phoebe, the day was turning into a nightmare. She moved restlessly among the crowds of people, greeting friends in an abstracted way, cutting others as, lost in thought, she failed to notice or recognise them. Everywhere she seemed to see Mr. Stanhope; glimpsing him across a lawn or through trees or across one of the rooms of the house, she would turn in another direction only to catch sight of him in front of her: at the end of a corridor, walking past a statue, talking and laughing in a group of men.

She told herself that it was ridiculous to think that he was pursuing her, that it was her own thoughts and fancies that were coming after her, but her nerves were in such a state of excitation that this reasoning did her no good at all. Exhausted, she sank down on a Roman marble bench in a secluded knot garden, a relic of the much earlier main garden of the house which Lady Harlow had chosen to preserve. There, crouching down to peer at a clump of minute, pink flowers, was Lady Maria.

Satisfied with what she had found, Lady Maria rose from her knees, dusting down her dress in a careless way. She saw Phoebe and came over to her.

“Why the hunted look? Is some arrogant male of the species in hot pursuit of you? My dear,” she added in a worried voice, seeing Phoebe's expression, “I was joking. But if indeed there is some man who is harassing you, tell me and I shall speak to him. Men are such tiresome creatures, the whole race of them.”

Phoebe looked round the old-fashioned garden, still expecting to see Mr. Stanhope's tall figure appear from behind one of the rectangular hedges. But there was no one there apart from herself and Lady Maria.

“I suppose you do not care to share with me what is bothering you?” said Lady Maria. “I have a name as a gossip, and it is justly earned, but I am also the soul of discretion when it is necessary.”

“It is kind of you, but there is nothing wrong. I'm perfectly all right.”

“Perhaps you are affected by the heat.”

Phoebe shook her head.

“I suppose it is Mr. Stanhope who is causing all this trouble. I knew him when he was a boy, always wanting to go his own way. His tutors and parents called him a difficult child, one that chose to have things as he liked them, yet I think even then he had a strong sense of what was and wasn't important to him. I should have said he was the very man to suit you, if you are interested in my opinion.”

“You are mistaken. Mr. Stanhope and I are not at all suited—and indeed, I don't know why we are talking about that man.”

“Then I shall change the subject,” said Lady Maria cheerfully. “Do you think Miss Bingley and that pleasant man employed by Mr. Darcy will make a match of it?”

Phoebe, her attention at once diverted from her own trou
bled thoughts, stared at Maria. “Louisa and Mr. Drummond? Why do you ask me that?”

“I saw them just a little while ago, together in a boat on the lake. I may be a cynic, but I'm no fool and I can tell when a young couple have eyes for no one except one another. Will Mr. and Mrs. Bingley approve of him as a husband for their daughter, that is the question. I suppose she has a tolerably good fortune, and I'm sure that Mr. Drummond has not a penny except what he can earn by his wits. His father is a clergyman with a large family, I believe; he can have few expectations there.”

“I am sure that Mr. and Mrs. Bingley care far too much about Louisa's happiness to be concerned about money,” Phoebe said, although she was sure of no such thing.

“Such a remark reminds me how young you are. Everyone cares about money. Louisa is a beauty, and could be expected to make a very good marriage. No one could call Mr. Drummond a good catch.”

“I do not know how it is between Louisa and Mr. Drummond, Louisa has not spoken about any attachment to me, and if she had, I should not tell you. But I will say that Louisa has had her chances to make what you call a good marriage, and has not taken them. Mr. Drummond is an excellent man and one whom I feel sure will make a success of his profession.”

Lady Maria laughed. “Tell that to your Great-aunt Lady Redburn, and see what she has to say about it.”

Phoebe gave Lady Maria a direct look. “It is nothing to do with Lady Redburn whom Louisa marries.”

“That is irrelevant. She wants anyone within her sphere to be as well-connected as possible, and I can tell you that she will not approve of a match with Mr. Drummond.”

“As it happens, Lady Redburn likes Mr. Drummond.”

“Lady Redburn likes people in their places. And she won't believe that Mr. Drummond's place could ever be at Miss Bingley's side. Take my advice, warn Miss Bingley to be on her guard, for Lady Redburn is obstinate and overbearing when she feels things are not going just as she wants them to.”

