Mr. Darcy's Dream (16 page)

Now he watched Miss Sarah Hawkins dance, with grace and style, and he could see that she was obviously a charming companion. She had more beauty than Phoebe, but his heart would never miss a beat in her company, or as he watched her waltz, while just to think of Phoebe dancing made his heart race.

Phoebe was in Derbyshire, and here he was in London. The music finished, and a few minutes later he was in front of Sarah, bowing and explaining that Justin had yielded a dance to him. She looked up at him with thoughtful brown eyes. “I do not believe that we have been introduced, sir.”

“That is easily remedied,” he said, holding out his arm. “Allow me to tell you that my name is Arthur Stanhope, and that I am an excellent dancer.”

She allowed herself to be led on to the dance floor. “I think
you cannot be all together respectable, for I can see that my mama is glaring at me from the other side of the ballroom.”

“That is what mothers do,” said Stanhope, smiling down at her, catching in her face some likeness to Phoebe that made him warm towards her. “I assure you that I too have a mother, keenly chaperoning me, who is at this moment glaring at us from the other side of the ballroom.”

Sarah was delighted at the thought of her handsome partner, no mother's boy, but clearly a man of the world, suggesting that he had a mother who kept an eye on him. “Chaperone?” she said, flashing a dimple.

It was true, he did dance well. But he didn't dance as well with Sarah as he would have done with her sister. To dance with Phoebe was to enter another world, where there were only the two of them, kindred spirits, moving through the music and the dance as one.

“I am acquainted with your sister, Miss Phoebe Hawkins,” he said after they had moved apart and then come together again. “I hear that she is no longer in London.”

“No, which is very sad for her, but it is to my advantage, for I was not to be brought out until next year, or maybe not until the year after that, if she did not find herself a husband.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh dear, that's the kind of thing that I'm not supposed to say. It is not that Phoebe could not have got married, I know for sure that she had several offers, but she does not care for the men who care for her. However, this year she caught a spring cold, and so she has gone to Pemberley.”

She threw him a provocative look. She was full of herself, very young, just feeling the power she might have over men, and finding how much she enjoyed the game to be played with the opposite sex. One step forward, and a step aside and
round, and she cast him a provocative glance from over her shoulder.

Then, seeing the look in his eyes, the game didn't seem so much fun after all. There was something about Mr. Stanhope that made her afraid. He was too masculine, and she found that the look of hauteur on his face made him seem remote, and somehow dangerous.

She wished with all her heart that she were not going down the dance with Mr. Stanhope, but instead with James Denholm, for example, a fair young man only two or three years older than she was, a man with an engaging smile, and winning manners, with whom she felt completely comfortable.

Mr. Stanhope was talking about Phoebe again, enquiring about her health, asking how she liked being at Pemberley and missing the season. It was better when Mr. Stanhope was talking, and so she prattled on, revealing far more than she was aware of. “Her cold was not so very bad, although it is most unusual for Phoebe to be ill at all.” To be sure, she did have a slight cough, but when she came back to Warwickshire, it seemed to her that Phoebe might have after all been well enough to undergo the rigours of a London season, even if she was rather listless and lacking in her usual energy.

“Papa would not have it, however,” she confided, her smiles and flirtatiousness quite vanished. “He said she must go to Pemberley, and he would not hear any argument about it.”

“Did not your sister protest about being packed off to Derbyshire?”

“Not in the least. She was eager to go. You won't believe it, but she didn't even want her maid to pack any of her smart clothes, all the new gowns that had been made for her to wear in London. It is not so bad, you must not be thinking she is lonely or miserable, for Louisa Bingley is also at Pemberley.
She is a far worse case than Phoebe, for she has done three seasons and no sign of an engagement. She's a beauty, although she is twenty-two. I should be ashamed not to be married at twenty-two.”

“I am acquainted with Miss Bingley. Is she very close to your sister?”

“I should not have said she was a particular friend, although of course there is the family connection. But she is a quiet person who loves the country, and I have heard my aunt say that she is never very happy when in London. That is, I don't know whether it is London that she doesn't like, or the frivolity of the season. She is rather serious; who knows, she may even be of an evangelical disposition.”

Arthur Stanhope had to laugh at the ingenuousness with which Sarah pronounced these words, as though to be an evangelical Christian was to be some kind of freak. “I think you will find Evangelicalism is becoming more and more fashionable, as is rural life.”

Sarah wrinkled her pretty nose. “It is all very well to spend some of the summer months in the country, but I hope that when I marry I shall have a house in town, and will be able to spend many weeks here every year, as well as going to the seaside, for the bathing. And I should like to go to Paris. I wanted to go last year, when Phoebe went to stay with Cousin Georgina, Lady Mordaunt. She has the sweetest little boys, and they are at Pemberley too, in the charge of a governess, Miss Verney. Shall I tell you a secret about her?”

