Mr. Darcy's Dream (6 page)

“Ah,” said Drummond, after a long pause. He didn't need to say more; he knew as well as Stanhope that to be a Stanhope was to be in the forefront of the nation's affairs. Stanhope's father sat in the Lords, and Stanhope, as his eldest son, would in due course inherit the seat with the title. Before then his father would expect him to stand for one of the family's safe parliamentary seats, and take his place among London's active politicians. Clearly, his friend had other ideas for his future.

“It is all talk and air,” Stanhope remarked, watching the great drops of rain beat against the glass and then roll down in tiny rivulets. “From my time with Wellington, I know how badly the politicians let us down, how they thwarted him at every turn; I don't ever wish to count myself among their number.”

“And then there is your mother,” Drummond began.

“I think the rain is slackening off,” said Stanhope. “In a minute we can go back outside. Tell me,” he went on. “Who is the young lady who accosted me in a rather unwelcoming way, and told me the house was closed to visitors? She said she was Mrs. Darcy's niece, but I am not familiar with all the members of his numerous family.”

Hugh Drummond frowned. “That will be Miss Bingley. I have not met her, but I heard she was arriving this morning. We are to be overrun with young ladies, and as the weather improves, they will all be out in the grounds, exclaiming at how inconvenienced they are by the works. I was assured by Mr. Darcy that none of the family would be here until the summer, but I find a governess is installed with some small children in her charge, not that they're a trouble, little imps; in fact, they don't get to run around outside half as much as they'd like, the young woman keeps a tight rein on her charges. Now we have Miss Bingley, and believe it or not, another of them is due in the next day or so.”

“Another niece?”

“Yes, a Miss Hawkins, or so I was told.” Drummond was tugging at the handle of the door as he spoke, and so didn't notice his friend's change of expression. “Warped, you see,” he added as he succeeded in turning the handle.

“Mrs. Darcy has several sisters and a number of nieces, I believe.”

“She may have a tribe of them, for all I know, but I just hope they aren't all planning to turn up here.”

“I had always regarded you as one who appreciated the fair sex,” Stanhope said.

“The governess is well-looking enough, if you like those kind of looks. I don't. Beside, she's half-foreign. And has a very predatory eye, if I'm not mistaken.”

Stanhope was laughing now. “My dear Hugh, you always were run after, it is amazing that you are not yet married.”

“Married! I should think not. I have my way to make in the world before I can provide for a wife as I would wish. Now you, on the other hand, are in a very different position. You are eligible indeed, I'm sure you have only to show your face in Almacks or at any fashionable party and the mamas flock around you.”

“They might do so, but I've been out of London until…until earlier this year, and I take care to keep away from all the milk-and-water young ladies.”

“Shall we go this way?” said Drummond. “I believe Grayling is in the walled garden, and I need to talk to him. And,” with a sly glance, “talking of milk and water, how is the divine Mrs. V?”

“Divine!” said Stanhope with feeling. “There is little divinity about her. No, that is all over. We parted on good terms, and she has landed a bigger fish than me; I have no regrets on that score, none at all.”

His liaison with the beautiful and wilful actress, Mrs. Vereker, had been a long-lasting and tempestuous one, so established that it had even ceased to be a subject of gossip in London. “When I marry, it will be to a merry-hearted, well-bred, well-mannered woman, not a termagant.”

“Might you not find that dull, after Mrs. Vereker?”

“Not at all, I would not care for a dull woman. It is just that I have had enough of scenes and drama.”

“And arguments?”

Stanhope paused for a moment before replying. “I like a woman to have opinions of her own. I do not admire a complaisant woman, who is always agreeing and deferring to a man.”

“Have you anyone in mind?” Drummond asked as they left the gravel path and took a short cut across to a stone entrance set in a long brick wall.

“I had, but in the end she turned me down,” Stanhope said shortly.

“Did she? And have you given up hope, therefore?”

Stanhope lifted the latch on the door into the walled garden and pushed it open to let his friend through. “Not at all.”

