Mr. Darcy's Dream (4 page)

“No husband,” she said in a repressive voice. She beckoned to the footman, who was standing by the sideboard. He had a faint smile on his lips, but as he approached the table, his face was impassive.

“We shall take tea in the upstairs sitting room, Thomas,” she said. She rose, and smiled at Miss Verney. “If you would care to join me?”

Thank goodness Louisa would be arriving soon, because she didn't like to be made to feel so uncomfortable at a meal. Miss Verney might belong to a noble French family, but she had not acquired the manners one would expect from such a background. Soon after they had drunk their tea, Phoebe
yawned, patting her mouth with her hand, and said that she was tired, and if Miss Verney would excuse her, would retire to bed. And I hope she doesn't come down for breakfast, she added silently; that would not be a good start to the day.

While Phoebe slept on the next morning, Miniver, an early riser, was sitting at the vast scrubbed wooden table in the servants' hall, exchanging pleasantries with Mr. Darcy's French chef, and bringing the members of the household up to date with all the gossip from London.

The servants' quarters at Pemberley were not, as in so many great houses, below ground, but instead were on the ground floor, in what remained of the oldest part of the house, dating back to Jacobean times. Betsy liked the stone-flagged servants' hall with its oak-beamed ceiling and oak panelling on the walls. The kitchen, adjacent to the servants' hall, still retained a great stone arched fireplace from the times when huge fires were the order of the day. These days, a modern closed stove was installed in the fireplace for M. Joules to create his dishes, and the bread ovens were all of a new and more efficient type.

The Pemberley servants wanted to hear any news about Mr. Darcy's five daughters, who had all grown up in the house.

“We saw Lady Mordaunt when she brought the children,” said Mrs. Makepeace. “Looking quite lovely, radiant, you might say.”

“Expecting again,” said Miniver, and Mrs. Makepeace and the two parlour maids nodded their heads.

“Isn't that what I said, as soon as I set eyes on her?” said Mrs. Makepeace.

“She's hoping for a girl; with twin boys, she wants a child who'll stay at home and not be sent off to school. Now, Miss Letitia”—the household servants all found it hard to give the former Miss Darcys their married names—“she's very happy with all her brood. Mr. Barcombe is spending a lot of time in London, church affairs, he'll end up a bishop at the very least, with his brains and influence.”

“He'll make a better bishop than Mr. Collins,” put in a pert maid, to be rebuked by the housekeeper.

“It's not your place, Sally, to pass remarks on any members of Mrs. Darcy's family.”

“He's not close family,” said Sally, arguing her point. “And none of the family likes having him to stay, poking his nose in everywhere and reckoning the value of every piece of furniture and the cost of every strawberry put on his plate.”

“Never you mind,” said Mrs. Makepeace. “And I hear that Mr. and Mrs. Wytton have been abroad again, in that nasty Egypt. Who would have thought those girls would grow up to do so much rampaging in foreign parts? There's Lady Mordaunt spending most of the year in Paris, and Mr. and Mrs. Manningtree with their house in Italy, and Mrs. Wytton's husband never happy to spend more than a few weeks at Sillingford before he has to be off on his travels again.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Manningtree will be back in England next month,” said Miniver. “Of course, nearly all the family will be here for the ball.”

There was complete silence, and M. Joules, who had gone into the kitchen to give instructions to his under-staff, while
keeping an ear open for the conversation from the hall, hurried in, a large spoon in his hand. “Ball? What ball?”

“Oh, did you not know?” said Miniver, pleased at the reception of her startling announcement. “Mr. and Mrs. Darcy plan to hold a big ball here in the summer, for as many as four hundred people, I dare say, and the house full of guests.”

Mrs. Makepeace was indignant. “Well, it's not like Mrs. Darcy to leave me to hear such news from the lips of a maid.”

“Calm down, Mrs. Makepeace,” said Miniver. “There'll be a letter coming, but the post from abroad isn't reliable like it is in England. Ask Miss Phoebe, if you want to know more, for Mr. Darcy's put her in charge of the arrangements. She'll be talking to you and to Mr. Lydgate about what's to be done.”

