Mr. Darcy's Dream (13 page)

Phoebe got out of bed and went to the window to look out on a scene of devastation. The river was rising, and had already overspent its banks. Further up the hillside, the woods looked as though some giant had trodden through, crushing trees and depositing sad relics of branches and even trunks of the smaller trees across the landscape. She was dismayed to
see that no fewer than nine of the great elms had been brought down by the storm, although by great good fortune those near the house, which, had they fallen, would have landed on the roof, were still standing. It amazed her how shallow the roots were for such large trees. That was why they had come down, of course.

Louisa had been up for a while, and Phoebe found her downstairs, tending to some of the plants that had been brought indoors. “Such destruction,” she exclaimed as she saw Phoebe. “They are all to be moved into the orangery, we did not have time to take them so far last night.”

“Well,” said Phoebe, surveying the cluttered hall, “I do not know how you will find room for all of these in the orangery.”

“Mr. Drummond will find a way,” said Louisa with confidence. “The gardeners are full of admiration for how much he was able to save last night. And Mr. Grayling did a most excellent job in protecting the kitchen garden, although he still lost a good many plants. The orchards were ravaged, so Mr. Darcy will not have so many apple pies this autumn as he is used to. However,” she went on, “there is one good to come out of all of this. The wind has demolished the big glasshouse, which was going to have to come down in any case, and once the glass is cleared away, Mr. Drummond says that work can begin immediately on the construction of a new, much bigger glasshouse for Mr. Darcy. He has promised to show me the plans he has drawn for it, and indeed it sounds the most remarkable building.”

Phoebe was amazed that Louisa, in all the turmoil and work of the night, had managed to have so much conversation with Mr. Drummond. She said as much, and Louisa, with a serious expression, said, “Mr. Drummond is a man with a very calm disposition. He did not allow himself at any time yesterday to
become panicked, and it is because of that that so much was achieved, against all the odds.”

Phoebe was not particularly interested in Mr. Drummond, although she had liked him well enough, on brief acquaintance with him. For the moment her main concern was to have something to eat and she said to Louisa, “I am amazingly hungry. What is that noise?”

“It is the children. Miss Verney is still indisposed, which I must say is tiresome of her, and so at the moment they're playing in the drawing-room under the eagle eye of Miniver and Sally, the parlour maid, while the nursery maids are attending to their duties upstairs.”

After taking some refreshment, and seeing that the rain had died out, Phoebe and Louisa went outside to see what damage had been done to the house. A shocking sight met their eyes. So many trees and shrubs had been blown down, and one whole chimney stack had slid down the slope of the roof, tumbling bricks on to the path below. The house had lost a great number of tiles, and when they went round to the other side of the house, the sad destruction in the flower garden, the shrubbery, and the buildings surrounding the kitchen garden quite upset Phoebe. “It will never be the same again,” she said. “This is where the old potting shed stood, where I used to hide from my nurses. I would creep in here with a book, and pretend I was quite on my own. Of course they were perfectly well aware where I was, but even so…” Her voice trailed off as she looked around at the pieces of timber from the potting shed which were strewn across the grass.

A weary-looking Mr. Drummond came round the corner. He walked over to them, and greeted them with a warm smile. “Miss Bingley, I cannot say how grateful I am to you for the help you gave me last night. It is incredible to me that a young
woman who could have lain snugly in her bed all through the storm chose to come out in the worst of that vicious weather and care for the plants.”

Louisa flushed at the compliment. “It is no more than I would have done had I been at home,” she said in a quiet voice. “I take great pleasure in gardens and in plants, and it saddens my heart to see how much damage has been done by the wind and the rain.”

Mr. Drummond looked towards the woods. “It is true, but at the same time you will see that in a very few years the gash left by the trees that have fallen and been torn out by the wind will have grown over, and indeed the health of the woods as a whole will be improved. It is nature's way of improvement, and carries lessons we can learn from.”

“For myself,” said Phoebe dryly, “I prefer the improvements done by mankind, as being of a gentler and less savage kind. But I suppose that, given time, everything may be restored just as it was before the storm.”

Mr. Drummond shook his head. “That would be a mistake. As you know, Mr. Darcy already had plans to change and bring the garden more in line with modern theories of horticulture, and this will allow him more easily to fulfil some of his bolder plans.”

“Bolder plans? What are these?”

“Let me show you.” Mr. Drummond led them round to the side of the house. “The grassy slope which runs down to the bend in the river, for example, is very picturesque. But see how it has turned into a veritable mudslide. I have advised Mr. Darcy to stabilise this by terracing the slope, and at the same time, installing a system of drainage. It is much more practical. The way it is now, laid out according to the ideas of the last century, when landowners wanted the park to extend right up
to their houses, is today considered old-fashioned and not very functional.”