Arthur Stanhope wasn't in the slightest bit interested in any governess, except that as she was at Pemberley, she probably saw more of Phoebe than he had been able to do. “Miss Verney?”

“She is French. She was at the school which I attended for
a year. She was much older than I am, but I would not have thought at all suited to being a governess. She had to leave in the end, because there was some incident with the father of one of the other girls who was at the school, General Emerson, there was nearly a dreadful scandal, but it was all hushed up.”

“In which case, why has Lady Mordaunt entrusted her children to her?”

“It is something to do with France, with her being French. Lady Mordaunt knows her brother or her uncle or some such thing, and I dare say she felt sorry for her, needing to work and to earn a living. And I don't suppose that at Pemberley there are very many men for her to flirt with.”

The dance came to its end. Mr. Stanhope enquired whether she wanted to be taken back to her mother, but she said no, she would be dancing again in a minute, and meanwhile was dreadfully thirsty and would like a glass of champagne.

“Lemonade,” he said, and at those words Sarah's last vestiges of admiration for his fine figure and air of being a man of the world vanished. He was stuffy, and in fact, probably a very disagreeable man. But she remembered her manners, curtsied when he thanked her for the dance, and then went skipping off to find James Denholm.

Arthur Stanhope decided it was time to leave the ball, but just as he thought he had made good his escape, his mother glided out from behind a pillar in that extremely irritating way she had, and said that she wanted a word with him.

Phoebe awoke with a start, wondering for a moment where she was. There was something different about her room this morning. Then she realised what it was: sunlight, filtering through the shutters. She leapt out of bed and ran to the window to open the shutters. She lifted up the sash to let in the brilliant sunlight of a perfect spring day. It was very early, not long after dawn, and the mist rose from the river and hung gently about the hills beyond. The utter stillness to the air, and the clarity after all the rain, made her catch her breath. Even the scars left by the violent wind seemed, this morning, to be a natural part of the landscape.

Birds were singing, brilliant trills and cascades of notes wafting across to her on the morning air. A pair of doves flew past on their way to the stable dovecote; in the meadow on the other side of the river she could see rabbits grazing on the rich green grass. Certainly the morning was full of sound: the lowing of the cows from the dairy, waiting to be milked, the more distant bleating of sheep, and a very soft whistle emerging from the lips of one of the younger gardeners as he scrunched past on the gravel beneath. Phoebe repressed a ridiculous desire
to lean out and wave and call out to him, “What a beautiful morning it is.”

If the gardeners were at work, it must be after six o'clock. Phoebe was too impatient to wait for Miniver to bring her morning chocolate. She wanted to be up and out in the fresh, bright air. On impulse, she pulled out her riding habit and tucked her hair under a velvet cap. She picked up her whip and went out of the room, closing the door behind her quietly so as not to disturb Louisa or, much worse, Lady Redburn. Although her great-aunt slept some distance away, Phoebe was well aware of how sharp her hearing was, and how much Lady Redburn disliked the slightest noise disturbing her before she felt it was the right time for her to wake.

Outside the air smelled wonderful, fresh and fragrant with the promise of spring. She felt more lighthearted than she had for a long time, and Mr. Jessop smiled at her as she came almost skipping into the stable yard.

“My word, you're up early this morning, Miss Phoebe. Well, you've saved me a bit of trouble, for you can take Marchpain out for his morning exercise. Mind how you go, though, he is as fresh as a daisy this morning and lively with it.”

Mr. Jessop was quite right. Marchpain danced out of the stable yard and pulled at the bit all the way along the road by the flower garden. She took him across the bridge, and he playfully pretended to be frightened of both the bridge and the water, tossing his head and prancing. She turned into the meadow, and there gave him his head and had a glorious gallop, which brought her back—this time at a sedate trot—into the stable yard with glowing cheeks and a very healthy appetite for her breakfast. She dismounted, slid the reins over her horse's head, and handed him over to a waiting groom. Then it was back indoors to be met by a cross
Miniver, complaining that her chocolate had gone cold, and what did she think she was doing riding so early and going outdoors while the mist was still on the ground, as if she didn't know how bad the rising damps were for anyone who had the sneezes.

“I don't have the sneezes,” said Phoebe. “I haven't sneezed for days. I daren't sneeze when Lady Redburn is about, you know how much it annoys her to hear people's coughing or sneezing. And I don't have a sore throat, and I am not tired, in fact I feel completely well. But I feel extremely hungry, and if I do not have my breakfast at once, I dare say I may fall upon a sofa in a faint.”

