Searching for Pemberley

by Mary Lydon Simonsen

  The Crowells were making a believer out of me. Whenever I doubted the likelihood of Elizabeth Garrison and William Lacey being Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy, they provided reasonable explanations for the events in the book.

  At that point, Jack stood up and told his wife he was heading to the Hare and Hound for a pint. “I won't be long,” he said, kissing Beth and winking at me.

  “Jack just can't sit still. He never could,” Beth said as soon as she heard the front door close. “Even with his wonky knee, he still plays football with some of the men from the village.”

  On our ride from the station when Jack told me Michael was coming home, he had asked me to make sure Beth didn't go to bed early, and when I saw her yawning, I started quizzing her about some of the minor events and characters mentioned in Pride and Prejudice. Because Beth was tired, she was giving me very short answers.

  “Did Charlotte really have a sister Maria?”

  “Yes. I believe Mary Garrison and she were good friends.”

  “Was there such a person as Mary King?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Was there a reason for the militia to be encamped near Meryton?”

  “I imagine they served the same purpose as our Home Guard did during this last war. But Jack would know that better than I.”

  I was running out of questions when I heard the Jeep pull into the driveway.

  “That didn't take very long,” Beth said, looking at the door and waiting for her husband to come in. Instead, the person who stepped over the threshold was Michael.

  Beth put both of her hands up to her face and instantly teared up. When she was finally able to move, she went running into her son's arms, and he picked her off the floor and gave her a big hug.

  When I had first seen a picture of Michael, I thought no one was that good-looking, but there he was, except he had definitely lost weight. The girls in Minooka would have called him a “dreamboat.”

  While the reunion continued, I quietly went upstairs. But five minutes later, Beth was knocking on the door, asking me to come down and meet her son. As soon as Michael saw me, he immediately stood up and extended his hand. “It's nice to meet you, Maggie. My parents have been singing your praises in their letters. It's good to have a face to put with their stories.”

  While Beth went into the kitchen to make coffee, Jack said he was going to have a whiskey, and Michael said, “Make that two,” and asked if I would like something. After I hesitated, Jack said, “If you don't have a drink, you'll have to drink Beth's coffee.”

  “Okay, I'll have a club soda.”

  Michael smiled at his father's comment and added, “It's probably too late, but I'll warn you, Mom's cooking isn't much better than her coffee.”

  I must have seemed a little tense because Michael leaned over and said, “You're thinking you shouldn't be here, but my parents speak of you as if you were their daughter, although, I confess, I would have a hard time thinking of you as my sister.”

  That statement took me by surprise, and I wondered if Michael was flirting with me. Probably not, since he had just met me, and it wouldn't have mattered anyway because he was home for only two days before he had to be at an airfield near London for the flight back to Malta, which was really too bad.

  Because they would have so little time together, I told them I was ready to call it a night. Between working that morning and the train ride to Stepton, I really was tired, and I headed to my room before realizing my room was actually Michael's room.

  “No worries,” he said. “I'll just take the front bedroom, and I'll use the bathroom down here.” When his father reminded him that the room was no longer heated, he just laughed. “I need to keep to a Spartan regimen, Dad. The Royal Air Force likes us tough.”

  The next morning, I was the last one down to breakfast. Although I knew the three Crowells had stayed up late into the night, none of them looked tired. Michael's being home had energized them all.

  “Maggie, my parents have told me that you haven't been to the Peak District, and if you don't have anything planned for the day, I'd like to give you a tour.” I smiled and nodded. I wasn't about to say “no” to such a good-looking guy.

  “You'll need to put on some good walking shoes, and if you have them, a pair of trousers.”

  I ran back upstairs and changed into slacks and a pair of shoes that were as ugly as they were comfortable, and off we went to White Peak. At home, I was used to riding in clunkers that huffed and puffed to get up to forty miles per hour. But Michael was driving the Aston Martin with the top down as fast as it would go. After we entered the park, he slowed to a crawl so I could see the sights.

  “When my brother and I were young, Dad and my mother's Uncle Jeremy, who is a geologist, would take us into the District for all-day outings.” Looking out on the Peak's dramatic landscapes, Michael said, “Every time I come here, it looks different.”

  Because of gasoline rationing, which Jack was exempt from, there were very few cars on the road, although we did pass a charabanc, an open-air motor coach, and horse-drawn wagons filled with tourists. Taking advantage of the lack of traffic, Michael stopped in the middle of the road and pointed out interesting sights, including the numerous caves created because of the area's porous limestone. The Peak had an array of colors that changed every time a cloud passed overhead, creating dramatic views at every turn.

  I told Michael that one of the things I missed most from back home was driving a car. My brother had a nice side business of buying dilapidated cars and rebuilding them. He worked on the engines while our cousin, Patty Faherty, did the body work. In case the car broke down, Patrick paid me to drive him to the seller and to follow him home. I loved the independence only a car can give you, and since leaving the States two years earlier, I had not sat in the driver's seat of a car.