Phoebe shook her head. “The park is the great beauty of Pemberley. I would never wish to see it made into a series of more formal gardens. It has a beauty that can be admired both close at hand and from a distance. What need is there to change a single thing?”

It was Louisa who answered her, not Mr. Drummond. “Surely you appreciate that a house and its gardens and the land around it must change and develop with time. Nothing is constant, nothing can stay the same as it is year in and year out. Only consider the engravings in the picture library here, which show the house as it was in the seventeenth century. You would not wish to have those knot gardens and stiff formal parterres. They gave way to the landscaping you so admire, the landscapes of Humphry Repton and Capability Brown, and now, once again, fashion and taste dictate that such grounds and gardens must take on a new appearance.”

“My word, Miss Bingley,” said Mr. Drummond. “I have rarely heard a young woman talk so much sense.”

Phoebe found this patronising, and replied somewhat tartly, “In that case, Mr. Drummond, I do not think you have spent enough time listening to what young women have to say.”

Mr. Drummond took the rebuke in good part, laughing, and saying that he stood corrected.

Something other than the gardens were on Phoebe's mind. She could not help herself. “I know you had a visitor last evening, Mr. Drummond. I trust he left before the storm began to rage.”

Mr. Drummond looked rather surprised at this remark, but he replied readily enough, “Arthur Stanhope, who is presently staying at Martindale, called upon me. I sent him back
to Martindale pretty quickly, for otherwise he would have had to spend the night here, and I think his sister would have been concerned. I know that he got back safely to Martindale House, for Sir Henry sent a man over this morning to ask whether we needed assistance of any kind. It seems that the storm was not nearly so severe in that part of the county.”

Mrs. Makepeace produced long linen aprons for Louisa and Phoebe, who spent the next few hours in the orangery, carefully picking out shards of broken glass from such delicate plants as the African violets. It was peaceful in there, as the wind gradually died down, and for the first time in many hours they could hear what people were saying without anyone having to raise his or her voice. It was not, however, an occasion for intimate conversation, for the indoor gardeners were working there as well.

Phoebe had just added a sprinkling of soil to the top of a plant, and was walking with it towards the back of the house, intending to put it with the others in the hastily cleared out boot room, when she heard the sound of approaching hoof beats. Her heart stood still. Was it possibly Mr. Stanhope, come to enquire how they had weathered the storm?

One of the under-gardeners, bringing in some more fragile seedlings, stepped over to the window to look out on to the drive. “It's a postboy,” he said. “It must be an express. He looks in a right state, I reckon he's come off his horse.”

The postboy headed round the kitchen quarters, and
Phoebe wondered whom the message was for. Most likely Mr. Drummond or Mr. Lydgate; if there were news from her family too urgent to be conveyed by the ordinary mail, she knew her father would send his own servant. He had little faith in post-boys. But what was this? More hooves, and the familiar rattle and jingle of a carriage. This time Phoebe put down her pot and went to look. A carriage was indeed coming up the drive. A glance told her this was no fashionable equipage from Martindale, no dashing curricle driven by Mr. Stanhope. This was a workmanlike coach, and indeed it didn't stop at the front of the house, but continued round towards the stables.

At that moment Miniver came hurrying into the room. “I can tell you who is arriving in that coach,” she said importantly. “It's none other than Mr. Rutland, Mr. Darcy's butler! I cannot imagine what he is doing here, since he was due to stay in London for the season.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken,” said Phoebe.

“No, for he was looking out of the window as he went past, and I know Mr. Rutland's countenance as well as I know my own, with that lantern jaw of his.”

That was something of a puzzle, since the butler was only at Pemberley when the family were in residence. Could it be that Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were going to pay an unexpected visit to the house? Had they had news of the impending storm, and at once set off? Impossible, they were abroad, and even if they hadn't been, Mr. Darcy was not the man to travel halfway across the country on rumour of a storm.

She put down her pot, confessing to herself that she was curious to know what had brought Mr. Rutland here, whether the postboy had come with an express, and, if so, whether the express were connected to the arrival of the butler.

She went into the hall, and at that very moment another
carriage, this one a modern and well-sprung travelling carriage, came up the drive and drew to a halt at the foot of the steps. Phoebe hardly had time to take this in before a frantic footman, tearing off his brown work apron, came running into the hall.

“Miss Phoebe,” he blurted out. “Mr. Rutland is here and knows what's in that express he was just going to bring to you, which is that Lady Redburn is to pay a visit to Pemberley. And Mrs. Makepeace says this is her carriage arriving now, bowling up to the house as I speak, and another coach behind, laden with her trunks, and no doubt bringing that dratted French maid to make all our lives a misery.”

