Mr. Darcy's Dream (23 page)

What could Phoebe reply to the civil enquiry? How could she say that no, she had been at extreme pains to avoid his company, and that, as though to make her more miserable, he seemed determined to seek her out?

“He has dined here, and he was present at the Harlows' fête a few days ago, but otherwise we have been so busy with preparations for the ball that Louisa and I have not been very sociable.”

“Unlike Lady Redburn, I notice,” said Mrs. Rowan with a wry smile. “What on earth possessed her to ask Mr. Warren to stay, for I am sure that she did so? I cannot believe that either you, Phoebe, or Miss Bingley would have done so, although of course he is Louisa's cousin, and perhaps she likes him.”

“I cannot think so ill of Miss Bingley,” said Mr. Portal forthrightly. “I don't care whose cousin he is, the man is a scrub, with no morals or scruples that I was ever aware of. Why is he
in Derbyshire? That is an even more interesting question than why Mr. Stanhope is here. After all, Stanhope's sister lives in these parts, I never heard that Warren had any relations up here.”

“Mr. Warren has been staying with the vicar of Lambton, a Mr. Bagot.”

“What? That must be Walter Bagot's son. His father was one of those pinching, parsimonious parsons. He spent some time in India, and we were all very relieved when the climate proved too much for him and he returned to bore people in England with his preaching. And so now his son has the living of Lambton, does he? Let us hope that he is a better man than his father.”

“He is a lengthy preacher,” said Phoebe. A twinkle came into her eyes. “He fancies he would like to make a match of it with Louisa Bingley. However, he will be unlucky, for she can't bear him.”

“That'll be Warren up to his mischief again, although it seems a minor kind of intrigue for him, he usually hunts bigger game. He must have some ulterior purpose in coming here, perhaps I shall make it my business to find out what it is.” He lifted a hand and called out, “Stanhope! Arthur, come over here, I have a question to ask you.”

Phoebe at once started to move away, but Mrs. Rowan put out a hand to restrain her. She said in a quiet voice, “Phoebe, my dear, there has to be an end to running away, you know.”

Phoebe turned her eyes to the ground, resolutely refusing to look at Mr. Stanhope. She was torn between the inexpressible pleasure of his presence, and the rage that rekindled in her when she thought of him and Mrs. Vereker. He was talking to Mr. Portal, but his eyes kept sliding towards Phoebe.

“Warren? I agree with you, Pagoda, he's up to something,
and I begin to think that I have a very fair idea what it may be. If I am right, it is even more dastardly and despicable than anything he has done before, and I'm afraid it might well bring a considerable scandal upon his family.”

Phoebe started at this. “I hope not,” she exclaimed. “Louisa, Miss Bingley, that is, is a close connection of his, for her aunt is his stepmother. The Bingleys would not be happy at all were there to be a scandal in that direction.”

“Pooh,” said Mr. Portal. “Lord Warren has been embroiled in a good few scandals of his own, there is much in his life that won't bear close investigation. I doubt if another one will bother the Warrens overmuch, Stanhope.”

“This one will. I am trying to think of a way that will prevent it ever becoming publicly known, but it may be hard to do with the persons involved.”

What was he talking about? His voice was grim, and very serious; she had never seen him look like that before. He was no longer looking at Phoebe, but had drawn Mr. Portal aside, and was talking to him in a low voice. Henrietta Rowan put her arm through Phoebe's and said, “Now, you will want to show me this miraculous glasshouse that everyone is talking about. If you can spare the time from your numerous duties, let us walk outside and you can take me there.”

Phoebe did not know how to refuse, although she would rather have done so, since she had a very good idea that Mrs. Rowan was keen to broach the one subject that she did not want to discuss. Sure enough, as they went down the wide steps to the parterre, Mrs. Rowan began to talk about Mr. Stanhope. “I will be quite blunt with you, Phoebe, and you must not mind me, for it is my way. I know that you were very much attracted to Mr. Stanhope, and it is obvious to me, as it must be to many others, that he is head over heels in love with you. What are you playing at? What has happened for you to throw this wall up against him? He's not a man to play fast and loose with, surely you must see that.”

