Mr. Darcy's Dream (11 page)

Another gate led into a small paddock, where a donkey was grazing. It raised its grey head for a moment, and then dropped it to resume its steady grazing of the thick green grass. From there they walked back along the side of the house and into the shrubbery that they had passed as they came in through the gates. Mrs. Wellesley hung back, wishing to talk to Phoebe. She was full of enquiries about her mother, her father, and her sister and her sister's London come-out: “How does she enjoy her first season?”

They had just returned to the house, and had entered the drawing-room again, when there was a loud peal on the doorbell. Two minutes later, the maid appeared, followed by a bowing clergyman, and Phoebe was unhappy to see that it was Mr. Bagot, the vicar of Lambton.

He greeted all the ladies with an unctuous enthusiasm that set Phoebe's teeth on edge. There was a kind of masculine
overbearingness to him that Phoebe found particularly irritating. He naturally assumed that, as a single male in a room with women, his voice and his opinions were the ones that most counted. He expounded upon the weather, upon the gardens at the Red House, and upon the undesirability of young women venturing so far from home unaccompanied by a maid.

Phoebe felt that this was none of his business, and was preparing to tell him so when Mrs. Wellesley, no doubt aware of Phoebe's irritation, intervened, saying that there was no possible need for her goddaughter and for Miss Bingley to be accompanied by a maid when they were paying a visit to the Red House, hardly a lonely spot, and but a few minutes' walk from the main part of the town.

“When they leave the grounds of the Red House, however, there is the walk along the lane,” he said. “It will be best for me to accompany you.”

Phoebe laughed. “I cannot see that we are in any possible danger walking along the lane the short distance from here to the main street.” She turned to Mrs. Wellesley. “Indeed, it is time that Louisa and I took our leave of you. The carriage will be waiting for us.”

“And if I know anything about you, Phoebe,” said Mrs. Wellesley with a smile, “it will be you and not the groom who drives the carriage back to Pemberley.”

Phoebe acknowledged that this was so, and earned herself a wagging finger and a solemn look from the vicar. “I cannot believe that Mr. Darcy would be happy to see his niece driving herself about the countryside. Surely there is a coachman who could have driven you.”

“Mr. Darcy is well aware of my habit of driving myself when and wherever I can,” said Phoebe. “The only scolding I will get from him is if I drive badly, or do any harm to his
horses. And since I stand in awe of him, I shall take very great care to do neither of those things.”

Phoebe and Louisa took their leave. Mrs. Wellesley said that she hoped to see them again soon, to hear more of the family news from Phoebe, and to continue her interesting discussion about gardens with Louisa.

They walked quickly down the path, afraid that despite their protestations, the vicar might put on his black shovel hat and pursue them down the leafy lane. “That was a narrow escape,” said Phoebe as they arrived rather breathless at the corner of the main street. “He is as tiresome in the drawing-room as he is in the pulpit. I cannot think how or why Sir Henry chose to bestow the living upon him.”

Louisa was less harsh in her judgement. “He was dull, I grant you, and rather too forceful in the way he speaks, given that we are almost strangers, but he may still be an excellent parish priest.”

“I very much doubt it,” said Phoebe. “If I were one of the poor, I think I would hide in the cellar when he called and only emerge when he had gone. You may be sure he hectors and lectures the poor, when what they need is kind words and hot soup.”

Louisa was enthusiastic about her new acquaintances, saying how interesting she had found her conversation with Mrs. Wellesley. “I am sorry I did not have much chance to talk with Lady Maria. Is she also a widow, or is she in some way related to your godmother?”

“No, she's no relation at all. The truth about Lady Maria is dreadful, and I fear you will be even more shocked than you were by the details of Mrs. Wellesley's unhappy marriage.” She said this with a sideways glance at Louisa, who tried to look disapproving but didn't succeed in hiding her curiosity.

“In which case you had better not tell me.”

“It is good for you, being so inclined to think well of everybody, to learn how much wickedness there is in the world. You will indeed be shocked when I tell you that Lady Maria is divorced.”

“Divorced!” Louisa could not keep the surprise out of her voice. It was a rarity for any woman to be divorced. Divorce proceedings were lengthy, expensive, and only ever undertaken by members of the aristocracy. To obtain a divorce, a bill had to be passed in Parliament, and the scandal of it was immense, with the lurid details being published in broadsheets, and passed from one gossiping tongue to another up and down the length of the kingdom.