“Did I hear my name?” said a short man with a balding head. He came through the yard door, pink-faced from the wind and rubbing his hands together. “A hot drink, Sally, it's that cold out there this morning. A frost overnight, but at least the wind's dropped.”

“Miniver here says there's to be a ball this summer, but we've never had a word about it.”

“I have, just this morning,” said Mr. Lydgate. He seated himself at the table and helped himself to one of the remaining rolls. M. Joules hovered, calling a swift command through to an underling, too keen to hear about the ball to go back to his pots and pans.

“Four hundred invited, and dozens of houseguests, is what Miniver's just told us.”

“That's right.” Mr. Lydgate felt inside his moleskin waistcoat and extracted a letter. “Mr. Darcy's written to Mr. Drummond as well, urging him to press on with the works as quickly as he can. He would like the principal new glasshouse ready by
them. Says to bring extra glaziers in from Bakewell and further afield if need be.”

“Who's Mr. Drummond?” said Miniver.

“Mr. Drummond, now there's a nice gentleman,” said Mrs. Makepeace, pleased to know something that Miniver didn't. “Fancy you not knowing about him. He's living in the South Lodge, and working all the hours God gives, even harder than the gardeners.”

“Who're a lazy lot when they can get away with it,” said Sally with a sniff; she had recently fallen out with one of the under-gardeners.

“Mr. Drummond is in charge of all Mr. Darcy's estate business,” said Mr. Lydgate. “And, yes, Mrs. Makepeace, a most gentlemanlike person. As he should be, with a degree from Cambridge and his father in the church. He's spending some weeks here, getting to know the ins and outs of how the estate is run—he's got a shrewd business head on his shoulders, I can say that for him—and to put in hand all the improvements Mr. Darcy wants. Giving shape to Mr. Darcy's Dream is how he puts it.”

“Yes, quite the gentleman,” said Sally with a giggle. “And quite handsome too, as that Miss Verney has noticed.”

“That's enough of that, Sally,” said Mrs. Makepeace. A bell jangled in the little room outside the kitchen, where all the bells connected to the rest of the house hung in rows.

Sally looked up at the line of bells which hung above their heads on the wall. “Upstairs sitting room, that'll be Miss Phoebe. She'll have got up without you, Miniver, what about her chocolate?”

Thomas got to his feet and shrugged his coat back on. “I dare say she's noticed Miniver is sitting gossiping here when she should be attending to her duties.”

“I don't need you to teach me my duties,” said Miniver. “Sauce,” she added to his back as he left the servants' hall.

 

Phoebe was indeed in the upstairs sitting room, looking out of the window at the rainswept landscape. She wished the weather would improve and was just wondering whether to go to the library and find a more interesting book when she heard the sound of a carriage. Casting her book aside, she ran out of the door and went down the great staircase to be in the hall as Louisa came up the steps into the house.

They greeted one another with great affection, but Louisa was struck by how pale Phoebe looked, Phoebe, who usually had such a glowing complexion. She had inherited the Darcy looks from her mother, but at the moment her features seemed pinched, and her dark eyes were faded and diminished by deep circles beneath them. Her bloom had quite gone, and all the life seemed to have drained out of her face.

Louisa had not expected to see Phoebe quite so lacking in her usual looks and vigour, and she could not help letting out an exclamation of dismay at Phoebe's pallor as she came forward to welcome her.

“Which is only to be expected,” said Miniver. “And you don't look altogether the thing yourself, Miss Louisa, if I may say so. Sit down, do, and can I fetch you a glass of water?”

Louisa sat down with a grateful sigh. “Oh, Phoebe, I am so very glad to see you. I am sorry to be such a weak creature, but you know how travelling in a closed coach sometimes affects me, and I came in our old coach, which does sway so!”

“You'll feel better in a trice,” Phoebe assured her, and she turned on the footman who was watching the proceedings with interest, hopeful that Miss Louisa might fall down in a swoon.
This was more drama than they'd had at Pemberley for many a long month. “Thomas, summon Mrs. Makepeace this instant.” She turned to Betsy. “Has she her smelling salts?”