Phoebe shook her head. “It is kind of you to be so concerned with my interests, Mrs. Rowan, but there is really nothing to tell you.”

“If that is meant as a rebuke to me, I shall take no notice of it. I am not so easy to quell as that, Phoebe, nor am I such a fool as not to notice that you are still powerfully attracted to Mr. Stanhope, deny it as you may. Good heavens, what are you thinking of? Do you imagine that men like Arthur Stanhope grow on trees? The chances are that such a man will never come your way again. I never saw a pair more suited to one another, what is the matter with you?”

“My father cares neither for Mr. Stanhope nor for the idea of a match between us. Not that there is any question of a marriage, for I wouldn't marry Mr. Stanhope if he were the only man left single in England.”

“That is a nonsensical thing to say, and you know it. Why, what has he done to cause you such deep offence?”

Phoebe wished the ground would open up and swallow her. Mrs. Rowan was too forceful, the question too direct. She felt unable to defend herself, and she knew it would be childish to give in to the impulse to shout at Mrs. Rowan, to stamp an angry foot and ask her to mind her own business, to say that Mrs. Rowan had no understanding at all of the situation, and then to turn tail and run. Instead, she increased her pace. “If we turn down this path here, then we come upon the glasshouse, as it were unexpectedly, and it is an excellent way to get a first view of it.”

This tactic worked, and the sight of the extraordinary glasshouse struck Mrs. Rowan into silence. She stood and stared, and then, shaking her head, said, “I would not have believed it. I have never seen anything like it, it is beyond one's wildest imaginings. All that glass, those curves and that dome, gleam
ing in the sunlight, it is a glass palace from a fairy story. There needs to be a Cinderella with a glass slipper, and a Prince Charming, don't you think?”

Phoebe said, more prosaically, “After tonight, many of the more tender and exotic plants will be moved in there, and the gardeners will set about making the pineapple pits. Mr. Drummond, who is largely responsible for its construction, says that palm trees will grow to a considerable height. It will be a subtropical garden for my aunt.”

They went into the glasshouse, and walked up and down its length, while Phoebe explained the principles of its construction and Mrs. Rowan gazed up through the glass panes.

“Observe the ironwork, so beautifully done, and so intricate. It is a remarkable feat to build a structure like this.”

“The idea of a large glasshouse was Mr. Darcy's,” said Phoebe. “But the design, and the understanding of how it must be built, is Mr Drummond's.”

“Is he still here? I must go and find Mr. Portal and bring him here to see this, and then I know he will wish to talk to Mr. Drummond. How I should like to have such a structure in our grounds at Richmond, although there, of course, it would have to be on a smaller scale. It needs a house as magnificent as Pemberley to provide a backdrop for a glasshouse like this.”

As Phoebe had hoped, the marvel of the glasshouse had quite taken Mrs. Rowan's mind off the subject of Mr. Stanhope. She took the first opportunity she could to say that she had to go back into the house, as there were many things she had to see to. “If I see Mr. Portal, I shall direct him to the glasshouse.”

“However, we haven't quite finished our conversation.”

“I have nothing further to say on the subject of Mr. Stanhope,” said Phoebe firmly. “I will allow that there was a time when I was inclined to”—she sought for the right
word—“welcome Mr. Stanhope's attentions. That is no longer the case, and I beg that we do not talk about this subject any longer.”

Mrs. Rowan, as though acknowledging defeat, smiled, and they walked back along the path. Phoebe saw two figures in the distance, deep in conversation. “That is Mr. Drummond there, with Louisa Bingley.”

Mrs. Rowan had eyes as sharp as her understanding, and one glance told her how things were between Louisa and Mr. Drummond. “Good heavens,” she said. “What will Mr. and Mrs. Bingley say to that?”