“It was long ago, when we were children. It was only recently that I learned the facts of the case, for of course when I was a girl, such a matter would never be discussed in front of me. I had it from Miniver in the end, for her sister was in service with the family, and all the servants were outraged at the way that Lady Maria was treated by her husband.”

“Don't tell me he was another violent husband, like Mr. Wellesley.”

“Captain Wellesley,” Phoebe corrected her. “No, Mr. Jesper was a libertine. Now, you will say that many men are philanderers and do not end up in the divorce courts. However, Mr. Jesper had the effrontery to bring his wrongdoing home, in the most literal sense, for he installed not one but two of his mistresses in a wing of his house, and defied Lady Maria to object to their presence. Moreover, he and Lady Maria had no children, but one of his mistresses had three and he wanted Lady Maria to acknowledge them as her own, which would make the elder boy heir to his estate and fortune. Lady Maria's family agreed that she had been badly treated, and urged a separation,
but Mr. Jesper issued all kinds of threats against her, hoping by that means to silence her protests and so have his own way, only to find that the affair went further than he had planned, and he lost both Lady Maria and her fortune.”

“How very dreadful,” cried Louisa.

“You can understand why neither Lady Maria nor Mrs. Wellesley have any inclination to marry again, although as you see for yourself they are both well-looking, good-natured women. I believe they relish their independence, and are certainly much happier living together as they do than they were when they were married.”

The groom was on the lookout for them, and in a few minutes they were making their way back down the main street. Louisa, shivering, drew a shawl about her, and called out to Phoebe, “Are you sure you are warm enough? It was a warm spring day when we came this morning, and I declare it now feels positively wintry again.”

“I spoke to John Shepherd,” the groom put in. “He's the best weatherman in these parts, and he reckons we're in for a storm.”

The sky was certainly clouding over, but Phoebe was inclined to dismiss the idea of a storm. “We shall merely have more of this tiresome rain,” she said. “April showers, that's all.”

It seemed that Phoebe had been better in her weather prognostications than the shepherd. The sky lightened as they drove back to Pemberley, and after only a few drops of rain had fallen, a pale sun emerged from behind the clouds.

Louisa had letters to write, and she sat herself down at the desk in the drawing-room. Phoebe sat with her for a while, reading
Ivanhoe,
but then, growing restless, announced that she was going to change into her riding habit and take out a horse. She brushed aside Louisa's objections that driving to Lambton was enough exertion for one day.

She ran upstairs, rang the bell for Miniver, and, ignoring her maid's predictions of the woe that she would be bringing on herself, in less than fifteen minutes was on her way back down the stairs again, this time dressed in a green velvet riding habit. The stable yard was quiet, and Jessop was nowhere to be seen, but her arrival brought one of the grooms out, and she asked him to saddle Marchpain for her. He seemed doubtful, but she assured him that the head groom would not be at all concerned about her taking the horse out.

“He's very lively,” warned the groom as he held the horse's
head while Phoebe mounted from the block in the yard. “With all this wet weather, none of the horses have had the exercise they should.”

“Then he and I will enjoy a good gallop, and shake the fidgets out of ourselves,” said Phoebe. The groom hurried to a stall in order to saddle his own mount to accompany Phoebe on a ride, but was dumbstruck when he saw her trotting briskly out of the yard. “Don't worry,” she called back to him. “I shall stay within the grounds today, I intend to ride in the park. I don't need a groom to accompany me.”

Which left the groom standing in the centre of the stable yard looking after the retreating figure of Phoebe and the horse, and shaking his head. Another groom slid down the ladder from the hayloft and landed beside him. “Miss Phoebe has taken out Marchpain, has she? And I suppose you offered to go with her, and she has ridden off on her own. Well, don't take it to heart. You've only been here for a year, so you aren't yet used to Miss Phoebe's ways. She is as headstrong as they come, and likes to be on her own. Even when she was a girl, she was a rare handful, always taking her pony off by herself if she could get away with it. Don't fret yourself, she's a fine horsewoman, and I dare say she won't be out for long, because if I'm not much mistaken it's going to come on to rain hard within the hour.”

 

Arthur Stanhope had also had some letters to write, but he soon finished them and went off to find his sister, who was picking at some fruit for her luncheon.