It was too fine a day, and too delightful to have a world around one that was full of sunshine instead of grey lowering clouds and rain, that she and Louisa agreed, it would not do to sit indoors. Their discussion about how to spend the morning was interrupted by a loud rumbling noise from outside.

“Wagons,” said Louisa.

Phoebe jumped up. “The drivers will be able to tell us in what condition the roads are, and whether it is likely that we should be able to get through into Pemberley or Lambton without being mired in the mud.”

“If so, let us make another call upon your godmother and Lady Maria,” suggested Louisa. “Mr. Grayling told me yesterday that there are several ripe pineapples, more than we can eat, so we could take one with us. Mrs. Wellesley was saying how very partial she is to pineapple, and of course it is not a fruit they can possibly grow at Red House. They will have eaten the one we sent after our visit.”

The roads were, the wagoners said, passable with care. Phoebe intended to drive herself, but Louisa dissuaded her. “I know how much you like to drive, and I am sure you are well
able to do so, but only think of the scolding you will have to endure from Lady Redburn if she finds you have been driving yourself to pay a social call. On this occasion, let the coachman drive us.”

Phoebe wasn't pleased, but she saw the good sense of what Louisa said. She knew that they would be interrogated upon their return as to where exactly they had been, and who had driven them there.

“I pity Mr. Drummond today,” observed Phoebe as they drove out to the gates.

“Why?” said Louisa.

“This is the first day that my great-aunt will be able to venture into the gardens. She will want to inspect everything, and hear every last detail of my uncle's plans, so that she may criticise and make all kinds of unwelcome suggestions.”

“I can understand how she feels about Pemberley, since she was brought up here, but that is a very long time ago. And surely she has a house and park and gardens of her own to worry about?”

“Indeed she does, Lord Redburn has a fine house and a big estate in Shropshire, apart from a house in London. Lord Redburn is extremely rich, you see. However, she never goes to Shropshire, and that is where her husband spends all his time. It is said that they have not exchanged a single word these last twenty years.”

“There was a quarrel?” asked Louisa. “Something quite dreadful must have occurred to cause such a shocking breach.”

“I believe not, they simply cannot stand the sight of one another.”

“Was it an arranged match? She seems so full of spirit, I can hardly believe that she would have married a man she didn't care for, and I never thought of the Darcys as an oppressive
family. Although, of course, in the last century, people took a different view of marriage.”

“It was a love match, but after a number of years their love turned sour, and their feelings for one another became dislike and then indifference.”

“Was he a rake?”

“A rake?” Phoebe's voice was suddenly sharp. “Oh, if he were a rake, that would be unforgivable in my view. As you know, I could never marry a rake.”

“No, but your great-aunt may have done so unawares.”

“Is it ever unawares with a rake? Don't they say that a woman marries a rake in order to reform him? And it is unlikely that a man is a rake and his fellow men not know it.”

“Perhaps the fault was Lady Redburn's,” said Louisa. “I do not wish to cast a slur on the character of any woman, but wives are unfaithful to their husbands, there is no point in denying it. In which case, though, he would surely have divorced her.”

“Lady Redburn has often told me and my cousins never to marry a stupid man. So I think that may be at the heart of her disillusion with her husband. If he is a fool, which she is not, then I can see how his presence would irk her, and vice versa.”

Louisa shook her head. “She took her vows, and there is nothing in the marriage ceremony about folly or stupidity on the part of either man or woman being an impediment to a marriage.”

“Just as well, or the world would be full of unmarried persons.”

“Besides, did she not notice he was a fool before she accepted him?”

“Perhaps one can fall in love with a fool, but not marry him.”

“I expect at the time, if she were in love, the only thing she wanted was to marry Lord Redburn, ignoring his true character, or persuading herself that he was something he wasn't. Love is blind, after all.”

“Yes,” said Phoebe. “And if you're lucky, some kind person tears the blindfold from your eyes before you walk up the aisle.”

Louisa was surprised at the bitterness in Phoebe's voice, but didn't press it any further. “That explains Lady Redburn's descent on Pemberley, at any rate, although I am surprised she isn't fixed in London at this time of year.”

“She claims she finds the season a bore, that she has endured too many of them, but I think it is rather to take advantage of my uncle being out of the country. Then she may come and rule the roost at Pemberley, which would not be the case if he were in England.”

They soon reached the outskirts of Lambton, and in a few more minutes were on their way through the gates of the Red House. The same neat maid answered the door, but she looked a little perplexed. Phoebe could hear voices coming from the drawing-room, masculine voices.

