Mr. Darcy's Dream (3 page)

As the carriage slowed down to weave its way through the busy main street of Lambton, Phoebe leaned forward to have a better view.

Lambton was a small market town, a mere five miles from Pemberley, and she felt the sense of anticipation and excitement that she always had as she drew near to Pemberley. The great house was an essential part of her childhood and girlhood, a place of her heart, and she still found it strange to think that none of her Darcy cousins would be at Pemberley. They were all married and gone out into the world, with families of their own. There would be no Camilla, always with a scheme and a sparkle of wickedness about her, no Letty with her air of assumed authority, no Belle or Georgina, the ravishing twins. And no Alethea, scowling and filling the rooms with her music.

However, Louisa would be there, and she was glad of that. This governess might be a charming companion, but Phoebe did not have a high opinion of governesses in general, having seen all hers off in short order.

It was market day in Lambton, adding life and bustle to the
normally sleepy little town. A lugubrious shepherd was ushering a small flock of the thick-fleeced local sheep towards a pen at the other end of the street, his dog full of barks and skilful nips, while urchins cheered the beasts on, and one bright spark suggested to the shepherd that he and his friends might have a ride on the broad-backed sheep. “A sheep race, Joe, how about it?”

Here was the inn, the white lion rearing up against a red background on the swinging inn sign, and there a group of townswomen were grouped around a pedlar shouting details of the new ribbons he had in his pack, just what the fine ladies were wearing in London this season.

The carriage drew clear of the crowded street, and the four horses pulled at a steady pace up the incline out of the town. The peaks and woodlands had a clarity to them after a heavy shower of rain, and Phoebe looked out at the landscape with deep contentment at the beauty of it.

The carriage was slowing down to take the fork for the final approach to the house. Oh, such familiar sights! Here they were at the blasted oak, the twisted remains of a giant tree that had been struck by lightning years before, and which her cousin Alethea had once persuaded a timorous young visitor was home to a witch of evil mien and wicked habits.

They were passing a row of neat cottages now, dwellings for some of the workers on the Pemberley estate. A little girl was playing with a kitten in the front garden, and she looked up, thumb in her mouth, as Phoebe waved to her from the carriage.

Now they were passing through the gates at the North Lodge, and driving through more woods. Phoebe let down the glass, despite the chill wind of the early April day, eager to catch the first, enchanting view of Pemberley as the carriage
came out of the wood at the crest of the hill. From here she could see the house across the valley, looking just as it always did: a fine Palladian house with its classical façade, perfect in its setting among the parklands. Smooth lawns sloped down to the banks of the river, and the rising, thickly wooded ground behind the house provided a dramatic background.

Phoebe gazed and gazed, feeling the beauty of the house in its landscape with more intensity than she ever had before. She blinked, caught a gust of chill rain on her cheek, and, with Miniver's tut-tuts ringing in her ears, pulled the glass back up as the carriage began the descent to the bottom of the valley. Once there, it rattled across the bridge and up the sweeping incline to the house.

A footman was waiting to let down the steps of the carriage and she jumped nimbly down, followed by Miniver, who gave a Londoner's sniff as her feet touched the gravel, signifying that she still wasn't reconciled to being dragged to Derbyshire at the time of year when she wanted to be enjoying, albeit at secondhand, all the delights of the London season. Not much opportunity for her to show off her skills here, not at this time of the year. And all the gowns and gloves and wraps and shoes that had been got ready for Miss Phoebe, it was too bad.

Mrs. Makepeace, the housekeeper, had come into the hall to greet Phoebe, a rare mark of favour, and Phoebe's immediate enquiry was whether Miss Louisa had arrived.

“No, Miss Phoebe, that she hasn't,” said Mrs. Makepeace. “She's not expected until tomorrow. I'd have thought she'd be here before you, what with your coming all the way from Warwickshire, and Miss Louisa only having a journey of thirty miles or so. But I dare say she had things to attend to, and couldn't get away sooner.”

“I haven't come from Warwickshire today, I broke my journey last night at my Aunt Hawkins's house,” Phoebe said, stripping off her gloves and rubbing numb fingers back into life. “Am I in my usual room?”