Phoebe was up early the next morning, and swiftly fled from her maid's gloomy comments on her sleepless eyes, so that an annoyed Miniver found herself addressing the empty air.

A knock on the door, and Betsy came into the room, a walking dress draped over one arm, and a silk evening gown over the other. She was giving a series of orders to a footman.

“Look at this!” she said to Miniver, holding up a dark grey travelling gown.

Miniver inspected the mark on the skirt. “You always pick up marks and stains when travelling,” she said, clicking her tongue. “I've got this mark to get off Miss Phoebe's dress, it's a marvel to me whatever the weather she comes back inside with mud and dust all over her skirts. And look, straw! She's been in the stables, that's what it is.”

Betsy sniffed. “That's the country for you.”

“Which isn't to say that London isn't as dirty a place as you can imagine. But at least the dirt in the country is nice, healthy dirt. London dirt is the worst kind. And as to weather, it was raining when we left London, and Aubrey Square was no more than a large puddle.” Miniver pushed
down the lid of a trunk. “Are you taking those gowns downstairs?”

“Yes, and it's to be hoped that this one will need no more than a good brush.” She showed Miniver the silk gown. “You may have a little problem with travel stains, but see what I have here. This gown is more than two years old, you'd think Miss Louisa would have had enough of it and passed it on, but no. She insisted on bringing it with her, she says it's her favourite colour, and until she can find another one in the same shade, will continue to wear this one.”

“Miss Phoebe has little that's as much as two years old,” said Miniver as they passed through the door leading to the servants' side of the house and went down the stairs to the servants' hall. “Everything new, everything of the best, ready for her London season. What a waste. She didn't want to bring any of her clothes with her, saying she wouldn't need them in the country, but I packed them up just the same.”

Betsy led the way through the servants' hall, where Sally was scrubbing the big table with vigour. She was singing as she worked, causing Miniver to shake her head and mutter, “Bumpkins!”

Betsy and Miniver went along a stone-flagged passage, and then across a covered yard to the laundry. Besides the main washing and drying rooms there was a small room with a wooden table, several shelves, and a large stone sink. They shook out the gowns and set to work. Betsy hung up Louisa's walking dress on one of the hooks on the wall, and attacked the muddy hems briskly with a brush, talking all the while. “I see no help for it with the silk dress except to wash it.”

Miniver mixed up a potion which consisted of fuller's earth and pearl ash. She added some lemon juice, squeezing it out from one of the fresh lemons which an under-gardener had
brought into the kitchen from the orangery, and shaped the paste into little balls, which she then rolled to and fro over the stain. “It's risky to wash a silk dress. And it's a nuisance too, all that sponging, and if you don't get it just right you end up with marks on it. Still,” she added, “with that dark blue colour, and the moiré pattern, it's not going to show so much.”

“It's a shame to see Miss Phoebe looking so poorly,” said Betsy. “I wondered when I heard that she wasn't going to do the season at all this year, but as soon as I set eyes on her I thought, Lady Hawkins has her wits about her. Miss Phoebe doesn't look strong enough to go for a walk along the street, let alone dancing the night away at balls and going on all those picnics and outings the young ladies do.”

“Miss Louisa missing the season, too, that's a pity, even after she'd done three before.”

“She was looking forward to it,” said Betsy, keeping her end up. “Not that I was, not with all the work, and all the noise and bustle and disagreeableness of being in London.”

Miniver knew not to take what Betsy said at face value. Betsy was never content, wherever she was. When she was in the country she grumbled about the mud, the weather, the cows, and the slow-witted people. In town, it was uneven pavements, dirty streets, traffic, and all the visitors wandering up and down with their mouths open. When she had visited Bath the previous year, she had been very critical of the steep hills, the vulgar people, and the glaring heat of summer days.

Miniver was very sure that Betsy was, in fact, mighty disappointed at Miss Louisa not doing the London season. With such a beautiful young lady, there must be the constant excitement not only of the parties, but of the expectation of an engagement. Someone with Miss Louisa's looks, and her fortune, might hope to make a very good match, maybe even to marry a
lord. Even after three seasons—well, those three years hadn't diminished her beauty, quite the contrary. But instead of being in London, and going to balls and parties, Miss Louisa would be here at Pemberley, with Miss Phoebe. It was all very nice for the young ladies when they were growing up, but not the best place to find a husband. She said as much, and got a sharp look in return from Betsy.