Phoebe was finding Lady Maria's bracing personality too much for her at the moment. She rose, gave the slightest of curtsies, and said that she was going to go into the house where it might be cooler. Before Lady Maria could say another word, Phoebe was on her way out of the knot garden and hurrying across an open stretch of lawn, charmingly ornamented with a little Greek temple, to the shelter of the sunken garden.

Where, to her disbelief, she saw Mr. Stanhope, walking alone, bound at any moment to look up and see her. She spun round and, as he called out her name, turned left and hurried into the Harlow Park yew maze, famous for the height and thickness of its hedges and the complexity of its paths.

 

Lady Redburn furled her green parasol, and tapped George Warren smartly on the shoulder with it. He turned round, a scowl on his face, which changed to a smooth smile as he saw who it was.

Lady Redburn ignored his companion, a stocky man with a round head, who looked rather surprised at this interruption, and demanded that Mr. Warren walk with her. He raised his eyebrows at his companion, took his leave of him, and obligingly announced that he was at Lady Redburn's disposal.

They turned into a quiet path, a shady walk which ran between linden trees. Lady Redburn lost not a moment in coming to the point. “Mr. Warren, tell me more about this Mr. Bagot, this friend of yours, this clergyman.”

“What is there to say? He holds the living of Lambton, we were at the university together, and I am paying him a visit. He is single, of modest means, the son of another clergyman who hopes to make more of his career than his father did.”

“That is very much as I thought.” Lady Redburn gave Mr. Warren a shrewd glance from her sharp black eyes. “An ambitious clergyman is all very well, but if his ambitions turn in the direction of making a fortunate marriage, then one must be wary. He seems very eager to ingratiate himself with Miss Bingley, and I assume that her fortune is what draws him to her.”

George Warren was silent, feeling sure that Lady Redburn had not come to the end of what she wanted to say.

“Am I to take it that you think such a match would be suitable for your cousin?”

“Not at all,” said Warren coolly. “She is not precisely my cousin, we are connected through my stepmother, but no, I would not choose to have Mr. Bagot connected to my family in any closer way than ties of moderate friendship.”

“It seems to me that you have been encouraging the man to make advances towards Miss Bingley.”

George Warren smiled. An unpleasant smile, with a glint of malice in it. “Miss Bingley is a very complacent young lady, and it is good for her to have to watch what she is about. She dislikes Mr. Bagot, and therefore I find it entertaining to encourage him to pursue her. She would never accept an offer from him, and I am sure that her parents, my dear aunt and uncle, would not countenance such a match even if she liked the fellow.”

The look Lady Redburn gave him now was one almost of approval. “This was all done in a spirit of mischief, to stir up a little trouble, to tease Miss Bingley.”

“Exactly so.”

“You have clearly succeeded to admiration, and I dare say Mr. Bagot will have to learn to bear his disappointment. However, what you will not find so entertaining is the fact that Miss Bingley has met a man whom she does not dislike, and whose attentions she appears to welcome.”

“You astonish me. Miss Bingley seems rather a Diana, impervious to her suitors. I should be surprised indeed to find that any man had caught her fancy. Do you refer to someone who lives in Derbyshire? I cannot think who it could be.”

“If you kept your eyes open, you would have seen Miss Bingley today at Harlow Park, disporting herself on the lake in the company of Mr. Drummond. Do not mistake me, I think Mr. Drummond an estimable man, and I believe is very good at what he does. He, too, is the son of a vicar, but has no money.”

All the amusement had left George Warren's face. “Mr. Drummond? The man who works for Mr. Darcy, digging up his gardens and putting up glasshouses? Marry Miss Bingley? You cannot be serious.”

“It is not a matter of whether I am serious or not, Mr. Warren. It is a question of whether Miss Bingley is serious. I am not so old that I cannot see when there is an attraction between a man and a woman, and I assure you that it is the case with Mr. Drummond and Miss Bingley.”

