Mr. Darcy's Dream (8 page)

The clouds began to thin, the rain stopped, and by the next morning there was neither cloud nor wind to mar a perfect day. Phoebe and Louisa were eager to go outside. They walked along the path past the shrubbery and the flower garden, intending to cross the river further down and then walk back through the meadows.

“You may have thought my behaviour rather strange last night,” Phoebe began. “Something you said took me unawares.”

Phoebe fell silent, and Louisa prompted her. “Is it to do with Kitty Martindale?”

Phoebe shook her head. She wasn't looking at Louisa, but had her head turned away. “No. You mentioned…that is, you said that Lady Martindale's brother, Mr. Stanhope, was staying with the Martindales at present.”

“Arthur Stanhope. Are you acquainted with him?”

“I shall make a clean breast of it all to you,” said Phoebe, taking a deep breath. “But, Louisa, this is to go no further. I have told no one exactly what happened in London, although my parents and Miniver know something of the truth.”

“Well,” cried Louisa, “if Miniver is in on your secret, then you may be sure that the whole household will know it by now.”

Phoebe flushed. “It could not be helped. I wanted to talk to Mr. Stanhope, and the only servant I could trust was Miniver. And then, I had to write to him, and Miniver took the letter for me. No, you don't need to remind me that I should not be writing, or entering into any correspondence with, Mr. Stanhope or any other single man.”

“So why were you writing to Mr. Stanhope?”

Phoebe, who had kept her eyes fixed on her feet, now looked up, and directly at Louisa. “Although the season had not yet begun, there were many families already in London, as you must be aware is usually the case at this time of year, and therefore there are small parties of one kind or another. I hadn't met Mr. Stanhope; he spends a good deal of time abroad. However, he was present when I dined with some friends, and then we met again at several other gatherings. I enjoyed his company, and—well, his attentions to me grew more marked. As for me, it is difficult to describe how I felt.”

“Was this just dalliance on his part? He has something of a reputation with the ladies, but I would have thought that he was treading a dangerous line with a young lady of your background and situation.”

Dalliance! Phoebe had taken it for more than that. He was not flirting with her, there was a look in his eyes when they lighted on her, and that in his voice when he spoke to her, which told Phoebe this went beyond dalliance. She took a deep breath and continued her narrative. “You may judge for yourself whether it was dalliance. I was present, as was Mr. Stanhope, at a very pleasant dinner party given by Mr. Portal. You are acquainted with Mr. Portal, I am sure.”

“With Pagoda Portal?” said Louisa. “Indeed I am.”

“Later in the evening,” Phoebe went on, “there was dancing. Our cousin Alethea was among those present, of course you know what a fine musician she is. She at once volunteered to play, and sitting herself down at the instrument, launched into a waltz. I danced with Mr. Stanhope then, and again a little later. And it so happened that we found ourselves, since I was rather hot after my exertions, in a little antechamber off the big drawing-room where people were dancing.”

She paused.

“Go on,” said Louisa.

“Mr. Stanhope proposed to me.”

Louisa's astonishment showed in her face. She could hardly believe what Phoebe was saying. Lost for words for a moment, she had to pull her wits into order before saying, “Well, he is the most eligible man, in the eyes of the world, that is. But I have heard that he is possessed of a quick temper, and is high-handed in his ways. Oh, Phoebe, is he the right man for you?”

“Louisa, I am—I was, I must say—in love with Mr. Stanhope.”

“Phoebe, what were you about? What can you see in him? I have had but a brief encounter with him, when I met him upon the bridge here, not discovering until later who he was—Betsy knew about his visit to see Mr. Drummond—but I am sure he is not the right man for you. I grant you that he is handsome and he has a fine, tall figure and looks that must be generally admired, but he is not at all the sort of man to make you or anyone else a good husband. I knew of his reputation before ever I saw him, and you know the opinion of the world, when it is as well-known as that, is not to be dismissed lightly.”

“I knew you wouldn't understand,” said Phoebe despair
ingly. “How can you, when you have never felt any kind of partiality for a man?”

