Searching for Pemberley (35 page)

“On the other hand, Austen was spot on about Lucy being selfish, but Franny also says that her aunt had a wonderful 'almost childlike' sense of fun and took the children to county fairs and staged plays where every child had a part.”

Violet talked so fast that it was necessary to hang on to her every word, or I might miss a decade. She was still talking when we pulled into Brighton.

Our hotel, one of dozens facing the sea, was built during the reign of Victoria and had Victorian Age plumbing. I was used to hotels where I had to share a bath and toilet, but because of a “wonky” commode, we had to use the one on the floor above. Although the door to the commode was unmarked, I had no trouble figuring out which one it was because I could clearly see the outline of a man facing the toilet through the frosted glass door, which Violet and I found to be hysterical.

The woman at the registration desk told us the reason the hotel was in such a state of disrepair was because it had been used to billet Australian soldiers during the war. “Ruffians. That's what they were. Nothing less than ruffians.”

As soon as we got outside, Violet said, “That hotel hasn't seen a paint brush since Victoria died in 1901. She's blaming the Aussies because they have such a bad reputation.” After thinking for a few seconds, she added, laughing, “which they deserved.”

We walked the promenade until we found a place to have dinner. After being seated, Violet said emphatically, “After we eat, we're going to go to a pub.”

“I'm not one for going to pubs or bars.”

“You're not one for doing much,” Violet said impatiently. “Brighton has a lot of great pubs and dancehalls, and I think we should go to some of them.”

“What about Guy?”

“What about him? Do you mean, can I go out dancing without my husband? Hell yes! Guy has two left feet. If I want to dance, I have to go out with my friends, and I'm not too shy about asking a man to dance with me.” Leaning over the table, she continued. “Listen, Maggie, your fellow has gone back to the States, so it's time for you to start meeting other men. I'm not saying you have to let some man get into your knickers, but, truthfully, abstinence is considerably overrated.”

“Was there anyone other than Guy? You know what I mean. Was Guy your first…?”

“My first! He wasn't even my fourth. Good Lord, don't look so shocked. I was in London all during the Blitz. We all were, just like the royals. You know that bit about 'The princesses won't leave London without their mother. The Queen won't leave without the King, and the King won't leave.' Same thing with my family. Bombs rained down night after night, killing thousands. At that time, I drove this little lorry with coffee and sandwiches to serve the ARF—the air raid wardens. They were the ones who enforced the blackout, but they also helped rescue people trapped in the rubble. Poor things! I'd have to wrap their hands around the coffee cups because they were just sitting there staring into space. Here I was, twenty-one years old, and I had never been with a man. You probably don't know this, but sex relieves tension. And I was very tense.”

“Do you think Guy knows?”

“Knows that I wasn't a virgin? I think it was pretty obvious the first night we spent together. I wasn't exactly lying on my back thinking of England.”

“How did you two meet?” Mr. and Mrs. Guy Barton were the most incongruous couple. Violet was tall, dark, and rail-thin, with a posh accent, while her husband was short, fair, and a little on the chubby side. It was comical to listen to their conversations. Guy's working-class background was obvious from the moment he opened his mouth, but Violet loved to listen to him and would often go over and kiss him on the top of his head while he was talking.

“Guy worked in the same building as my father at the War Office. I'd see him when I brought Dad sandwiches and coffee from home. I thought he was cute, but that was it. But then the Germans started with their rockets. The Allied invasion had been successful, so everyone thought that was the end of the bombs. First it was the doodlebugs, which were bad enough, but at least with them, you knew you were safe as long as you could hear them. It was only when the humming stopped that you were in trouble. But you couldn't hear the buzz bombs, and there were more of them. One of the bombs hit down the street from the War Office, and we all ran out to see if we could help. I must have looked terrified because Guy came over, and knowing who I was, whispered in my ear: 'Our troops are forcing the mobile launchers back to the point where London will shortly be out of range.' I think I fell in love with him right then.”

While we were out to dinner, our waiter informed us that because the Royal Pavilion was in such a state of disrepair, only visitors accompanied by a tour guide could gain entry.

“Do you happen to know one?” Violet asked, feeling confident that he did.

“My father earns a bit on the side conducting tours, and there isn't anything about Brighton he doesn't know.”

Handing the waiter the money for the bill, Violet said, “We'll see your father tomorrow at 9:00 at the main entrance.”

Our evening of pub-hopping had gone better than I had expected. At the third pub, we hooked up with two sailors on leave, who taught us how to play darts. After Violet explained she was happily married and that I was in mourning, we went dancing, and that was all we did. Jimmy and Lenny saw us back to our hotel, and both of them kissed me on the cheek. However, Lenny pulled me aside and said, “Maggie, you might have taken off your wedding band too soon. I'm not sure you're ready to jump back in the game.”

Violet was right. I was acting as if I was in mourning, and I decided that if someone asked me out, I would accept. No more moping around about what might or might not be.

We met our tour guide, Mr. Pendergast, outfitted with a black bowler and, despite a cloudless sky, a black umbrella, at the gates to the Royal Pavilion exactly at 9:00, and he began his spiel immediately. He explained that on the night of November 29, 1940, German bombers appeared in the skies over Brighton, causing extensive damage to the city, but the Pavilion had come through it unscathed.

“According to Lord Haw-Haw, the American who made radio broadcasts for the Nazis, Adolph Hitler intended to make the Royal Pavilion his headquarters once he had successfully
invaded England. It seems that information failed to reach the head of the Luftwaffe, Hermann Goering, or he wouldn't have bombed Brighton.” That was Mr. Pendergast's idea of a joke, so we laughed, and he looked pleased.