“Say to what?” said Phoebe.

“Well, if you can't see how things are between them, then you must be a greater fool than I took you for. Surely you cannot be so wound up in your own affairs that you do not notice another couple who find a great deal of pleasure in each other's company? What is his family, what is his fortune?”

 

Unaware that he was under scrutiny, Mr. Drummond was at that very moment proposing to Louisa Bingley. He took both her hands in his, and was looking deeply into her eyes. “It may seem very wrong, Miss Bingley, dearest Louisa, for me to ask you to be my wife. I do not have the position in society, nor the estate nor the fortune, that a young lady in your position has the right to expect. I cannot help myself, I am in love with you, and I cannot imagine life without you.”

Louisa, a look in her eyes that answered him before she spoke a word in reply, put out a hand and touched his cheek. “Fortune and estates mean nothing to me. I can imagine no greater happiness than being your wife. I have money of my own, and I'm quite sure that you will make such a success of
your profession that everyone will say how lucky I am, and what an excellent marriage I have made.”

Mr. Drummond, suddenly aware in how public a place they were standing, bit his lip, and with his hand on her elbow, guided her into a more secluded part of the shrubbery.

Mrs. Rowan gave a little sigh of satisfaction. “If Louisa Bingley is to go kissing Mr. Drummond in the shrubbery, she must be very sure what she is about. She would not wish to see Mr. Drummond dismissed from Mr. Darcy's service, I feel sure. Do her parents have any idea of this romance?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Bingley have not yet arrived. Louisa met Mr. Drummond for the first time when she came to Pemberley, so there is no way they can be acquainted with him, and she will have been circumspect in her letters to them, she will hardly have mentioned him.”

“She has had three seasons in London, has she not? It is astonishing that she has not married already, for she has much of her mother's beauty. Will her parents be able to persuade her out of the match, if they wish to do so?”

“Louisa is a gentle creature in many ways,” said Phoebe, “but once she has given her heart and her word, I truly think nothing will sway her.”

“Let us hope her parents have the sense to recognise that, and like Mr. Drummond for what he is, instead of regretting what he is not. Do you like him? Is he an honourable man, apart from being an excellent designer of glasshouses?”

“I like him very much indeed. He is a most amiable man, and just the kind of person to make Louisa a good husband. She will take a great interest in his profession, and he will take great care of her.”

“It sounds rather an insipid arrangement to me,” said Mrs. Rowan. “But I am not the person to talk about marriage, for
I married an eccentric and a traveller, which was exactly what I needed and wanted. You would never be happy with such a man as Mr. Drummond, Phoebe. He is a capable man, it is true, and a man of character, but you need to marry a clever man who moves in a wider sphere. There are not so many of those in a world full of dull and stupid men, and you would do well to consider that.”

Was there no way to get the talk away from Mr. Stanhope? It was with great relief that Phoebe saw Mr. Grayling bearing down on them, a frown upon his face, and a query as to the exact way in which she wanted the lilies arranged. With a word of apology and a curtsy, Phoebe took her leave of Mrs. Rowan, thankful to escape, and set about reassuring Mr. Grayling that what she had planned, although not quite in the usual style, would be very striking and just right for the surroundings.

 

Mr. Stanhope had expected Sir Henry to join the men who were going fishing, for he was extremely fond of the sport, and the river at Pemberley was a favourite with the fishermen. So it was with some surprise that he saw his brother-in-law detach himself from the group of gentlemen advancing over the lawn with fishing rods, and, with what appeared to be a rather furtive look around, head back into the house.

Mr. Stanhope followed him, wondering what he was up to. He felt pretty sure in his own mind that he knew exactly where Sir Henry would be going, which was to a part of the house that he had not seen when Louisa Bingley showed him round.