“That you are, and I'll take you up directly.” Mrs. Makepeace went up the sweeping flight of stairs with Phoebe, talking all the while, enquiring about her mother and her cousins. Miniver, who thought the servants at Pemberley were inclined to be too familiar with her young lady, brought up the rear, holding Phoebe's jewel case with exaggerated care, as though there might be a highwayman lurking on the landing to snatch it from her.

“There's a nice fire in the upstairs sitting room, and I'll have refreshments sent up directly,” said Mrs. Makepeace. “I dare say you started out early enough this morning.”

“Yes, and without breakfast,” said Phoebe. “I had nothing more than a cup of coffee, and so I am hungry. Goodness, what is that noise?”

They were standing on the landing outside Phoebe's bedchamber, and a loud whooping had broken out on the stairs above them. Phoebe looked up to see four heads peering through the balustrade.

“Why, it is the children,” she cried. “Come down, let me look at you.”

The children, two little boys who were clearly twins, alike to the last awkward tuft of hair, and two girls of about the same age, tumbled down the stairs. The boys hung back when they reached the landing, their whoops subsiding as shyness overcame them. The older of the girls stepped forward with a bounce and put up her face for a kiss. “Cousin Phoebe,” she said, stretching up her arms.

Phoebe picked her up and gave her a hug. Then she said
to the boys, “Come Josiah, come William, where are your bows?”

At this, they grinned, and began to caper around her, words spilling out as they recounted some of their doings since they had come to Pemberley.

“So you like it here?” said Phoebe. “I shall come and visit you in the nursery, it is where I used to stay myself, you know, when I was a little girl.”

Suddenly, little Elizabeth slipped from Phoebe's arms and Jane clutched at her skirts. The boys fell silent. A figure was gliding down the stairs, and the children watched her with uneasy eyes.

“Good heavens, what is the matter with you?” said Phoebe. This must be the governess she had been told of, the young woman employed by her cousin, Georgina Mordaunt, to look after her children while they were in England for the summer months.

She was an ethereal creature, pale, with huge eyes in an oval face. However, her words were far from pretty or ethereal as she berated the children in a mixture of French and English, scolding them for leaving the nursery without permission and for coming downstairs without her. When the diatribe had finished, she gave Phoebe a cold and unfriendly look, which the thin smile did nothing to hide. “You are Miss Bingley?” she enquired.

“As it happens, no, I am not. I am Miss Hawkins, and I may say that I am very pleased to receive such a joyful welcome from my young cousins.”

“They have no manners,” was the flat reply. “They are wild, positively little savages. They have been allowed to run free, and it is their father's wish that they learn some decorum, and to do as they are told.”

“Decorum! Surely not, at their age, and it is nothing more than high spirits and affection,” said Phoebe. And then, not wanting to offend the young woman, she asked her name.

“I am Mademoiselle Hélène Verney.”

“Then, Miss Verney, perhaps you would like to join me in the parlour here. I am about to have a late breakfast, and I smell coffee. I am sure there will be something for the children.”

The twins and the girls liked the sound of that, but they were quelled in an instant by their governess. “It is out of the question, they must not eat between meals.” With that she swept them before her up the stairs, leaving Phoebe unsure whether to feel snubbed or amused. Since it was her nature to laugh rather than to frown, she shrugged her shoulders and went in to have the food which a maid and a footman were carrying into the parlour.

Quick to pass judgement on new acquaintances, she decided that the governess would not be particularly good company for anyone; thank goodness Louisa was coming to Pemberley.

Phoebe helped herself to fresh rolls, spread with the strawberry jam for which the Pemberley kitchens were famous, and then had a second cup of coffee. Refreshed, she went to her bedchamber to change out of her travelling clothes. She didn't linger, for Miniver was at her most disgruntled, complaining about a supposed odour in a clothes press, and full of ill tidings about the household.