Louisa spoke in a quiet, normal voice, in sharp contrast to Phoebe's agitated voice. “Did he make love to you?”

“Did he kiss me? Yes.”

“Whatever was he thinking of to approach you before he had spoken to your father? What if somebody had come in and discovered you in his arms?”

“He kissed me, that is all. And I felt—oh! you would not understand what it is like to be kissed by a man like Mr. Stanhope.”

Phoebe hadn't spent a season in London without receiving her share of affection, and although she would not admit it to Louisa, Mr. Stanhope was not the first man to have kissed her. Yet the difference between his embraces and those of other men! Louisa was an innocent in such matters, and no doubt assumed that under the strict chaperonage that existed, no young lady would ever succumb to the temptation to kiss a man before they were engaged. Propriety would forbid it, but as Phoebe had discovered, propriety might well fly out of the window when there had been dancing and wine and a great deal of flirtation.

“When he kissed me,” said Phoebe, “I was certain that I loved him, and—oh, I cannot express how I felt, but certainly I had no sense of wrongdoing.”

“Well, to be sure, there is a degree of impropriety, but in which case, where was the problem? Don't tell me he jilted you? That would be the most un-gentlemanlike behaviour imaginable.”

“I woke the next morning to a degree of happiness beyond anything I had ever known. Only to be summoned downstairs to my father's study, to be told that Mr. Stanhope had called,
early that morning, to ask for my hand, and that my father had refused his consent.”

“Good heavens, upon what grounds?”

“Because of his reputation. My father would brook no argument. He insists I would not be happy married to a rake, Mr. Stanhope is a rake, and therefore…”

They walked on for some way, Phoebe striving to compose herself. Louisa said, “A man may gain a reputation which is unfounded, and not take the trouble to correct the world's view of his character.”

“I could not marry a man who is likely to be unfaithful. Infidelity destroys trust and honour and has consequences of a far-reaching kind that are unquantifiable.”

Phoebe spoke with an intensity that shook Louisa, even though she was aware of some of the difficulties in the Hawkins family that lay behind Phoebe's heartfelt words.

Phoebe had only been thirteen at the time. Her home life until then had been a very happy one: she was something of a wild, noisy child, enjoying running around in the garden, riding her pony, and playing lively games with her sisters and friends of both sexes. At thirteen she had grown a little more restrained, but was still the kind of girl who faced every morning with zest and optimism and who possessed a natural inclination to happiness.

Then a shadow fell across her happiness. Her parents, who had always presented a united front of affection and kindness, seemed to be at odds with one another. Closed doors, whispered conversations, or, much worse, long periods when her parents appeared to have nothing to say to one another brought a dreadful atmosphere into Hawkins Hall.

Now, at twenty, Phoebe could still not forget the deep unhappiness that her father's philandering had caused both him
and her mother. She had been too young to fully comprehend what was happening, but intelligent and alert and mature enough to work out for herself what was going on. Servants were careless in their talk, friends made guarded comments, and it wasn't long before she discovered the truth.

Her father, alone in London for several weeks to attend Parliament, while his wife and family remained in the country, had engaged in a dangerous flirtation with the dashing Mrs. Lancey. One thing led to another, and word came back to Lady Hawkins that her husband was making an exhibition of himself in London, and apparently saw no need to keep secret the fact that he was enjoying the full delights of Mrs. Lancey's affections.

Phoebe felt ashamed for him, and angry on her mother's behalf, yet she was old enough and wise enough in the ways of the world to know that many men had mistresses. In fact, her older and more cynical friends said that all men were unfaithful if they could be, and a woman had best make her happiness where she could, busy with domestic duties, children, and the daily round of feminine life.

Her mother had been hurt and upset, but she was realistic enough to know that this was the way a husband let loose in London on his own might well behave. What was unforgivable was that it turned out to be more than a passing fancy, and when she discovered a passionate love letter penned by her husband to Mrs. Lancey, she found herself unable to forgive him.