“I will ring for some cold meat for you,” she said. “I dare say you won't want to eat just pineapple; it was sent over from Pemberley, with Miss Bingley's and Miss Hawkins's compliments.”

Sir Henry didn't join them, but then, as Kitty told Arthur, he rarely came indoors in the middle of the day. “Today he rode over to Baxter's farm,” she told her brother. “There is some matter he needed to discuss with the bailiff, and he said that he might not be back until the evening.”

Arthur Stanhope went over to the window and looked out. “He'd best not delay for too long, for I think we're in for a storm. I shall take myself off to the stables, and ride over to Pemberley to see Hugh, before it gets too blustery. I shan't be gone above a couple of hours.” He turned round and looked at his sister, quiet and pale, and still with that look of unhappiness about her. “Or I could drive if you would care for an outing.”

“No, thank you. I went out for a walk this morning, and I need to consult with the housekeeper about the guests who will be coming for the Harlows' party.”

“Guests?”

“I'm sure I told you that we expect some friends, people who are coming to Derbyshire for Jack Harlow's coming-of-age.”

“Oh, I see. Whom are you inviting?”

“Pagoda Portal, and therefore, of course, Mrs. Rowan. Lady Sackville, and the two Billingham boys. Do you know them?”

“Barely. They were still at school when last I saw them.”

“And some others,” Kitty added as he walked to the door.

“Well, I shall leave you to your duties.”

When Stanhope had left the room, Kitty did not immediately get up and go to talk to the housekeeper. Instead, for several long minutes she sat listlessly gazing into the fire, her hands hanging over the arms of her chair. Her pet spaniel got up from his basket and padded over to her, pushing his wet nose
into her hand as though to comfort her. She fondled his silky ears and said, “Daisy, I wish I knew what to do. Or indeed that there were anything that I could do.” A tear fell on her hand, and she brushed it off. Then, with sudden resolution, she stood up and, patting the side of her skirt, so that Daisy jumped up in delight, told the spaniel that she would take a brief turn in the garden with her, before she went to find Mrs. Nutley.

 

Mr. Stanhope's mare was not an easy ride that afternoon. In a fretful mood, with her tail swishing, she snatched at the bit and tossed her head. Along the way, she shied at a stone, at an opening in a hedgerow, and danced on springy legs when a pheasant started from the ditch.

Mr. Stanhope was never impatient with horses, and he kept still in the saddle, exerting a steady pressure with his legs, and uttering soothing sounds. He wondered why the mare was so nervous; possibly it was the gusts of wind which came and went in little puffs, catching her under her tail and making her flick her ears back. It wasn't a comfortable ride, although she behaved better when he jumped a gate into a meadow and let her have her head. She pounded up the rise and then galloped along the ridge at the top, forgetting her fancies, and covering the ground in good style. He reined in as she began the steeper descent through the woods to the boundary of the park at Pemberley. He turned in at the North Lodge, where the gatekeeper ran out to open the gate, observing that the weather was fair blowing up. “Are you visiting at the house? For I saw Miss Phoebe ride out not half an hour since, she won't be back yet.”

Phoebe, out in this weather? She must be an intrepid horsewoman. Perhaps he would meet her.

“Thank you, but I am here to call upon Mr. Drummond.”

“Now, he is in, for I saw him earlier and he said he was on his way back to the South Lodge, where he's staying, there's no gatekeeper there these days, the family don't use that gate. Got a heap of paper to deal with, so he told me, he fair works hard, does Mr. Drummond.”

Arthur Stanhope flipped him a coin, and cantered along the boundary towards the other gate. Rain had begun to fall again, fat drops that spattered the sandy ground beneath his horse's hoofs, and rattled on the new leaves above his head. He kept to one side of the track, where it was more sheltered, ducking to avoid the overhanging branches of the trees which lined the way. He left the solid outline of the house behind him as he turned on to the service road. The mare gave the ice house, a squat brick building, a wide berth, and then he was riding along beside the high walls of the kitchen garden, to the small stone house of the South Lodge. As he swung his horse around the corner of the wall, he had to halt abruptly, to prevent a collision with a rider coming the other way, a rider going at a furious pace, who swerved alarmingly as she saw the horseman sitting there, controlling his horse with difficulty.