  Michael pulled into an overlook, put the car into park, and went around to the passenger side. “Change seats with me. You're driving.” I was going to protest because this was one expensive car, but I really did want to drive it. So I ran around to the other side. After figuring out how to shift with my left hand, I was off, and it was like driving on a cloud. I had never been behind the wheel of such a fine machine, and before I knew it, I was up to sixty miles per hour, heading for seventy. I drove for about fifteen minutes before pulling over.

  “I wish I had a camera. I'd love to send my brother a picture of me sitting behind the wheel of an Aston Martin. He'd be green with envy.”

  “My parents have one of those Kodak Brownie cameras. I'll take a snapshot of you when we get back to the house if you'll promise to let me have a copy.”

  I couldn't decide if Michael was flirting with me or if he was just being really, really friendly, but I wasn't complaining.

  We headed toward Thor's Cave, a limestone cave with a thirty-foot arch that could be seen for miles from the floor of the Manifold Valley. This natural formation was something I had wanted to see since I had first come to Derbyshire. When we finally pulled over, I watched as two hikers climbed the steep stone steps, and when the steps stopped, they had to claw their way into the opening of the cave. I looked at Michael and shook my head, but he wasn't taking “no” for an answer.

  The steps were no problem, but the next bit required that Michael cup his hands as if I was getting on a horse, and then I had to crawl to the cave's mouth. Completely stripped of all dignity, I turned around to watch as Michael got a running start, and using the top step almost as a springboard, he took the last part in one giant leap.

  “And there are some who say that once you are out of the Army, you never use the skills you learned in basic training,” he said, helping me to my feet.

  “You'll have a hard time convincing me that this is the usual way of getting into caves in the District,” I said, suspecting that even with the lack of maintenance during the war and tight budgets, it wasn't necessary to crawl around on all fours or have the skills of an acrobat to tour the other caves. />
  “No, but this gives me a chance to impress you with my athletic prowess,” he said, showing off the muscles in his arms.

  “And I'm sure I made an impression on you, too.”

  “Oh, you have.” He extended his hand to help me up.

  I was shortly to find out that getting into the cave was the easy part. There was a stream running right down the middle of it. As a result, everything was wet. I kept slipping and sliding on the uneven rocks and falling against the steep limestone walls until I finally fell back right onto Michael, and we both went down. He rubbed his hands together as if he was some evil magician and said, “Everything is going according to plan,” and I burst out laughing, which didn't help as I continued to grope my way forward. We finally made it to a huge opening that served as a window to the magnificent landscapes of the Peak District, now dressed in its autumn colors.

  There was nothing in my experience to compare to the scene before me. I had never been to the American West with its wide open landscapes, and to be a witness to endless miles of rocky crags and lush valleys was a thrill for me. But all the while I was taking in the magnificent views, I felt as if Michael was looking at me and not at the peaks. When I turned around, I finally decided to ask him straight out if he had a girlfriend.

  “I am seeing someone who is serving in the Women's RAF on Malta,” he said in a tone that was almost sad. “And you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Yes,” I lied. Michael had a girlfriend, and he was stationed on an island in the Mediterranean that was more than a thousand miles away from England. So it really didn't matter whether or not I had a boyfriend. But on the train ride back to London, I couldn't help but wonder what Michael would have said if I had said, “No.”

  Chapter 6

  THREE WEEKS WENT BY before I was able to return to Crofton Wood. It was Thanksgiving weekend in America, and thinking about my family gathered around a table, eating a turkey with all the trimmings, I was overwhelmed by a sense of being isolated from everything I cared about, and I didn't want to be alone.

  While Beth went riding, Jack and I headed toward Chatsworth, the ancestral home of the Dukes of Devonshire. Located near the Peak District, Chatsworth, with its 80,000 acres, was considered to be one of England's great country manors. Looking at the house from a distance, I had to agree that if Jane Austen imagined Mr. Darcy living there, then she certainly had raised him very high indeed. But the scale of the mansion seemed all wrong for Elizabeth Bennet. I think she would have preferred Montclair.

  Jack explained that in the early 1900s, when the 8th Duke of Devonshire had died, over a half million pounds in death taxes became due, a phenomenal amount of money. The family had to sell some of their book collection, including four Shakespeare folios, as well as properties from all over the country, to pay the debt, but they had managed to hang on to Chatsworth.

  “I'm a Derbyshire man, and I don't mind telling you that some of the most beautiful scenery in England is right here in the Peak District and at Chatsworth. This estate had thousands of visitors even in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Because the Devonshires were involved in politics, they hosted Public Day once a week when they were in residence, and the duke and duchess welcomed the visitors themselves. Some would be invited to stay for dinner, and they would help themselves to the port and get knackered. Georgiana, the Duchess of Devonshire, wrote in her diary about drunks falling down the stairs and relieving themselves in the fireplace. In those days, politics was not for the timid.

  “There's an American connection to Chatsworth,” Jack said. “William Cavendish, the oldest son of the 10th Duke of Devonshire, or Billy Hartington as he was known to his friends, married an American, Kathleen Kennedy, the daughter of Joseph Kennedy, the Ambassador to the Court of St. James in the late 1930s. The couple hadn't been married but a few months when Billy was killed by a German sniper. I understand her brother, John, is now a congressman from Massachusetts. When their love story hit the front pages, it got a lot of ink, a lot of it nasty, because 'Kick' Kennedy was an American and a Catholic, who was marrying into one of Britain's great titled Protestant families. Oh, what a brouhaha their romance caused! To me, the whole thing was a storm in a teacup. What difference does it make if the two people get on? With all the blood spilled in the wars, people get upset about nonsense like that. Anyway, she's still the Marchioness of Hartington until she remarries.