“She did have them when we set out,” said Betsy grimly. “Until we reached Bakewell, whereupon she lowered the window and threw them out into a ditch, declaring she never wanted to see them again.”

“I can't bear the smell, and they make me even more light-headed than I am already,” said Louisa, who looked to be reviving a little.

Mrs. Makepeace arrived and shook her head at the sight of Louisa. “Well, you look as though you've had quite a turn. Your room's all ready for you, Miss Louisa, with a good fire blazing away. That's where you should be, lying down on the sofa there, and I'll have a cup of good hot broth brought up for you directly, just the thing for a stomach made queasy by travel.”

Despite Louisa's protests that she had not the slightest desire or need to lie down, this practical plan was immediately put into action, and she was escorted upstairs to her room, a pretty chamber with rose-coloured hangings, and settled on a sofa. “You'll be wanting to have your lunch in here, Miss Louisa, on a tray,” Betsy said, but Louisa had had enough of this fussing.

“No, I won't. It is merely the motion of the coach, I shall be completely well again as soon as I've eaten.”

Mrs. Makepeace promised an immediate luncheon, and went to give her orders, pausing at the door to say, “And I expect Miss Verney will be joining you—she isn't one to stay upstairs if she can help it.”

“Is Miss Verney the governess?” asked Louisa.

“She is. She would have been my sole companion had you not decided to sacrifice the season and join me at Pemberley.”

“It was no sacrifice. What is she like? Mama met her in Paris when she was staying with Georgina, and she told me she found her a pleasant enough young woman.”

“Your mama finds fault with no one,” said Phoebe. “I never knew her to say a harsh word about anyone, and you are nearly as sweet-natured as she is. What can I say about Miss Verney? She is older than both you and me, I should say she must be six-or seven-and-twenty, and is the daughter of émigrés. And she feels the disadvantages and what she sees as the unfairness of her situation too keenly.”

“You do not like her,” said Louisa. “I can tell. You make up your mind about people so quickly, Phoebe. My mama may have a propensity to like everyone, but isn't that better than disliking everyone the minute you meet them?”

Phoebe coloured. “I do not dislike everyone. That is, I like some people well enough—”

“Yes, those you have known for ever, and your family. But even there, you have too demanding a standard, you are too rigorous in your judgements. You do not give time for people's virtues to grow on you, you are so quick to dismiss them that you never find out their true worth.”

“Oh, as to virtues! Most people have few enough of those, I believe. Very well, I will control my natural instinct, as you describe it, to dislike people, and I will say no more about Miss Verney. But I can't emulate you, you will feel sorry for her, I am sure, and that, for you, is always the first step to liking someone.”

Louisa laughed. “That is a rebuke indeed! I hope I feel compassion for those of my fellow beings who are in situations where they are not happy.”

“You may feel all the compassion you want, but I still hold that there is something about Miss Verney that puts me on my
guard. We are not to quarrel over it, let us talk about something else, the weather, or Miniver's sulks at having to leave town.” Miniver, who had stalked into the sitting room, gave a loud sniff at these words, and told them that their luncheon was laid out in the small dining room.

Phoebe tried not to dwell on what Louisa had said. It wasn't true, she didn't dislike everyone, just those people who were boors or fools or laughed too loudly, or danced clumsily or told the same jokes over and over again, or assumed that because they belonged to the male sex, they were naturally and inevitably right in any dispute or argument. And hypocrites and those who were wantonly cruel or malicious. And rakes.

That brought her to her senses, and she forced herself to think clearly about her reaction to Miss Verney. It wasn't a simple dislike, it was just that it was uncomfortable to be in the company of a person such as Miss Verney, who wore her dissatisfaction so clearly on her face and in her words.

A voice whispered in Phoebe's head, a voice she often heard, but was quick to suppress: “And how dissatisfied would you be, were you to be forced to earn your bread as a governess, when you came from a family of some gentility, who had previously had fortune and position and now had none?”

Phoebe's was a just nature, and she had to give this argument some weight. All the same, there was something untrustworthy about Miss Verney. If she were not mistaken, she was the kind of young woman who brought trouble to those who crossed her path.