In late October, loaded down with cigarettes, Spam, Nescafé, Hershey bars, and Hostess cupcakes, I headed to Crofton. For the first time in a week, it was not drizzling or raining, but the weather had turned cold. My room had a radiator in it — the kind that whistled when it came on — but it was not enough to keep out the damp. The room also had a space heater that cost six pence for about thirty minutes of heat. Every night, I huddled in front of it before hopping into bed with my flannel nightgown, long underwear, bed socks, mittens, and hot water bottle.
Jack picked me up in a Jeep he had bought at a surplus auction, and I handed him a pack of Lucky Strikes, which produced a big smile. Weeks earlier, the government had banned importing tobacco from the States. “There’s nothing like an American cigarette,” he said as he lit his first one.
“I got some very good news yesterday. My younger son, Michael, is coming home from Malta for a few days. The RAF is moving some squadrons back here to England, and Mike is a stowaway on one of the planes. It’s only for a few days, but I haven’t seen him since James got married, and that’s a year and a half now. Mike wants to surprise his mother, so he had someone from the telegraph office hand deliver the telegram to me. I can’t wait to see her face.”
As we pulled into the drive, the house was in full view. Except for the Norwegian pines, all the trees had lost their leaves, and the fall flowers had been uprooted and disposed of. Beth, who was wearing jodhpurs, was waiting for us at the door.
“Come through,” she said, making way for me to pass. “I’ve got a pot of tea brewing. It will take the chill off.” She pointed to the chair nearest the fire, which I gladly accepted since I had not been warm in a week. “One of the hardest things to get used to once we came back to Derbyshire from Asia was the cold and damp. But in England, you keep a stiff upper lip, buy a lot of cardigans, and pretend you aren’t cold, especially with the coal shortages.”
While the Crowells prepared the tea, I had a look around. This was where Beth and Jack spent most of their time. The furniture faced the fireplace and was arranged in such a way as to best hear the radio, and magazines and engineering journals were on a side table. On the far wall were four beautifully detailed sketches showing the same pastoral scene in each of the seasons with a town in the distance. It reminded me of a view I had seen from the terrace at Montclair. On the mantle was a picture of the older son, his gorgeous wife, and baby daughter on a holiday at the beach. The other picture was of a sergeant in the Royal Air Force. Michael had his mother’s dark eyes and slender build but his father’s black hair. He was incredibly handsome, and I wondered if he was available. I would find out soon enough.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Beth said, directing me to the dining room. “I’ve been saving up my meat coupons for a special occasion.” The table was beautifully laid out with Meissen china, silverware with gold edging, and Waterford glasses. On the table was as elegant a meal as you could prepare in post-war England. I complimented her on the beautiful setting, and she told me everything had been handed down to her by her mother, who was from Boston.
When the Crowells learned that I had lived in Washington during the war, they wanted to know how it compared to wartime London. They were surprised to hear that rationing for food and gasoline had been strictly enforced, and that everyone carried around their government-issued coupon books. When my cousin had married in ’44, her friends had to donate their food coupons so that we would have enough sugar and flour to bake and frost a wedding cake. The commodity in shortest supply was gasoline, and if your occupation wasn’t classified as “essential” to achieving victory, then you were entitled to only four gallons of gas per week. As a result, trains were packed, and if you were actually able to grab a seat, you considered yourself lucky. After eating Hostess cupcakes that had been cut up into little squares, we went into the living room where I was to hear the story of Celia, Pride and Prejudice’s Kitty Bennet.
“Celia’s story is tied up with Caroline Bingham’s, Charles’s sister,” Beth said, getting comfortable in the chair and abandoning the ramrod position from my previous visit. “Unlike the novel, I don’t really think Caroline was all that serious about ‘securing’ Mr. Lacey. In any event, she set her sights on another and ended up with Lord David Upton, who was active in Tory politics.
“With the last name of Joyce, you may be interested in Lord Upton. After the 1798 rebellion in Ireland, he advocated very harsh treatment for the Irish and was instrumental in pushing through the Act of Union between Great Britain and Ireland. He was often in the newspapers, which published his rants on a regular basis.”
My grandfather, Michael Joyce, a faithful member of the Ancient Order of Hibernians, was also known to rant, but against the British. One evening when my father was staring into the bottom of his beer glass, he told me that his father had once killed a man in Ireland, and I thought, “Only one?” My grandfather was a tough, mean old man who walked around carrying a six-foot switch that was a foot taller than he was. On occasion, he could be nice, but you always approached him as you would a strange dog. Would he attack or not?
