Searching for Pemberley (29 page)

“In 1936, Margie was diagnosed with cancer. Reed knew something was wrong, and he told Margie he would now take care of her, which he did to the best of his ability until her death early in '37. By this time, both of my parents were gone, so my Uncle Jeremy stayed with Reed until I could get home from Argentina. I practically got on my knees begging him to come
live with us at Crofton Wood, but he told me he was going to stay right where he was. He said, 'Although Margie is gone, this is my home.'

“The boys and I spent most of the summer with him, and James and Michael helped Reed add rocks to his wall. They thought it was a game and great fun. I was supposed to go back to Argentina in September, but I couldn't leave. My gut told me to stay in England. I visited frequently that autumn, and he was doing all right. But once the colder weather came, I again asked him to come to Crofton to stay with Jack's parents and me until spring, as the cabin was absolutely freezing. Reed assured me that he had made arrangements for coal to be delivered from town.

“Mr. Lachlan and I spoke once a week. In November when I called, Mr. Lachlan told me he had good news. When delivering Reed's grocery order, Reed had given him a sketch of a glen on the far side of the stream. In order to make that sketch, Reed had to have gone outside the stone wall. The next week, Reed went out to the glen again. Mr. Lachlan warned him that the weather was getting too cold for him to be out and about on his own. With the shorter days, if he got lost or hurt, he would die from exposure.

“Shortly after his warning, Mr. Lachlan was awakened by Reed's dogs barking. After checking the cabin, he immediately returned to the village and got some of the men to help him look for my brother. It wasn't difficult, as the dogs led them right to him. He had been making sketches of the glen at sunset. He had all of his sketchbooks and pencils with him and a kit containing his lunch and a thermos full of tea.”

After trying to control her tears, Beth brought her hands up to her face and started to cry in heartbreaking sobs. Jack
said nothing but wrapped his big arms around her. I saw at that moment what Rob so admired about the English after having lived among them during their darkest hours. After a few minutes, Beth took out her handkerchief and dried her tears.

“I know what people think about Reed,” Beth said after regaining her composure. “But I don't believe it. He found the courage to go beyond the stone wall, which meant he had at last beaten back the demons that haunted him.”

Jack was staring at me, afraid I would say something that should not be said. I went and sat next to Beth, “I don't believe it either,” I said, hugging her. “I've always imagined heaven as a place where we exist in God's grace with all those we have loved, so Reed and Margie, your brothers, and your parents are together again.” Beth nodded, and Jack looked at me with relief and thanks.

Running her hands over imaginary wrinkles in her skirt, Beth stood and took me by the hand. “Now I would like for you to meet my family and Jack's. I want you to think of them as they were when we were so blest, before that awful war.”

On a rear table in the study were numerous family pictures, including a photograph of Jack's parents. If a casting call had gone out for a butler and housekeeper in the early part of the twentieth century, the Crowells would have gotten the parts— stoic, resolute, and capable. There was a picture in a dark brown leather frame of Tom Crowell in his Army uniform. He was even more handsome than his brother, and there was a look about him that let you know he was proud to be serving in the Sherwood Foresters Regiment.

Hanging above Jack's desk was a family portrait painted at Montclair in 1923 of Jack and Beth and their two little boys, who
were dressed in sailor suits. On the opposite wall was a portrait of all the Edward Laceys dressed formally for the Christmas holidays. Beth and her mother sat in chairs in elegant evening gowns surrounded by the men of the family. There was a look of command in Lady Lacey's eyes, and Sir Edward Lacey looked every inch the country gentleman. Reed, who was about fourteen at the time, had his hand on his sister's shoulder, a shoulder he had probably leaned on most of his life. Looking at Trevor, there was no doubt why all the girls were after him; he was as handsome as any Hollywood movie star. Matthew had steel gray eyes and a look of absolute determination. It was almost as if he was trying to intimidate the photographer.

After that, Beth showed me a photo of Reed and Margie at their wedding party. Margie was short, with curly brown hair and crystal blue eyes, and Reed, the tallest and thinnest of the Laceys, towered over his new wife. His arms were around Margie, not so much hugging as clinging to her.

In an upstairs room, where Beth and Jack had sorted through all of the many documents, diaries, and letters, was a long table covered with a white linen cloth. On it lay a dozen or more miniatures of all the people I had been reading and hearing about since I had first met the Crowells.

The first two miniatures were of the golden-haired beauty, Jane Garrison, when she was about twenty-five years old, and her husband, Charles Bingham. Except for slightly bulging blue eyes, he was handsome, with curly reddish hair and a very kind look about him.

Mary Bennet was as plain as Jane Austen had described her, with light brown hair pulled back in a severe style, and she wore no jewelry or any ribbons to soften the look. Beth had said that
no portrait existed of Lucy, but there were four miniatures of Lucy's children. Antoinette and Marie were light-haired beauties, and the two dark-haired Edwards boys were as stocky as their half-sisters were slender.

Beth was right about Celia. She was beautiful, with her blonde hair encircled by a dark green ribbon and with long curls falling onto her bare shoulders. She must have been newly married to Tyndall Stanton. But I disagreed with Beth when she said her portrait showed a lack of intelligence. When Celia sat for her portrait, she was looking off into the distance to a place where her French lover was.

By this time, I had run out of table and portraits, but where were Lizzy and Will? We walked down the hall to one of the guest bedrooms, and in there, hanging on the wall over a large four-poster bed, were replicas of the portraits of Elizabeth Garrison and William Lacey that had once hung in the gallery at Montclair.