“Mrs. Wellesley already has visitors, perhaps,” she said. “Shall we call another day?”

“It is only the vicar with another gentleman, I am sure—”

The drawing-room door opened, and there was Lady Maria. “Ha, I thought I heard voices. Come in, come in, how very good of you to call again.” She ushered them in, exclaiming at the pineapple, “See, Cecilia, what a noble gift your goddaughter has brought us. Another pineapple from the pinery at Pemberley.”

Phoebe halted at the door, irritated to see Mr. Bagot at Mrs. Wellesley's shoulder, bowing and smirking in what Phoebe
felt was an unduly familiar way; after all they barely knew the man. Then the other visitor, a dark, well-dressed man, who was standing by the fireplace, came forward, and Phoebe forgot about the vicar. “Good heavens,” she cried. “Mr. Warren! Whatever are you doing here?”

Mrs. Wellesley frowned at Phoebe's outspoken and not very friendly greeting, while Lady Maria watched with grim amusement.

Louisa, startled, stared at George Warren.

“Cousin Louisa, what a pleasure,” he said smoothly, advancing and taking her hand.

Phoebe was not well-acquainted with George Warren, but no member of the Darcy family was unaware of his hostility towards them. He was the son of Lord Warren, and that nobleman's first wife. She had died when George was little, and his father had married again. His second wife, and George's stepmother, was the former Miss Caroline Bingley, Louisa's aunt.

Lady Warren had never forgiven her brother for marrying Louisa's mother, Jane Bennet, still less had she forgiven the rich Mr. Darcy for falling in love with Elizabeth Bennet and making her Mrs. Darcy. She doted on her stepson, was privy to most of his intrigues and conspiracies, and resolute in her encouragement of any scheme which might cause embarrassment to the Darcys.

When she was a young woman, Caroline had professed a great friendship for Miss Georgiana Darcy, but Lady Hawkins, Phoebe's mother, had grown to mistrust and dislike Lady Warren, and the two women were on distant terms these days.

How came he to know Mrs. Wellesley? Or was he connected in some way to Lady Maria?

The vicar was eager to explain why George Warren was there, however. He was an old friend, they had been at the
same college, he happened to be in this part of the world and had consented to stay for a few days at the vicarage. “Even though mine is a bachelor establishment, and I can hardly hope to offer him any of those comforts which a woman in the house will provide.”

Louisa smiled at the vicar, a smile that Phoebe noticed held little real warmth, which was unusual as Louisa was normally the friendliest of creatures. “Surely my cousin's establishment in London is also a bachelor one, Mr. Bagot. And I believe that many men even in households where there are no women manage a high standard of comfort and neatness. Naval men, for example, acquire excellent domestic habits while at sea.”

“However, Mr. Warren benefits from the services of a good valet,” said Mr. Bagot with what he no doubt thought was an agreeable smile, but which appeared to Phoebe to be an unpleasant smirk.

“My man has been with me for many years,” said George Warren smoothly. “You do yourself an injustice, Bagot, I find the vicarage extremely comfortable. Although I agree with you that any home is made more attractive and homelike by the attentions of a woman.”

Lady Maria made a sound that was almost a snort, but turned it into a cough. It was clear to Phoebe that she liked neither the vicar nor Mr. Warren. And something else was also clear, which was that Mr. Bagot's slightly patronising way of addressing her and Louisa that had been evident last time they met the vicar had subtly changed. The smiles he was bestowing upon Louisa were wider, he stood a little closer to her than was strictly necessary, and although he still retained his superior expression, he seemed to be making every effort to please.

Mrs. Wellesley was talking about the Martindales. “We met Lady Martindale yesterday, when she drove into Lamb
ton to do some shopping. She does not look all together well, although I think none of us do after this miserable winter and wet spring. She tells me that that brother of hers has been staying with them, but has now returned to London, and I expect she misses his company. He is a clever, lively man and I believe they get on very well together.”

George Warren, always agog to catch any item of gossip, pricked up his ears. “Has Arthur Stanhope been in Derbyshire? You astonish me, since I know him to be a fellow who hates the country. I would have thought even his fondness for his sister would not drag him out into the shires in such weather, and at this time of year when London is so lively. Perhaps”—with a sly look at Phoebe—“there was some other attraction to draw him to these parts.”

Phoebe bit her lip, and made herself breathe more slowly to try to slow her racing heart, disturbed yet again by the mere mention of Arthur Stanhope's name. So he was back in London. Well, that was a relief, she told herself. At least there was no chance of her meeting him either by accident or socially. She must be glad that he was gone. What had Mr. Warren meant by his last remark? Could he suspect?—but no, that was unlikely.