“All at sixes and sevens, with the gardeners having to do this and do that, and the service road nothing but a stream of mud, so that the dairymaids bring all the dirt into the kitchens and Mr. Lydgate is troubled with his back, which has put him into a nasty temper. In my opinion, the steward of a house like Pemberley should know better than to go putting his back out.
Then there's that French governess, no one likes her. Gives herself airs, and complains all the time. We'd have done better to stay in London, Miss Phoebe, and that's a fact.”

 

Phoebe had expected to dine alone that evening, but as she went upstairs to change out of her dress, which now had a distinctly muddy hem, Mrs. Makepeace waylaid her on the landing and said, with a disapproving sniff, that the governess insisted on dining downstairs and not upstairs in the nurseries. “Being that she's a gentlewoman, it's her right, but with only her in the house, it's not sensible. However, those were our instructions from Miss Georgina—Lady Mordaunt, I should say.”

Phoebe found Miss Verney a morose companion. When Phoebe remarked on the pleasantness of the room—the smaller of the two dining rooms at Pemberley, which had recently been redecorated and was now a much lighter and a more airy apartment, with the windows lengthened and giving on to the small, circular conservatory that had been added to the house—Miss Verney raised huge, angry eyes from her bowl of soup.

“My grandfather's house in France had three dining rooms. It had a hundred and twenty-nine rooms all together; in comparison, Pemberley would be no more than a cottage.”

The idea of Pemberley as a cottage appealed to Phoebe's sense of humour, and she laughed. Then, seeing that Miss Verney didn't share the joke, she apologised. “Where is your grandfather's house situated?”

“Nowhere,” was the reply, accompanied by a regretful sigh. “It was in Normandy, but it was destroyed in 1790, during the revolution. The
sans-culottes,
the peasants, ransacked the house, everything was stolen, and then they burned the house to the ground. With torches. Several servants were killed.”

“That is dreadful. I hope none of your family were harmed,” said Phoebe.

“Not by the fire,” said Miss Verney. “They had been warned by some of the more loyal servants and they escaped in good time. Of course, many of them perished in the Terror, torn apart by the crowds, or despatched by the guillotine. Two uncles, an aunt, many cousins. Since my family are of the nobility, many of the aristocrats who were murdered were relatives or connections of mine.”

So Miss Verney came of an émigré family. “It was fortunate for you that your parents escaped.”

“Yes, they escaped, with great difficulty and in great danger all the time. And therefore, instead of being the mistress of my own home, I am reduced to being little more than a servant in the house of a rich Englishman. My grandfather, who was a count, would turn in his grave if he could see me now. I am glad that he is not alive to see how his family has been degraded.”

Phoebe helped herself to a dish of chicken and peas in silence. It was a far from uncommon story: French aristocrats who had lost everything under the Terror or under Bonaparte, forced to eke out a careful living as exiles in England, finding it hard to exist in a world where the only money they had was that which they earned for themselves.

“I would have had a large dowry, I would have made an excellent marriage,” Miss Verney burst out. “Now I am a governess, looking after the children of people who are not noble at all, who do not have—”

She paused, as Phoebe frowned.

“Well, you are lucky in your position, that is some comfort,” said Phoebe. “There are many worse households to be employed in, I assure you.”

“Yes,” said Miss Verney. She stabbed at a piece of meat with her fork. “That is what I am told, but to be shut away in the country, in the cold and the rain, with no one to talk to but servants and children. I would prefer to be in London, particularly now, when the season is on. Although it is hard to see those less well born than oneself going out to dances and parties, when one remains a drudge on the top floor. I am surprised, Miss Hawkins, that you have chosen to come to the country at this time of year. Have you been ill?”

“I? Oh, no, I am seldom ill,” said Phoebe. “I chose to come. As has Miss Bingley. I was in London for the season last year, and Miss Bingley has done three London seasons. The round of parties and balls is always the same, you know.”

Miss Verney put down her knife and fork and stared at Phoebe. “
Tiens
! Three seasons? And you, a season and no husband?”

Phoebe felt as though she had suddenly become a creature in a freak show, and Miss Verney evidently considered Louisa, with three seasons behind her, an object of amazement and pity.