I knew about Lord Haw-Haw, as his real name was William Joyce—hopefully, no relation. Shortly after the war ended, he had been captured by the British, tried for treason, and sentenced to be hung. The death penalty was controversial because Joyce was an American citizen. However, somewhere along the line, he had obtained a British passport, and that provided the British with enough legal cover to carry out the sentence.

We learned the Prince Regent, the future George IV, first came to Brighton, where he rented a farmhouse, so that he could spend time with his favorite companion, Maria Fitzherbert, whom he would secretly marry. Later, the Prince tapped into the enormous wealth of the British Treasury and commissioned Henry Holland, and later John Nash, to design an exotic Oriental palace that one would have expected to find in Constantinople not southern England.

Mr. Pendergast informed us that only the Pavilion's kitchen, banqueting room, and music room were open to view, and even those were in shockingly bad condition. We double-timed it through the building, looking up, down, and all around as if we were plane spotters. Both Violet and I had the impression that part of Mr. Pendergast's fee went to someone inside the Pavilion, who looked the other way while visitors were quickly whisked in and out of the building.

Warned by Mr. Pendergast that we would be moving “apace,” we dashed through the Great Kitchen where elaborate banquets had been prepared for guests of the Prince, and on to the music
room, which was lit by nine lotus-shaped chandeliers. Our last stop, if it could be called a stop, was the Banqueting Room. Even though it had been stripped by Queen Victoria of its painted canvases depicting Chinese domestic scenes, the elegance of the room remained, and its sheer size was overwhelming.

The tour was supposed to have continued outside, but instead, Violet pulled out a five-pound note. “That was quite invigorating, Mr. Pendergast. Never was so much imparted in so little time,” she said, thanking him.

As we walked toward Brighton pier, Violet picked up where our tour guide had left off. “By the way, Jane Austen's Brighton had no resemblance to the Brighton of the Prince Regent. At the time Jane wrote of George Wickham's seduction of Lydia Bennet, it was a popular seaside resort, which was also known for attracting more than its share of prostitutes.

“And speaking of seduction,” Violet said, smiling, “why don't we go out on the pier tonight and see what we can do about having the same thing happen to you.”

ONE OF ANDREWS'S MANY responsibilities was to sort the mail, and one way of letting me know that I was not a member of the family was to keep my letters separate from the Alcotts' correspondence. And there, all by its lonesome on the foyer table, was my first letter from Rob since his arrival in Atlanta.

October 14, 1948

Dear Maggie,

Arrived safely in the good old USA. It was smooth sailing once we got clear of the British coast. The British Navy has these buoys all over the place to mark ships that were sunk by German torpedoes. Three years after the war, the Brits are still clearing the approaches to its ports. This guy, who did convoy duty in the North Atlantic, told me that the amount of tonnage that went to the bottom during the war was kept top secret because it might have caused the Brits to “lose heart.”

Since neither of us had been here before, after docking
in New York, Frank and I decided to do some sightseeing. We went to the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building and down to the Battery where we could see the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. After that, we ate a steak at Jack Dempsey's, which looked huge compared to what I was used to in England. Then we headed to Grand Central Station.

About the disagreement we had at Beth's house, I know I acted like an ass. But before you came downstairs that morning, Michael was telling me how the two of you had gone to the Peak District and had walked down to the village for coffee. Even before I knew about that, I was already pretty steamed because of the way he had come on to you the night before. Thinking about it now, I can't say I blame him. I guess because he had to leave to go to his new station in Germany, he had to go at you head on. As they say, “All's fair in love and war.” I just want you to be happy.

Love,
Rob

The following day, I discussed Rob's letter with my boss. Don told me never to go by what a guy said or wrote because “we stink at both.” He believed a man's actions spoke louder than words. In that case, it boiled down to the fact that Rob had not asked me to return to the States with him. So that was that—or was it? I would have plenty of time to think about it because that night I came down with the flu. When Beth learned I was sick, she immediately came to Holland Park, bringing her own portable medicine chest as well as some of Reed's drawings from the 1913 road trip.

“I haven't seen these drawings in years. Jeremy had them locked up in the tower.” Shaking her head showed that, even after all these years, her uncle's behavior still puzzled her.

Picking up the first sketch, Beth said, “This is the coach inn where we stayed our first night on the road. Many years later, Jack and I stopped there for a drink, and on the wall was a framed drawing Reed had made for the owner all those years ago. The new owner didn't know the story behind it, and when we told him, he asked Jack and me to sign the back of it.”

Placing the next drawing on top of the one of the inn, Beth showed me Helmsley Hall, Jane Austen's Netherfield Park, and the home of Charles Bingham and Jane Garrison during the early years of their marriage. It looked nothing like the house I had imagined. The drawing showed a very pretty three-story, red-brick Georgian manor, with one wing and a white porch and white-framed windows, but it wasn't anywhere near as large as I had imagined it. Seeing my expression, Beth said, “It's not as grand as Montclair, but it's a good-sized manor home for the neighborhood.”

“But how many people could have attended a ball there?”

“More than you would think. In houses such as this, all of the public rooms were connected, and the furniture was pushed against the walls to make room for the dancers. I don't know if the wing was there at the time Charles leased it, but if it was, the floor plan has a nice flow to it. If you recall, Jane Austen wrote in her novel that the Bennets' neighborhood was made up of about twenty-four families. I would say this house could have accommodated that many couples.”

Now that I knew what Helmsley Hall looked like, I understood Will Lacey's objection to Charles's choice of residence.
George Bingham had charged Will with turning his youngest brother into a gentleman, someone who would be received in the finest homes in the country. Will dismissed Helmsley Hall and nearby Bennets End as completely inadequate for his purposes.