Searching for Pemberley (24 page)

Jack and I stepped through a door into the main section of the house where Beth's parents had their suite of rooms. Each had their own bedroom, which was the normal arrangement among England's upper class. Jack said the Pratts used only Lady
Lacey's room, “which Mrs. Caton started redecorating as soon as the Pratts reached the end of the driveway.”

“Mrs. Caton doesn't hide the fact that she thinks the Pratts had no taste. It's true they were hard on that house, but they were a small part of a big problem. A two-hundred-year-old house needs constant attention. Plaster cracks, wallpaper becomes unglued, chimneys get clogged with soot, drains back up, and that's during peacetime. When the First War came, maintenance fell by the wayside, and it took the Catons and their deep pockets to repair what time and neglect had done.”

Jack opened the door to a bedroom adjoining Lady Lacey's. “This used to be Beth's father's room. The sleigh bed and armoire were so large, they left them with the house.”

“Beth was very close to her father, wasn't she?” I asked.

“Yes, until Lucy Arminster, his lady friend in London, put in an appearance. Beth and Reed went to live in New York where they stayed with Lady Lacey's sister until their parents ironed out that mess. It would have been disastrous for Reed if his parents had gotten a divorce. But that didn't seem to have occurred to either parent with Lady Lacey storming off to America, and Sir Edward chasing a young woman around town.” He shook his head and said, “Let's have a look at Beth's room.”

We walked down the hall to Beth's bedroom in the east wing. Mrs. Caton had recently finished refurbishing Beth's room and had been able to locate the original wallpaper pattern, a pale green, with delicate white flowers, and branches with tiny birds sitting on them.

Jack gestured for me to join him on the balcony. Beth's room was on the north side of the house, facing the gardens, and had an extraordinary view of the estate. Between Montclair
and Stepton were acres and acres of rolling pastureland, sectioned off with rock walls, and hundreds of fluffy white dots moving around in the distance. It looked just like a scene from a postcard of rural England.

“Reed had the same view from his bedroom, and he painted it every which way from Sunday.” This was the scene that had inspired Reed to draw the four sketches hanging in the Crowell's den that I had admired when I first met Beth and Jack. “He was unbelievably talented and could work in any medium. But from the time he came back from America, with the exception of Beth and my brother, Tom, you'd never see an adult face in his drawings. I guess he felt betrayed by the grown-ups in his life.”

We walked down the long hallway to the west wing where Jack pointed to door after door. “These rooms were for Trevor and Matt. They had their own bedrooms, bathroom, game room with gramophone, and a kitchen that had originally been part of the nursery and classroom. To say they were overindulged doesn't get there by half.” Shaking his head, Jack said, “They were my mates, and I can honestly say they never pulled rank on me or Tom. But the way they lived, with no consequences or responsibilities, was hard to take.

“But having said that, I think both of them would have turned out all right if they had survived the war. When Trevor was working in the brokerage house in London for his father, he told me he realized that it was time to grow up. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, but he knew he was not going to be a broker. He wanted to visit America, which of course, was where Ellen and his daughter were living.

“Matt was the big surprise. He was a good, strong leader, and I think he might have stayed in the Army. The Laceys got lots
of letters from the men who served under him, all of them saying what an exceptional officer he was. Matt told me that at his worst, he was a better officer than any of the generals calling the shots. He was right about that.”

I had already seen the ground-floor rooms, and there was a padlock on the door to the tower. I assumed it had been closed permanently, but that wasn't the reason why it was locked.

“Sir Edward's brother, Jeremy, has lived there from the time he was a young man, and he rents it from the Catons,” Jack said. “When he comes home, he stays in the tower, the bachelor's HQ, he calls it. No one is allowed in there unless Jeremy is with them; even Freddie respects his wishes. You might have a chance to meet him since he's giving a lecture in London in September.”

“Mr. Lacey's brother is still alive?” With the exception of one passing reference from Michael, no one had said anything about him.

“He was alive as of the date of the letter he wrote to Beth telling her he was coming to England.” Jack was laughing because he didn't understand how I could be so interested in people who were no relation to me.

We went downstairs where Freddie had promised to frisk me. He was bent over with his ear to the radio listening to a broadcast from Russia. “Jack, come here.” Pointing to the radio, he said, “That's Moscow I'm listening to. Don't have a bleeding clue what they're saying although I keep hearing the word Berlin.” Because of the crackling, Freddie turned the radio off. “I reckon British Intelligence are listening, too, so it's safe for me to take the day off.” Looking at me, he said, “I was too young for the first fight and too old for the second, so they made me an air raid warden in the last war. If I saw any Nazi bombers headed our way, I was
the one who was supposed to warn the sheep.” He jumped off his stool and said, “Would you like a cuppa, dear? I'm just about to have my tea.”

Jack told him we had to get back to Crofton, as Beth was expecting us. But Freddie told me to come back and said, “Next time, leave the bodyguard at home, and we'll have some fun.”

When we got back to Crofton Wood, Beth was in the kitchen preparing the tea. She asked my opinion of Montclair, and I told her the best view in the whole house was from her bedroom. “Yes, I do miss that,” Beth agreed. “There were always sheep in the pastures, and I'd watch the border collies move them from pasture to pasture through the narrow gates in the stone walls.” Excusing herself, she told us she would be right back. She returned with a large folder, the kind artists use to carry their drawings. Sitting down on the sofa, she untied the string that was yellow with age, and inside were a dozen sketches drawn by Reed. She pulled out a drawing of the exact view she had just described to me, right down to the collies running through a flock of sheep.

The first sketch had been drawn in the spring, when the sheep had dropped their lambs. There was a man holding a staff moving the sheep from one enclosure to another. You could see enough detail in the hand to know the man was old, but, as Jack had said, Reed chose not to draw his face.