Phoebe stood and stared at the footman, unable to believe what she heard. “Thomas, you cannot be serious. There must be some mistake.”

There wasn't.

Two minutes later, Thomas was holding open the front door as up the steps came the small, straight-backed, elegant figure of Lady Redburn, Mr. Darcy's formidable aunt. His father's much younger sister, she had been born and bred at Pemberley, and since she had all the pride and spirit of the Darcys, with few of their kindlier and warmer ways, her irregular visits always caused consternation in the household.

There she stood, dark eyes snapping as she raked Phoebe from head to foot. “What is this? Why are you wearing that ridiculous garment?”

Phoebe had forgotten the apron. Now she swiftly untied the ribbons and cast it into Thomas's hands. She went forward and dropped a deep curtsy. “Look at your hands,” were her great-aunt's next words. “And why is the hall in such a state? Have all the servants decamped, except for that booby standing there behind you?”

Phoebe gathered her scattered wits. “We were not expecting you.”

“Indeed, I can see that is the case. However, I sent an express two days ago from London, so why you should not be prepared for my arrival, I cannot imagine.”

“I believe that the postboy has only this minute arrived, ma'am,” Phoebe said.

“Nonsense, I do not pay so many shillings to have a letter delivered for it to take two days. And where is Mr. Rutland? Why is he not here, attending to his duties?”

“He, too, only arrived minutes ahead of you,” Phoebe said. “Last night we had a most terrible storm; indeed you surely noticed the condition of the woodland and park as you drove along the approach to the house. I expect that several roads will have been blocked, with so many trees blown down. There must have been a great deal of damage done to properties in the county, which will have caused the delay to both the postboy and Mr. Rutland.”

It was clear that Lady Redburn was not interested in yesterday's storm. To her what was past was past, and might never be used as an excuse for anything in the present. “Good heavens, look at the dirt on this floor. And these plants, are we living in a hovel? No, I do not want to hear about how and why these plants are brought indoors, I merely wish them to be got rid of.”

Mr. Drummond, hearing voices in the hall, emerged from the orangery. He had not had time yet to go back to the South Lodge, therefore he was unshaven, and his shirt, jacket, breeches, and gaiters were all in a most dishevelled and grubby state. He looked with incomprehension at Lady Redburn, who looked back at him with an expression of such disdain that Phoebe had to put her hand to her mouth to quell a laugh.

Lady Redburn did not address Mr. Drummond directly. Instead, she questioned the air. “Who is this person? Why is he indoors? If he is one of the gardeners, which I gather from his costume he must be, then he has no business whatsoever to be in this part of the house.”

Mr. Drummond looked thunderstruck at this attack, and Phoebe stepped forward quickly to introduce him to Lady Redburn. “Great-aunt, this is Mr. Hugh Drummond. He is employed by my uncle to look after all his houses and estates and lands. He is at Pemberley to supervise the new works here, and has been up all night fighting to save plants and buildings from the storm. Mr. Drummond, allow me to present you to Lady Redburn.”

Mr. Drummond bowed, but did not receive so much as an inclination of her ladyship's head in return. Phoebe tried again. “Mr. Drummond's family come from East Anglia. His father is vicar of a large parish there.”

That brought a glimmer of humanity and interest to Lady Redburn's eyes. “I find it hard to believe that you could be one of the Norfolk Drummonds,” she said sharply.

Mr. Drummond, despite his tiredness, saw the humour of the situation, and had to make an effort not to smile. “My name is Drummond, ma'am, and my family does come from Norfolk.”

“The family I refer to is an old one, the Drummonds of Moresby Hall.”

“Lionel Drummond of Moresby Hall is my uncle,” said Mr. Drummond briefly. “If you'll excuse me, I will see about having the rest of these plants removed from here.” He didn't wait to hear a reply from her ladyship, but moved swiftly out of the hall, merely pausing to give Louisa a quick wink as he went past.

Louisa's arrival diverted Lady Redburn's attention from the
departing Mr. Drummond. Her eyes swept over Louisa, taking in her hastily pinned-back hair, her apron, and the pot she was holding between her hands.

“You will remember Miss Bingley,” Phoebe said.

Later, Louisa said to Phoebe that she was sure that Lady Redburn did not recognise her at all. “It was only the name that allowed her to place me.”

“You hardly looked the same as when she last saw you in London. Then, if I recall correctly, you were wearing a rather fine pale blue silk evening gown. And you didn't have muddy marks on your face.”

Louisa looked horrified, and went over to the mirror on her dressing table to look at her face. “Ring for Betsy this minute! I have to wash and change. And so do you, Phoebe, you look a perfect fright.”