“As to that, it's high time that your Miss Phoebe found herself a husband. This was to be her second season, after all, and it's not as though the gentlemen didn't admire her. But from what I hear, she's not yet met the man whose affection she can return. She argues with them and makes fun of them and is very merry about them, and drives them away. It doesn't do for a young lady to be too clever,” Betsy went on primly. “Gentlemen aren't looking for clever wives.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Miniver.

Betsy was quick to catch the unspoken message. She went over to the door, which was a little ajar, and shut it firmly.

Miniver lowered her voice to the merest whisper. “Miss Phoebe had an offer, even before this season began. That's what the trouble is with her.”

Betsy was agog. “Who was the gentleman? I suppose he was completely unsuitable, and that's what's put Miss Phoebe into such a state.”

“Not at all,” said Miniver. “Everything fine about him. He is as handsome a man as you could wish to see, and with a fine income and going to become a lord in due course.”

“So what was there about that to cause Miss Phoebe to fall into the dismals? And if there was an engagement, why didn't I hear about it? Surely the family would be the first to know.”

“Miss Phoebe is very reserved. She keeps her feelings to herself, as you know. What I do know is that she came home
from a party in seventh heaven, and the gentleman called on her father the very next morning, to ask for her hand.”

“And?” said Betsy, all ears.

“And nothing. One moment she's tripping downstairs to see her father, looking like a young lady ought to when she's met Mr. Right, and the next she's back up sitting down with a face like the crack of doom and writing a letter to the gentleman.” Miniver saw no reason to mention the hackney cab. “She was in floods of tears, but all she'd say to me was that she couldn't marry him. Her father refused his consent, that's what it was. The second footman happened to be passing Sir Giles's study, and he heard it all.”

“Why ever would Sir Giles say him nay, if the man was as fine as you say, and if he was in love with Miss Phoebe, and she with him?”

“Who's to know? That's what's amiss with her, in any case, it's all on account of her falling in love with a man her family don't approve of.”

“Love,” said Betsy scornfully. “There's a great deal too much said about love and falling in love by these young ladies if you ask me. In her grandparents' time, marriages were arranged by the family, and I don't see that they were any the less happy for that. I dare say she accepted him before he'd asked her father, and then to be writing to him, and her an unmarried young lady. What behaviour!”

“No worse than three seasons without an offer.” Miniver hung the dress up, a rigid back expressive of the disapproval she felt for Betsy's remarks.

“Who said there hadn't been offers? I'm sure I never did. However, no man ever caused Miss Louisa any distress, and I must say I'm sorry to see Miss Phoebe in such a way, merely because of an unfortunate proposal!”

Somewhat mollified, Miniver tucked the skirts of the dress into place, and went over to the door. “There's breakfast being set on the table, by the sound of it,” she said. “Drat this stain, I don't believe I'm ever going to get it out. And I'll have to be quick, or the young ladies will have finished their breakfast, and Miss Phoebe and Miss Louisa will be off outside, never thinking of their clothes.”

Miniver was quite right. The clouds were still present, but a wind had got up, and was driving them across the sky, and it wasn't, Phoebe said persuasively, precisely raining.

“If this is not precisely rain dripping down the windowpanes, then I wonder what it is,” said Louisa.

“We could order a carriage to be brought round.”

Louisa was firm. “The last thing I want to do today or tomorrow or the day after is to drive anywhere in any kind of a coach. And it's no good you telling me that the fresh air will do me good. When the weather becomes more spring-like, then it will be a different matter, but at the moment I can think of nothing drearier than to go out in the rain and the wind.”

Phoebe laughed, and lifted her hand in acknowledgement of Louisa's point. “Very well, but even if we do not venture out to any of the walks, we can certainly pay a visit to the glasshouses as soon as this shower is over, where you may admire growing pineapples, and be out of the weather you so dislike. And after that, we can sit in front of a good fire, in the little sitting room, and I shall beat you at piquet.”