Sure enough, Sir Henry went up the main staircase, and then on up a further flight to the second floor. There after another look round, while Mr. Stanhope pressed himself into a doorway, Sir Henry went on up a steep flight of stairs to a
higher floor. Mr. Stanhope was just setting off after him again, when a maid came out of the door and stopped, astonished at the sight of him. She gave a bob as she said, “I think you are lost, sir.”

Not a jot abashed, Mr. Stanhope replied that no, he wasn't lost, but merely wanted to make his way to the nurseries, as he thought that Mrs. Barcombe might be up there.

The maid looked at him doubtfully, and said that she didn't believe that Mrs. Barcombe was there, but if he wished to see for himself, then he should keep going up the stairs and turn right at the top. “Not to the left, sir, that's where the governess has her rooms.”

Just as Mr. Stanhope had thought. He moved quickly up the stairs, and at the top he turned left. There was Henry, hovering outside a closed door, looking thoroughly ill at ease.

Mr. Stanhope felt it was time to make his presence known. “Henry,” he called out in a loud, cheerful voice. Sir Henry jumped, and whipped round, alarm spreading across his face. “Arthur! What the devil are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same question of you.”

Sir Henry tugged at the stock tied around his neck, as though it were choking him. “I—I think I took a wrong turning. I was intending to go to the, er, the library.”

“Which is, if my recollection serves me correctly, on the first floor. Had you availed yourself of a tour around the house so kindly provided by Miss Bingley, you would have known where the library was. You will forgive me if I say that you were an exceedingly bad liar, Henry. I have a very good notion why you are here, and it has nothing to do with finding a book. Not that you are, as far as I know, much given to reading books.”

Sir Henry shot him a look of intense dislike. “Arthur, I beg
that you will go away. You do not know what harm you may do me by being here.”

“I think, on the contrary, that it is time this whole business came to an end, Henry. You are making my sister miserable, and really there is no need for all this intrigue and pretence.”

With these words he strode forward, and before Sir Henry could protest, he turned the handle of the door and pushed it open. The two men stood in the doorway, looking upon a scene which must be embarrassing for them, if not to the participants. Miss Verney lay on the bed in a state of considerable dishabille. One bare foot dangled over the end of a narrow bed, and George Warren, on his knees, had his lips pressed to the arch of this pretty foot.

“Good God, what is this?” said Sir Henry. He tried to pull Stanhope back from the door, but Stanhope shook him off. “This is no time for prudery, Henry.” He shut the door behind them with a bang. By now, Warren had got to his feet, and flushed with anger, he glared at Stanhope and Sir Henry. “What the devil do you mean by bursting in like this?”

“If Miss Verney would care to arrange her clothing, I think we might all sit down and have an interesting discussion,” said Mr. Stanhope in a cool voice.

Miss Verney did not seem in any way put out by being discovered in this state by the two men. She calmly pulled her dress up from her bare shoulder and reached out for a shawl. “Well, gentlemen? To what do we owe the honour of this visitation?”

“When I saw you here,” said Mr. Stanhope, “I did not at first recognise you. Your face seemed familiar to me, but it was not until later that I recalled where I had seen you before. After Waterloo, I was sent to our embassy in Paris, with the Duke of Wellington. My particular responsibility was on the
intelligence side, and one of my tasks was to find out where certain leaks of highly sensitive matters had come from. We knew that an Englishman was involved, and we found out that he had been working with a member of one of the French émigré families, who had settled in London after the revolution. While the popular view is that all these families detested Napoleon, the truth is that some of the younger members of this family chose to throw their lot in with Bonaparte. We assumed we were looking for a man, but from information that was laid before us, and some skilful investigative work, we discovered that it was a woman, not a man.”

Miss Verney fiddled with a tassel on her shawl. Her eyes were pools of darkness, and the look she gave Mr. Stanhope was both amused and sensuous. “You cannot blame me, I was not the one who stole the secrets. You need to look closer to home for that, among your own kind, Mr. Stanhope.”