Searching for Pemberley (11 page)

Rob flipped through the booklet looking for interesting tidbits. “Desmet Park was built around 1675, shortly after the restoration of the Stuarts to the British throne following Oliver Cromwell's death. Charles II, the new king, needed money, so he sold peerages to commoners for a lot of money, and that's how the first Baron Desmet got the title. The house was built with defensive elements in its design, which accounts for the crenellated towers, and it once had a moat. Apparently, Lady Sylvia wanted a house that looked more like a country manor than a fortress, so she filled in the moat and had the fountain in the courtyard built with mosaics and marbles imported from Italy.”

After a few minutes, the receptionist returned to the foyer with an older man, whom we assumed to be Clive. “Clive has the time to take you around. He's our handyman, but he gets bored just sitting and waiting for the next pipe to burst. He was asleep back there.”

My first impression of our guide was that he was an old pensioner filling in time, but Clive had a spring in his step,
despite the weight of the tool belt he wore at all times because of the terrible condition of the building.

Our first stop was what had once been the formal reception room. During the war, Desmet Park had been used as headquarters for an American Army battalion, and as part of its conversion to an operations center, deckboard had been placed over the walls, and maps showing all of the landing beaches on Normandy were still pinned to it. Apparently, the battalion had moved all operations to France when the British troops on Sword Beach had linked up with the American troops on Omaha Beach on June 10th.

“The maps add to the ambience,” I whispered to Rob. “From the late military period.”

We told Clive of our interest in
Pride and Prejudice
and asked if Desmet Park could possibly be Rosings Park. Looking at the depressing interior, it didn't seem likely. After repeating our question—he was more than a little hard of hearing—Clive shouted, “Look up! At the ceiling! What's wrong with it?”

Rob answered that it was too low and that it didn't fit with the size of the room. “It probably was lowered to install better lighting for its use as a war planning room.”

“Right you are! But there's more to it than that.” Again pointing to the ceiling, Clive said, “Above that ceiling is a painting by James Thornhill, a contemporary of Laguerre and Verrio, reign of George II. The painting is a mythological allegory, and it takes up the whole bloody ceiling.” Clive's little surprise delighted him and us.

“In the 1920s, a fellow named McFadden wrote a tourist book that listed where all the great art was in English and Scottish country houses. He never updated the bloody thing 'cause he's
probably dead, but no matter. You can see these tourists with McFadden's book clutched to their bosoms marching up the hill to see the Thornhill.” He laughed at the thought. “They get pretty damn mad when they see that ceiling.”

Clive explained that Desmet Park was “a disaster waiting to happen” because of the threat of fire from an ancient electrical wiring system. “Even so, the trustees are thinking about putting advertisements in newspapers in the States and Canada. Remember, it has the Thornhill, which is why a lot of people come and have a look at it in the first place.” I asked if there were any Devereaux descendants still living, and Clive answered with a quirky smile that made you want to pinch his cheeks. “That line is deader than my granny.”

Clive took pride in his knowledge of the house and started to give us a rundown of all of its owners, beginning with the first Lord Desmet. We reminded him that we were looking for a connection between Desmet Park and Rosings Park.

“There's a literary society that meets here once a month, and I've been told by these gray-haired lovelies that Jane Austen visited Kent quite often. Her brother, Edward, was adopted by the wealthy Knight family, and his estate, Godmersham, is less than twenty miles from here, and he had a very large family. Jane could have heard stories about Old Lady Desmet when she was visiting Edward or from her father's cousins because he grew up here in Kent. Legend has it that Lady Sylvia was a real, um, unpleasant lady. I've seen her portrait, and I can tell you she had some beak on her.”

While Clive kept talking, we walked through the huge house. There certainly were things to admire: the gorgeous foyer, lead-crystal chandeliers, enormous fireplaces with elegant carvings
and tile work, a beautiful staircase with a mahogany handrail, and the unseen Thornhill. But the Yanks had also done a very good job of converting it to a military office building.

“Lady Sylvia died in 1806, and after selling everything right down to the wallpaper, the daughter, Anne Desmet, moved to Bath and lived there until her death in the early 1820s. As far as I can tell, she never once came back here after she sold the house to Jacob Grissom, who made his money by selling gunpowder to the British during the Napoleonic Wars. Today, he'd be tried as a war profiteer; back then, he was a capitalist.”

Thanking Clive for the guided tour, we tried to give him a tip, but he refused, explaining that he was very partial to Yanks. “During the war, Kent was overrun with Americans. You couldn't swing a cat without hitting a Yank. Naturally, there were soldiers in every town looking for a little fun. They got into quite a bit of mischief, but they also supported the local shops. You'd see the little ones running down the street after them, shouting, 'Give us some gum, chum.' They also handed out apples and oranges and told the kiddies to take them home to their mums.

“I think about all of those young American boys we seen every day for months, and then 'poof,' they were gone.” Looking up to a sky that was threatening rain, he said, “I seen more than one shot-up bomber flying overhead trying to make an emergency landing at one of the RAF airfields nearby.”

I think Clive felt that the conversation had become too serious, and an amused look came over his face. “You Yanks helped us in so many ways, including taking the local lovelies out for a good time because our lads were overseas. We'll never forget you. We can't. You left behind dozens of reminders, and they are all about four years old now.”

ON THE DRIVE BACK to London, I asked Rob why he didn't mention that he had been a member of a B-17 crew when Clive talked about the bombers he had seen flying over Kent, especially since Rob had been on a bomber that had crash-landed in Kent

“I think Clive was more of a talker than a listener,” he said, and added, “I'm sure he fought in the First War and had plenty of stories of his own.”