“When Montclair was sold,” Jack explained, “the life-sized paintings of Elizabeth Garrison and William Lacey were put into storage. Once we bought this house, I had these smaller portraits painted as a gift for Beth. The Catons sent the originals to London for stretching and repairs, and just last week, they hung them in their original positions at the top of the staircase, and they are now on loan to the Catons.”

At long last, before me stood Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. William Lacey was a good-looking man, with black hair and grey eyes, and I think if he had been smiling, I would have agreed with Elizabeth that he was the handsomest of men. Hand on hip, Will was dressed in cream-colored breeches, a green coat with a dark waistcoat, and an elaborate neckcloth, just as I had imagined.

And finally, “dearest, loveliest, Elizabeth.” The portrait had been painted at the time of her marriage, so she would have been about twenty-two. She had hair as black as her husband's and dark brown eyes with long lashes. Her face was rounder than I had pictured it, but it seemed to add to the look of amusement the artist had captured. Her russet silk dress had a high waist, with the bodice trimmed in gold braid, and little gold tassels hanging from the short sleeves. In her lap was an embroidered lace handkerchief, bearing her initials, EGL. She wore a two-strand pearl necklace and pearl earrings, and on her right hand was a ruby ring.

Miniatures of their four children were on a nearby chest of drawers. All of the children were attractive, but Phoebe was absolutely stunning and looked more like her Aunt Celia than her mother. Jack had said that Phoebe “was a whole other story,” and I could see why.

Looking at Elizabeth and Will's portraits, Beth said, “I'm sure we were no more or less interested in our relations than any family who has a famous person amongst their ancestors, but their association with the novel certainly added interest.”

After leaving the room for a few minutes, Beth returned with a large book containing sketches of the terrace and gardens at Montclair. “As Mr. Ferguson explained on your tour, the grounds of Montclair were landscaped by Humphry Repton. As part of his presentation, Mr. Repton prepared what was called his 'Red Book' because of the color of its binding. By using overlays, he was able to show the owner the existing view and what it would look like after the work was finished.” Looking at me, she said, “I would like you to have it.” I had no doubt that the Red Book was very valuable. Surely it should stay with Beth and Jack and be given to their children.

“Maggie, I see what you are thinking, but please do accept it. I have other drawings from Repton and will gladly share them with my children if they should ever show an interest in such things. As for Montclair, I have the best of it in my memory and in my heart.” At which point, Jack suggested we adjourn to the Hare and Hound for a pint.

When I came down for breakfast the next morning, the house was empty. Jack and Rob had left at dawn to go hiking in the Peak District, and Beth was on her knees working in the garden. Seeing me, Beth said, “Rudyard Kipling said that 'half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees.' I have to say I agree with him.” Wiping the dirt off of her pants, she said, “When the last war came, we quickly learnt how much of our food came from the continent. All of our onions were imported from Brittany, which had been overrun by the Germans. English food is bland enough, but without onions, it's positively tasteless, so you will always find onions in my garden.”

Taking off her gloves and satisfied that there was no dirt on her pants, Beth said, “Let's go have some coffee. We'll have to give that instant coffee you brought a go because we are out of the real thing.” While I put the kettle on, Beth washed her hands and then sat down at the kitchen table, grinning like the cat who had swallowed the canary.

“The Catons are giving a party to celebrate the reincarnation of Montclair, and Ellen has asked me to co-host. I have been itching to have a party ever since James got married. Having two sons, I knew I was never going to be the mother of the bride, but with James getting married in Italy, I wasn't really the mother of the groom, either. We were completely bowled over by the Paglia
family. I was thinking you and Rob could be our special guests. You have become such an important part of our lives; I want everyone to meet you.”

After all the Crowells had done for us, it seemed little enough on our part to agree to a party, and I told Beth that was fine. Beth reached over to the kitchen counter where she had a pad of yellow, lined paper that was already full with items for the party. It was then that she told me it would be a catered affair with live music, and formal attire would be optional.

“Formal attire? Whoa! I don't have anything formal.” This was already out of my league, and she hadn't even gotten to the yellow pad yet.

“You don't have to worry about a thing,” she said reassuringly. “I have at least a half-dozen formal dresses in my closet, and my mother's dressmaker, Mrs. Quayle, lives in Crofton. Although she's up there in years, she can still work a treadle. As for Rob, with some minor alterations, he can wear one of Jack's tuxedos.”

Looking at my expression, Beth said, “Maggie, it's a celebration. This is a wonderful time in my life. I have my husband back, my sons are safe, I have a lovely daughter-in-law and a beautiful granddaughter, I've found a wonderful friend in you, Britain's on the mend. I could go on and on.”

Taking the cup out of my hand and giving instant coffee a try, Beth said, “Oh, my. It tastes like the ersatz coffee we had during the war. But it will have to do.” After taking another sip, she said, “Maybe not. This is worse than my coffee.” Both of us started to laugh.

There was another reason that Beth was so pumped up. “Michael is coming home from Malta. I gave him the date for the party, and he was able to get one week's leave.”

Michael and Rob together in the same room at the same time? Terrific! Beth was looking at me waiting for an answer. But what could I say except, “When do we go to see Mrs. Quayle?”

AFTER AN INITIAL CRUNCH at AAFES, where I had been working a lot of overtime, headquarters approved hiring two girls, which eased my workload considerably. Although I would miss the extra money, I was glad to have the shorter workweek. I used my time to go for a long weekend up to Crofton, so I could get ready for the gala.

When I walked into the den, sitting in Beth's chair was Michael. Because he had to catch whatever flight was available from Malta, there was no way to know when he would show up in Crofton until his parents got the call from the Stepton station to pick him up.

“I'm going to make some coffee. Michael brought the real thing from Malta,” Beth said with a lilt in her voice. Tomorrow night she would have all her family together, and she was riding high.