“The devil it is,” exclaimed Mr. Warren, and then made a quick apology for his language. “That will not do at all, such a marriage would annoy my mother exceedingly. She has never forgiven her brother for marrying Jane Bennet, and I know has always hoped that Louisa, who I have to concede is good-looking, would marry well. Although,” he added spitefully,
“my stepmother's father, the late Mr. Bingley, made his money in trade. Perhaps his granddaughter is planning to carry on the tradition, by marrying a tradesman.”

“I am glad to say that Miss Bingley's connection with the Darcys is a remote one, but even so, I would not care to see Darcy's niece married to a Mr. Drummond. It is true that Mr. Darcy married beneath him, but there is no need to make a family tradition of it.”

“I shall write to my mother directly, to warn her of what is afoot. She can speak to her brother, and I'm sure she will be able to convince him that this must be put a stop to, before his daughter throws herself away on this penniless employee of Mr. Darcy's.”

“Pray convey my good wishes to Lady Warren, and you have my permission to say that I am deeply concerned to see what trouble Miss Bingley may be getting into.”

They had nearly come to the end of the walk, where it debouched into a wider way, a gravel walk lined with classical statues. Lady Redburn stopped beside a grinning Pan. “Perhaps you could enlighten me, before you return to your companion, just why you are in Derbyshire? I cannot believe that Mr. Bagot is such a draw that you would come all this way to see him.”

“I needed to be in this part of the world upon an urgent matter of business, and it is more convenient for me to put up with Mr. Bagot rather than stay at an inn.”

“More convenient, or more convincing, Mr. Warren?”

“Both,” said Mr. Warren shortly.

“A family matter? An amorous affair?”

Lady Redburn's probing questions were impertinent, yet Warren was chary of cutting her short, as he would already have done with most people. She had a knowing look
to her, and besides, he wanted to keep in her good books.

“It is private business, I have some loose ends to tie up. My visit relates to certain events that took place during the war years, and I assure you has nothing to do with any member of the Darcy family.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

 

Unbeknownst to Phoebe, she was hot on the heels of Louisa, who had reluctantly parted from Mr. Drummond when he finally brought the boat back to the edge of the lake. She knew that to spend the rest of the day in his company, as she longed to do, would arouse comment, and both of them were aware how careful they must be not to become the subject of gossip. Mr. Drummond went towards the house, while Louisa continued her search for Phoebe on that side of the lake. Several people claimed to have seen her, when she made enquiries, and it seemed to Louisa that Phoebe had been everywhere; what was she up to?

A chance remark from a stout woman who was fanning her red face with such energy that Louisa could hardly make out what she was saying directed Louisa towards the knot garden. There, Lady Maria told her that Phoebe had left her only minutes before, and pointed the way she had gone.

Lady Maria watched in some amusement as the black shovel hat of Mr. Bagot rose from behind the hedge. “My dear Lady Maria, were those the dulcet tones of Miss Bingley I just heard?”

“You have missed her. You look exceedingly hot, Mr. Bagot, pray rest for a moment. There is a bench conveniently situated there under that tulip tree which will serve the purpose.”

Mr. Bagot was having none of it. Not hot at all, mild,
balmy day, had been sitting too long, would not take up any more of Lady Maria's time, he could see she was absorbed by the beautiful plants…and he was gone, leaving Lady Maria looking vastly amused amid the tight hedges and ebullient flowers.

Mr. Bagot had longer legs than Louisa, and he soon spied her walking towards the sunken garden. He increased his pace, calling out to her, and Louisa, who wanted nothing less than to be obliged to endure even five minutes of the wretched clergyman's company, plunged under the yew arch, barely aware that she was entering the famous maze.

She had been through the maze as a child, and had delighted in getting lost, but now she wished she had paid attention to the key. How did she get to the centre, and from there back to the entrance? First right, second left, third right? Or the other way about? In her agitated state, she couldn't remember.

It took some five minutes for her to be hopelessly lost, and at every turn she could hear Mr. Bagot's voice, now louder, now more faint, calling out to her.

Phoebe was puzzled by these fluting calls for Louisa, although only with part of her mind; the rest of her heard footsteps behind her, and she pressed on, certain that it was Mr. Stanhope.