Rob quickly changed the subject and asked about some of the things that had been going through my mind from the time I had first met the Crowells. “Maggie, from what you've told me about the Crowells, they sound as if they are too intelligent to believe the Darcys are the Laceys unless they have proof. So if this thing is for real, then they have to have all kinds of things—diaries, letters, records.”

“Rob, there's a lot we don't know, but for whatever reason, Beth Crowell, and I'm sure Beth is the connection, is not ready to tell us, but I'm absolutely convinced she is leading up to how she is connected to the Lacey family. We'll just have to wait.”

Shortly after our visit to Kent, I received another letter from Beth. This time it was about Mary, but also Anne Desmet and Charlotte Chatterton, because their stories were all interconnected.

18 February 1948

Dear Maggie,

I was happy to hear that Rob and you were able to visit Austen's Rosings Park even if you could not see the Thornhill. I can only hope that some conservator will be able to find a way to preserve it because, from what you describe, it is possible that Desmet Park will be torn down for the value of its stone, especially since it appears to be a fire hazard. Every week, I read in the newspaper about manor houses being razed. So many of them were damaged during the war because of their use as barracks, or the costs of maintaining them are so prohibitive that no one can afford them.

It has been a long time since I wrote to you of Mary Garrison because her life was entwined with Charlotte and Anne's, and I was hoping you would be able to visit Kent before I shared with you their strange, but interesting, relationship.

Mary was a friend of Charlotte's younger sister, Maria Ledger. It seems that every time Lucy/Lydia came home to Bennets End, Mary arranged a visit to the parsonage with Maria. When Lucy returned permanently to Bennets End following Waggoner's transfer to Canada, Mary visited Charlotte and never left. You must be asking, why didn't Charlotte or Mr. Chatterton object?

As the wife of the local pastor, Charlotte had many
responsibilities, including visiting the poor and making food baskets for those who were ailing. In addition to these responsibilities, Charlotte acted as her husband's secretary, copying out his weekly sermons and taking dictation for his correspondence and reports to the bishop. Keep in mind that this was the era when people made their own ink and wrote with quill pens, which required constant repair. Anne, recognizing that Mary's stay was open-ended, encouraged Charlotte to have Mary take over many of the less desirable responsibilities of a minister's wife. This allowed Charlotte the time necessary to educate herself in the politics of the church and to learn what was going on in the church hierarchy.

When Lady Sylvia became ill, sometime around 1805, Anne told Charlotte that it was her intention to sell the estate after her mother's death. This is where Charlotte's political acumen bore fruit. She knew of an opening in Canterbury for a position that suited her husband's talents and requested that Anne ask her mother to write a letter to the bishop bringing Mr. Chatterton to his attention. When Lady Sylvia died in 1806, Mr. Chatterton was faced with a difficult choice. In addition to any bequest from Lady Sylvia, Mr. Chatterton, as rector, received an income from a tithe from every farmer or tradesman in his parish. However, Charlotte recognized that without Lady Sylvia's sponsorship, there was no chance for advancement in the church, but there was a possibility for a promotion if he served on the staff of the Suffragan Archbishop of Canterbury.

It turned out to be the correct move. In 1807, Mr. Chatterton, Charlotte, and Mary moved to Canterbury. They had been living in rooms near the Charter House for
fifteen years when Mr. Chatterton died suddenly. With his death, the Garrison estate was entailed away from Charlotte because of her sex, and Charlotte and Mary chose to return to Hertfordshire.

I had been reading this letter aloud to Rob when he stopped me. “How does Beth know all this? She's stopped saying this information came through Aunt Margie. She must be related to the Laceys.” I nodded and continued.

After her mother's death, Anne Desmet moved to Bath. The city was in its heyday at this time, and she leased a house in a neighbourhood near to the famous Royal Crescent. She brought with her the butler and her nurse, Mrs. Jackson, whom Anne was devoted to, and who spent a good portion of her life caring for Anne. We know she attended concerts and assemblies in Bath, escorted by her cousin, Col. Alexander Devereaux (Col. Fitzwilliam). Col. Devereaux was wounded at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815, and after his release from the Army, he went to live with Anne in Bath. The colonel died in 1819. Anne lived another three years.

I hope her years in Bath were happy ones. She certainly deserved it. Her life demonstrates that even the wealthy can be miserable if they are not nurtured and loved.

Your friend,
Beth

After finishing the letter, I told Rob about the conversation Jack and I had during our drive to Pamela's house. He mentioned
that the Laceys had three sons and a daughter, and in Beth's letter recounting her Christmas visit to Harrods, she mentioned her brothers. “I'm positive the daughter is Beth Crowell.”

“Why the big secret?” Rob asked.

“I don't know. But there must be something hurtful in this story for her to keep up this pretense.” I wouldn't have long to wait before I found out, because Beth and Jack were coming to London.

Shortly after receiving the letter regarding Mary, Charlotte, and Anne, the Crowells wrote to let me know they would be visiting London and hoped we could get together for dinner at the Savoy, so they could meet my gentleman friend.

After we were seated in a gorgeous dining room, Beth told us that Jack and she frequently ate out when they moved to London during the winter of 1946–47. “Queuing up for food is unpleasant at the best of times, but with arctic temperatures day after day, I was willing to take advantage of the fact that we didn't need ration coupons to dine in a restaurant. And don't think I didn't feel guilty about doing it,” she said emphatically. “Now, it's three years since we defeated Germany, and yet we still have rationing and queuing, and people are still walking around town in drab clothes that have been patched and repatched.”

From what I had seen, patched clothing was a minor problem compared to finding enough coal for their homes. All over London, people were still pushing prams they filled up with coal at emergency dumps.