“Here's the same view, painted with watercolors in the spring, but just the pastures.” Pulling out a third drawing, Beth said, “and here is a pen and ink drawing of the pastures in winter. Which one do you like best?”

I liked them all. But I was drawn to the winter scene, which showed a stark, snow-covered landscape with broken stone walls and denuded trees. I pointed to the black-and-white drawing,
and Beth handed it to me. She explained that she wanted the drawings to go to people she cared about and who appreciated her brother's talents.

After I went to bed that night, the drawing stayed with me. While visiting Venice, I had seen Giorgione's
La Tempesta
, and I had heard an elderly gentleman say that a man's art was a window into his soul. If that was the case, then Reed Lacey's art showed someone who was at ease with nature but who was so distrustful of people that he chose not to draw their faces.

On Sunday morning, I was sitting in the pew of St. Michael's Church with Beth and Jack. As a Catholic, I wasn't supposed to participate in a Protestant service in any way, including standing up when everyone else did. But because of my relationship with Rob, I had violated so many of the Church's teachings that I had decided “in for a penny, in for a pound.”

Unlike Catholic churches, which have mandatory Sunday attendance and crowded services, St. Michael's was barely halfway full, so it was a good thing Beth's grandmother had bequeathed an annuity to the church to pay the pastor's salary in perpetuity. Rev. Keller's sermon wasn't exactly riveting, and I found myself thinking about the time Michael Crowell and I had toured the Peak District in Beth's Aston Martin. It had been an enjoyable afternoon, followed by dinner with his parents at the Grist Mill, a favorite restaurant of the Crowells.

Between the wars, the owners of the mill had converted it to a restaurant. Cars had made this once-remote spot accessible, and it had become popular with tourists on their way to the Peak District. It was made of solid stone and had massive beams going
across the ceiling. Jack explained it was rare to see beams of that length because the Royal Navy took most of them for the masts of their ships “when Britannia ruled the waves.”

When we arrived, we were told the restaurant would not open for another three-quarters of an hour. We made a reservation and walked down to the river where picnic benches were scattered under the trees. Sitting at one of the picnic tables, Michael asked what I thought of Montclair.

“It's nice to have a place in the country,” I answered. “But it's not Chatsworth.”

I started to laugh when I saw his confused expression. “Sorry. I'm kidding.” I kept laughing, and so I explained. “In Elizabeth Garrison's diary, she was always commenting on Will Lacey's quizzical expression. He probably looked a lot like you do now. But then he was your ancestor.” After he realized I was joking, I answered his question. “Montclair is a jewel, and the grounds are gorgeous. But what I liked best was the mural painted by your Uncle Reed. I felt as if he wanted me to walk out onto the terrace with him.”

“The puppy in the mural was Blossom, Reed's beagle,” Beth explained. “Blossom's hind legs had nerve damage and were nearly useless, so Tom and Reed made a little cart for her. After that, she got along quite well.”

“I'll say she did,” Jack said, laughing. “Blossom had free rein in that house, and she banged that cart into every piece of furniture the Laceys owned. I remember Macy, the parlor maid, carried a brown crayon in her pocket to color in the dents on the furniture.”

The meal was excellent, but it was the company I enjoyed most. It was obvious how much the Crowells loved being with
their son, and with good reason. Michael was gracious, intelligent, and witty. I didn't understand why he was still running around loose.

When Michael mentioned that he was in a relationship with a woman from his station, I lied and said that I was in one, too. After he returned to Malta, I put him out of my mind, and the only direct contact I had with him was an exchange of postcards. But with Rob unwilling to even discuss our future, I could feel the fabric of our relationship beginning to fray. As a result, I was once again thinking about Michael Crowell, and he was helping me along because he had stopped sending postcards and had started writing letters.

The first two were general in nature. He wrote about the long days of serving in a peacetime RAF and about the rebuilding of Malta. The island had been pummeled day after day by the Luftwaffe during the war, and because of their heroism, George VI, in April 1942, had awarded the George Cross on a collective basis to everyone on the island. The second was a visit he and a group of his mates had made to Morocco and its Kasbah. It was in the third letter where he revealed that his relationship with Audrey had ended.

Although Audrey and I never had a definitive conversation about marriage, she believed it was implied, or why else would she be living on an island in the middle of the Mediterranean so far from home? I had no answer, and I felt like a complete heel because I had stayed in a relationship out of habit and because it was convenient. It all ended in a very civilized way with no harsh words exchanged. I have to confess I am a bit of a romantic. I have always hoped that when I met the
girl I wanted to marry, there would be a spark from our first moment together. That had not happened with Audrey, but I am positive it will happen.

I knew that Beth was a faithful correspondent and that she kept her son up-to-date on everything that was going on back in England. If those updates included me, then Michael knew that Rob and I were having problems, which might explain why he had enclosed a picture of all four Crowells standing in the ruins of the Acropolis in Athens when he was about ten years old. On the back, he had written, “It's been a while. Don't you think it's about time I went back for a second visit? I don't think you've ever been to Greece, or have you?” Was that an invitation?

That night I had a dream where Michael and I were in bed together, and it was so real that I could almost taste his mouth and feel his weight on top of me. In the morning, I was ashamed of what was happening. I was in love with Rob, but I had been thinking about Michael so much, he was showing up in my dreams in his skivvies.

And did any of this matter? If things did not work out with Rob, I would be long gone by the time Michael was discharged in November because a formal announcement had been made that AES operations were going to be run out of Germany. So there was no point in dreaming about a romance with Michael Crowell. Or so I thought. But events in Berlin were about to change everything.