Lady Redburn had sailed up the stairs after barely acknowledging Louisa, and without a further word to Phoebe. Phoebe covered her eyes with her hand in a moment of frustration and weariness. Lady Redburn was already in a bad mood, and when she discovered that the apartments which she customarily occupied when she was at Pemberley would be in no state to receive her, Phoebe knew that everyone in the house would be at the receiving end of her temper.

Her ladyship paid no attention as Phoebe called her name, her mind working desperately to think of a reason to detain her; it was in vain, as Lady Redburn carried on up the stairs. Another familiar figure came into the hall and walked across to the stairs with vigorous little steps, her heels going click-clack on the marble floor. Foujay, Lady Redburn's maid, a woman heartily disliked by all the Pemberley servants. As short as her mistress, she was rather plumper, but her round shape did not go with a sweeter nature, as Phoebe well knew.

There was nothing she could do, except wait for the inevitable explosion when her great-aunt entered her apartment to find the furniture shrouded, the windows shuttered, and the bed not made up.

 

The minute that Mrs. Makepeace realised that the delay to the postboy and Mr. Rutland meant that Lady Redburn would arrive at any minute, she had flown into action. Rounding up Sally and a young under–parlour maid, she set off towards the back staircase at a pace remarkable for one of her years and dignity.

The servants' stairs were a far cry from those in the main part of the house. No marble floors here, no heating in winter, no great canvases of men on horses or gambolling nymphs hung on the walls above the staircase. The steps were of well-worn oak, the banister a mere rail, and the walls were painted a depressing sludge colour. Small windows at the turn gave some light, but new servants, until they got used to the uneven tread, were always tumbling down the stairs, unable to see the next step. The landing that led off the stairs was carpeted in a serviceable drugget, so that the servants wouldn't make too much noise. Mrs. Makepeace and her entourage hurried along the corridor, only pausing in front of a row of cupboards at the end for her to instruct the youngest girl to take out the linen for her ladyship, and to look sharp about it. “And don't forget we'll need some for that Foujay. She won't sleep in the servants' wing, oh, no, she has to have a bed made up in the dressing room.”

They were through the doors and on to the other end of the landing with several closed doors. These were the main bedrooms, and it was in one of these that Lady Redburn would expect to stay.

“I can hear her in the hall; lawks, Mrs. M., she's coming up the stairs already.”

The housekeeper and Sally stood and looked at each other. “We'll never hear the end of this,” said Mrs. Makepeace grimly.

“T'aint our fault, what with everything at sixes and sevens on account of the storm, and us only knowing she was on her way here a few minutes before she tips up at the front door.”

“Much she'll care about that. We'd best wait till she gets to the top, and then I'll ask her to wait in the little sitting room while we make up the room.”

“Hark, what's that?” said Sally as a wail rent the air, followed by a hubbub, running feet, a child's sobs, voices raised.

“I do believe she's run into the children; well, thanks be, she never can leave well alone, she'll take the time to scold the governess or the nursery maid, and that will give us our chance.”

“Well,” said Sally, dashing in through the door which Mrs. Makepeace held open, “I hope it's that toffee-nosed Miss Verney, and not Sukey who's getting it in the neck. I can't abide that governess, giving herself airs, and all the time—”

“That will do. Pull back the curtains, and open the shutters so that we can have a light here. Molly,” she added as the under–parlour maid came in, staggering under a load of sheets and covers, “put those down on the table, and get that fire lit. Thank goodness I had it laid just last week for when I came to air this room.”

Mrs. Makepeace was too good a housekeeper and ran too tight a ship for there to be as much to be done to the room as might have been the case in a less well-run household. The room was dusted, and she knew the floors had been swept. Now she pulled off the dust covers that shrouded the bed, chairs, and sofa, and, bundling them up, told Sally to take
them into the room across the way. “Just for now; we can put them away while her ladyship's having dinner.”

Sally was inclined to argue. “What if she goes poking her nose in there?”

“Don't be so gormless. When you've done as I say, lock the door and pocket the key. Use your wits, girl.”

Sally did as she was told. She had no idea what her ladyship would have to eat for dinner, with the stove gone out, and M. Joules beside himself with the wet soot and twigs and the Lord knew what else all over his kitchen. Miss Phoebe and Miss Bingley weren't a problem, they'd eat a cold meal and think it a joke, but her ladyship would expect a proper dinner. Doubtless M. Joules would be tearing his hair out at this very minute, not that he had so much to tear, him being decidedly bald.

Sally worked while all this went through her head, placing the covers in the room across the landing and locking the door behind her as Mrs. Makepeace had said. Back in the bedroom, a feather duster was thrust into her hand, with instructions to give everything a final quick dust.