Her pride, her dignity, and her reserve did not allow her the natural and immediate outlet of anger or quarrels. She taxed her husband with his infidelity, and he blustered and denied it. And then by one of those sad quirks of fate, an old flame of her own came upon the scene. Colonel Daunton was a military man who had once been her suitor, and whom she had
very nearly married. She turned to him, and found consolation with him.

Now it was Sir Giles's turn to be outraged. He had never imagined that this would happen. The old adage that sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander was not, he considered, one that could in any sense be applied to his marriage. For him to take a mistress was normal, for his wife to have a lover was a cause of mortification and rage.

Phoebe, wretched and worried out of her normal lively spirits by all this, could not take sides with either of her parents, both of whom she loved. Then, in 1815, the colonel was killed, gallantly leading his men into action on the field of Waterloo. Her mother found it very difficult to control her grief, but that grief brought Phoebe's father to his senses. He had been suffering from a good deal of guilt, and had come to realise that his affair with Mrs. Lancey was making him a laughingstock. She was not the kind of woman to bestow favours upon one man at a time, and so he felt twice cuckolded.

Slowly, Sir Giles and Lady Hawkins began to rebuild their marriage. There was no question of them ever being on quite the same grounds as they had been; Lady Hawkins could not easily forgive her husband for his infidelity, nor herself for her own, and the shock of being cuckolded and the very physical jealousy Sir Giles had felt when he found out about the colonel and his wife had left him uncertain in his position as husband and father, as the undoubted head of his family and master of his domain.

Even though Louisa knew only part of the story, she knew enough to understand why Sir Giles would reject a suitor on the grounds of his immorality, and why Phoebe herself would shun such a man.

They reached the end of the narrow path that ran through the rich meadow, thick with poppies now, and clambered over the stile on to the wider path that led across the arched bridge.

“It is possible,” said Louisa, “that Mr. Stanhope may not deserve his reputation. You were close to him; did you ever suspect that he was the kind of man to treat women badly?”

“Do rakes treat women badly? Or are the women at fault, for allowing themselves to be made fools of? And I am certain in Mr. Stanhope's case that his reputation is well-earned. I don't want to talk about it; let me just say that I came into possession of information which persuaded me that my father was right to behave as he did.”

“Yet—”

“No yets, nor buts. It is over, finished, an incident in my past life on which the door has closed.” Phoebe was walking on ahead, wanting to move quickly, as though by so doing she could walk herself out of the melancholy that oppressed her when she thought about Mr. Stanhope. “Let us change the subject entirely,” she said briskly, looking back at Louisa. “I need your help.”

Louisa lengthened her pace. “I? Help? In what way can I help you?”

“You have heard that Mr. and Mrs. Darcy are to hold a ball here at Pemberley this summer.”

“Betsy did mention it.”

“Very well, and before he took his leave, Mr. Darcy put the charge for the arrangements into my hands.”

Louisa couldn't hide her amazement. “Phoebe, a ball? For how many people? It is a daunting undertaking to plan and arrange everything for a big ball.”

“Oh, as to that, Mr. Darcy knows very well that I like to
organise things, and in fact I am extremely competent in such matters. He has an excellent housekeeper in Mrs. Makepeace, and Mr. Lydgate will have a very good idea of how things are to be managed. Much can be left to them, but the overall scheme of things needs to be in the hands of a member of the family, and who better than I? I tell you, I shall enjoy it above all things, and you will assist and advise me. Two heads are better than one, as the saying is. I need to be occupied, you know.”

“Of course I shall be glad to help in any way that I can. But where to begin? What about invitations? Surely my aunt and uncle do not leave it to you to decide who is to be invited?”

“Of course not. Mr. Darcy's secretary has all that in hand, and will be sending me the lists shortly. I am also to keep him appraised of all likely expenses, just to make sure that I do not outrun the budget. But much can be done with the resources of Pemberley itself. We have to talk to the gardeners about flowers, because we will need a great many of them and flowers do not grow in a day. And then there is the matter of the works in the garden—we can't have a ball with the garden looking like a fairground. There is much to be thought of and discussed, for I intend the Pemberley ball to be an amazing success, the talk of Derbyshire and London.”