Miniver would have liked Miss Phoebe to take a short rest, but her mistress was implacable. “Do stop fussing, Miniver. I may not look my best, but I am not ill, how many times do I have to tell you? I shall be sitting down, if that satisfies you, for I want to write to my mother.”

“And Betsy asked me to say, Miss Louisa, that when you are free she wants to show you a stain on one of your gowns.”

Louisa sighed. “I hope it is a vast mark all across the front of that vile pink taffeta that I know she will have packed, despite my not wanting it. Phoebe, I will be down directly Betsy has finished scolding me.”

“You will find me in the library.”

The library at Pemberley was one of the glories of the magnificent house, and certainly one of Phoebe's favourite rooms. The present Mr. Darcy's father, Phoebe's grandfather, had employed the famous architect Robert Adam to remodel several of the rooms of the house back in the 1760s. He had chosen to do the library in his classical style, and even the severest critics had to agree that the room was a triumph.

Phoebe paused, as she always did on entering the library, to admire the splendour and elegance of the room. She walked into the room between a fine pair of fluted columns with their Corinthian capitals, picked out with gilt. There was a table in a semicircular recess at the far end and that was where she sat, leaning back in her chair and looking up at the paintings on the ceiling, classical and allegorical scenes set in lozenges and ovals, before she opened the drawer, took out a sheet of notepaper, and, dipping the nib of her pen into the silver inkstand, began to write her letter.

Phoebe usually wrote very much as she talked, and at first her words flowed across the page, describing her journey to Pemberley, the twenty-four hours she had spent with her aunt on the way. She paused at this point; what was there to say? That she was still in low spirits, that she was glad to be at Pemberley, but that try as she might, thoughts of Mr. Stanhope kept intruding on her thoughts? Her mother would certainly not want to read that.

She nibbled at the feathery end of her quill, looking out through the library window. The rain had faded into a thin drizzle, and a figure outside caught her eye. She rose from her chair and went over to the window to have a better look. There was Mr. Grayling, the head gardener, wearing his usual leather jacket and coming round the corner of one of the walled gardens. Coming along behind him was a gardener's boy trundling a barrow full of what looked like manure. Then another man came round the corner, someone that Phoebe had never seen before. Her interest quickened as she studied the new arrival. He was talking to Mr. Grayling now, and she wondered who he was and why he should be engaged in such deep conversation with Mr. Darcy's head gardener.

 

Upstairs, Louisa was also looking out of the window, while she waited for Betsy to return from a trip to get lavender for the closet.

Who was that man? He was dressed like a gentleman, with gaiters to keep the mud off his legs, a snuff-coloured coat, and, which was surprising, had no hat on his head. His hair was a light brown and thick, and Louisa noticed, for she had a keen eye to such details, that it had been cut and shaped by a good barber. This was certainly no country local, nor yet did he look like a tradesman.

At that moment, Betsy came back into the room. “Come over here,” Louisa said. “Since you always know more about what is going on than anyone else, you may look out of the window, and tell me who that man is out there talking to Mr. Grayling. He appears to be a gentleman, but I cannot suppose he is any such thing. Do you know who he is?”

Betsy only needed the briefest of glances out of the window
to be able to inform her mistress that that was Mr. Drummond, Mr. Darcy's new man. “He is said to be a gentleman, but I cannot see why it is a gentleman's business to be out and about in the grounds, and dealing with glassmakers and iron men and carpenters and all that kind of thing.”

“I rather agree with you,” said Louisa. “I always imagined such a person would spend his time in an office, either in London or in one of my uncle's houses.” She knew better than to ask Betsy what the servants thought of Mr. Drummond, and although she was curious to know, she didn't care to indulge in too much servants' gossip. She would doubtless find other means of discovering more about Mr. Drummond. He was a personable enough man, although not with the kind of looks she generally admired, yet he had a fine upstanding figure and a direct open look to his face that she liked.