  “The current duke and duchess aren't living here at present, and I haven't heard what their plans are for Chatsworth. Right now, it's occupied by two housemaids, who keep it tidied up with the help of some of their friends. There are more than one hundred rooms in that house, so there's a lot of tidying up to do.”

  “Did the Laceys socialize with the Devonshires?”

  “Yes. In fact, Will Lacey's mother, Anne Devereaux, was a good friend of the most famous Duchess of Devonshire, Georgiana Spencer, and named her daughter after her. I know Elizabeth relied heavily on Her Grace's advice when she became mistress of Montclair. The duchess was several years older than Elizabeth and wrote her letter after letter telling her how to avoid the mistakes she had made when she had first married the duke.

  “The next in line was Georgiana's son, Harty Cavendish, the Bachelor Duke. For many years, the duke kept a beautiful mistress named 'Skittles' until she was pushed out by the Duchess of Manchester. Just about the time I was making my appearance in this world, that would be 1891, the Duke of Manchester died, freeing his widow to marry Harty, and she became the Duchess of Devonshire, making her a Double Duchess.”

  “Did the Duke of Manchester ever find out about their affair?”

  “It was never a secret.” Looking at my expression, Jack cautioned, “Maggie, when you are that high in society, you make your own rules. The most important ones are that you are always discreet, you don't make a scene when the affair is over, and you never ask for a divorce. Divorces are messy things, and all your dirty laundry ends up in the newspapers. If you break those rules, you are cast out into the wilderness.”

  I asked Jack if Montclair had visitors like Chatsworth did. “Not like Chatsworth,” Jack answered. “It's one of England's great country houses and is chockablock with art, including paintings by Rembrandt, Gainsborough, and Beth's favorite, The Adoration of the Magi by Veronese. The cascade fountain alone was a major draw. It was quite a feat of engineering in its day, and as an engineer myself, I agree that it's a mechanical masterpiece, much more interesting than family portraits of well-dressed people with little dogs lying at their masters' feet.

  “Now, don't get me wrong. Montclair is a terrific house, and it's had its share of visitors over the years. A lot of people who stopped off in Crofton on their way to the Peak District would come through, and its parkland has always been used by the locals. As long as everyone behaved themselves, the Laceys didn't mind visitors. But with Chatsworth and the spa at Matlock so close, most people bypassed Montclair, excepting people like yourself who went looking for it because they believed the Darcys had lived there.”

  Because of the late hour, Jack drove me directly to the train station. On the way, I asked him about Will and Elizabeth's children.

  “There were four children: twins Christopher and Francine, Laurence, and Phoebe. The impression I got from reading the letters and diaries was that Laurence was a little slow out of the gate. Eventually, he was sent to work in a mercantile house owned by the Binghams in Livorno, Italy, or Leghorn, as the British called it, where Laurence fell in love with a contessa. After they married, I don't know if he put in another day's work for the rest of his life.

  “Franny never married and lived at Montclair for all of her life. Her twin brother's first wife died in childbirth, and she ran the house for her brother even after Christopher married a woman who was a first cousin of his deceased wife. They did stuff like that back then. After his second wife's death, Christopher spent most of his time in London and got married for a third time to an actress who loved to entertain. From all
accounts, they were happy together.

  “The younger girl, Phoebe, made her debut during the Regency Era, when it was a great time to be young. She got into a lot of mischief, and Franny, her older sister, wrote about it in her diary. The one story I remember is that the whole family were in Brussels on the eve of the Battle of Waterloo, and Will was anxious to get everyone back to England. But the Duchess of Richmond was having a ball for the Duke of Wellington, and Phoebe gave her father the slip and went to the ball without him. You need to talk to Violet Alcott, Beth's cousin, who lives in Holland Park in London. Violet and her brother, Geoff, are about the same age as James and Michael, and they spent a lot of time with us when we were all in India together. She's a delightful chatterbox, and I know she wrote a school paper on Franny.”

  Checking his watch to make sure that I wouldn't miss my train, Jack said, “Next time you come, we'll have to go to Melton Mowbray for a pork pie. I was there the day the town welcomed back the 4th Parachute Brigade. After their big fight at the bridge at Arnhem in Holland in '44, the boys all wanted their pork pies.”

  By that time, we had arrived at the station. There was still so much that I wanted to know. But there was time. I was sure I would see the Crowells again.

  Chapter 7

  WITH THE HOLIDAYS APPROACHING, the Crowells invited me to spend Christmas with them at Crofton Wood, but between a hectic work schedule and fighting a cold, I decided to stay in London. However, Jack and Beth continued to write letters to keep up my interest. In the next letter, I was to learn all about Anne Desmet, Pride and Prejudice's Miss Anne de Bourgh.