He knew her at once, a jolting recognition that drove the breath out of his body. Her face was white, bedewed with rain, a lock of hair falling across her forehead. Her eyes were huge, startled, and for a moment, a flash of delight was there, before they became blank and hostile. She mouthed some words, lost in the rising wind, and then, wrenching at her horse's mouth, swivelled round. Her horse half reared, and he urged his own
mount forward to lay a protective hand on her bridle, but she swung away, eyes dark now with anger.

He called out her name, shouting against the wind, “Phoebe! Wait!”

Her horse plunged, then gave a great leap as she clapped a spur into its flank, and in seconds she was gone, leaving nothing but a memory of a face and a swirling habit.

Stanhope reined back, and the mare, ears flattened, gave a buck that nearly unseated him. By the time he had control of the nervous animal, he knew there was no point in setting off after Phoebe. He cursed, fluently and without any awareness of what he was saying, until he was brought back to his senses by Drummond's voice. His friend had come out of the South Lodge, carrying a lamp and calling out into the gloom.

“What is all the commotion? Good God, Arthur, it's you.”

 

Phoebe careered into the stable yard, breathless, and leaning low over her horse's neck. Jessop was there in a trice, putting out a hand to take the bridle, to run a gentle hand down the horse's neck, and to shout to a groom to help Miss Phoebe down.

“Did he bolt?” he asked.

“No, no, it was my fault, driving him.”

“You know better than to bring in a horse in a lather, Miss Phoebe.” The tone of reproof was the same one he had used when she was a little girl and had galloped her pony at the end of a ride, instead of trotting back so that the pony would arrive at the stable cool and collected and ready to be put back in its stall. He instructed the groom to take off the side saddle, and then told him to take the horse out to cool him down. The groom took the reins and led the horse back out of the yard at a gentle trot, hissing to it as it shook flecks of foam from its bit.

“It was the weather, I dare say,” Mr. Jessop said, looking at her closely. “You had a fright.”

“I was startled, everything is rustling out there.”

“A big storm's blowing up, and the horses are uneasy. Best get yourself inside, Miss Phoebe, as quickly as possible, and change out of that wet riding habit.”

Jessop's words flowed over Phoebe, but she hardly took in the sense of any of them. She gathered up the wet skirt of her riding habit, and almost ran along the path and back in through the little conservatory. Once inside she stood leaning against the doorpost, a wave of nausea making her bite her tongue. How could a brief encounter upset her so much? Why had Mr. Stanhope come to Derbyshire, why was he always at Pemberley? That is an exaggeration, she told herself severely. Her father had extracted that promise from her that she would have no further contact with Mr. Stanhope, and she had kept it, apart from the letter she had written. Intense passion, her reading had told her, could fade as quickly as it burst into flame, and so, if she could avoid Mr. Stanhope for weeks—months—a year? Passion might fade, yes, although…She clenched her eyes tight, to shut out the image of Mr. Stanhope's face, his hands, the way he carried himself, his voice.

Passion was one thing, love another. When you felt both for a man, what hope was there of the evanescence of affections her father had promised?

London friends had brought her snippets of gossip while she was still at Aubrey Square, every word an unwitting stab in her heart. “Mr. Stanhope, you are acquainted with him, are you not? He is a handsome man, I could fancy him, but he is dancing attendance upon Lady Belinda Cunningham, I can't for myself understand what he sees in her.”

Mr. Stanhope was welcome to Lady Belinda; Phoebe knew
very well what Belinda was like, as beautiful as the dawn, and with a heart of ice. And another of her informants, a worldly friend, was of the opinion that Mr. Stanhope had no serious intentions with regard to Lady Belinda, or indeed anyone else. Why should he, with so many women sighing for him, and the dazzling Mrs. Vereker to delight him, as she had done for the last five years?

“Of course, Lord and Lady Stanhope will have a bride or two in mind for him, and one of these days he will be obliged to marry. They want him to make a good marriage, parents always do, and especially parents like the Stanhopes. Those Whig families always marry within their own circle, gaining even more influence and power through the intricate web of their connections.”

Her father was right, she must shut him out of her life. So said her reason, but the problem was with her heart, which had leapt at the sight of him only to be overwhelmed by a flood of anger, anger with him for being there, angry with herself for falling in love with him, and anger with an imperfect world where the relationships between men and women were so fraught, and marriage nothing but a quagmire of danger.