“Upton and Caroline’s marriage probably was not a love match, but few marriages of England’s upper class were. However, she became a prominent and influential hostess in London and lived in an elegant townhouse in Mayfair. Their opulent lifestyle was made possible because George Bingham’s investments continued to make money for all the family.
“At this time, London was flooded with émigrés who had fled the political upheaval in France. As a diehard monarchist, Upton was appalled by the horrors inflicted on the aristocracy by the French Revolutionaries, and his home became a gathering place for these refugees. It was there that Celia met a young Frenchman and fell in love. Everyone would have advised her against continuing this relationship. Because of the increasing violence in France, there was the possibility that the young man would never be able to return to his own country. Since Celia had no money and all of the young man’s wealth and property were in France, they had nothing to marry on. Instead, she married Tyndall Stanton, a wealthy businessman, and achieved her own degree of success in society. Celia, who was childless, was devoted to her two nieces, Lucy’s daughters, Antoinette and Marie, and introduced them into London society.”
At this point, Beth excused herself and went into the kitchen. Jack had been washing the china and glasses, and we could hear his progress.
“Literally, a bull in a china shop,” Beth said, returning to the living room. “I should have told him to leave them for me.
“When Celia was in her early thirties, Tyndall died quite suddenly, and she inherited a substantial amount of money, as well as the lease on the London townhouse. After her mourning period, she wed her comte, who was, as fate would have it, a widower. Eventually, Celia, her French lord, and his three children returned to his estate near Limoges. She died when she was about fifty from injuries received in a carriage accident.”
I guess I went slack-jawed because Beth said, “You are as surprised as I was when I read her obituary. Because Celia was the widow of Tyndall Stanton, her death notice was published in the London papers. She had converted to Catholicism and was buried in a Catholic church near her estate.”
After finishing the dishes, Jack, who had been sitting quietly while Beth continued the story, now jumped at the chance to put in his two cents. “In the nineteenth century, carriage accidents were common. A city is a very noisy place, and runaway horses were a part of urban life. In the country, carriages turned over or broke down when a wheel flew off or an axle broke. They were as dangerous then as cars are now. It was rich people who died or were crippled in these accidents since they were the ones who had the carriages.”
“I have seen Celia’s portrait,” Beth said, taking back the story, “and for all that Jane Austen had to say about Jane’s beauty, Celia was just as lovely, with the blonde hair and blue eyes that both Jane and she had inherited from their mother. However, to me, her portrait shows a beautiful woman but one lacking in intelligence. And that, my dear, is all I know of Celia.”
I was glad Celia had found happiness with her French lord and that she loved her nieces, but what was even more interesting was how much information Jack and Beth had on Celia. Even allowing for a dedicated Aunt Margie, Beth and Jack knew a lot about her.
With Celia out of the way, I wanted to get to the much more interesting letter from Will Lacey to his cousin, Anne Desmet. “The letter certainly explains his sour mood when he showed up at the dance in Hertfordshire,” I said. “Do you know who Mrs. Manyard was?”
“Yes, I do,” Beth said. “Her maiden name was Elaine Trench, and she was an actress who performed at the Royal Theatre, Drury Lane. Before marrying Anne Devereaux, David Lacey, whom Jane Austen referred to as Old Mr. Darcy, had a liaison with Miss Trench. She was lowborn but had risen in the ranks as a result of a successful stage career. Their relationship was duly noted in the scandal sheets, which kept everyone up to date on society gossip and who was sleeping with whom, especially if the romance involved the Prince of Wales.
“After Anne Lacey died, David started seeing Elaine again. She was a widow and, as far as I know, only had the one child, Roger Manyard, a dissolute young man. His story puts me in mind of Mr. Wickham.”
I was hesitant about asking the next question, but if I didn’t get a reasonable explanation as to how the Crowells came to have the letter from Will to his cousin, then any further questions were pointless. “I was wondering where you got the letter,” I finally asked.
“When the Pratts moved into Montclair, the Laceys asked if they could continue to use the storage area below stairs. The Pratts are distant relations of the Laceys, and they had no objections. The storage area contained several chests that had belonged to the mother of Edward Lacey, the last Lacey heir to reside at Montclair. In those chests were diaries, letters, accounts, and other personal papers belonging to several generations of Laceys. Before returning to Australia, the Pratts, knowing that Jack’s family had been in service at Montclair for generations, left the papers in our care.
“Over the years, we’ve gone through many of them, but sorting through the lot proved to be a major project. We were able to devote some time to it during the brutally cold winter of 1946–47. Because of freezing temperatures and the difficulty of moving coal along the rivers or even by rail, we were unable to get any coal in Crofton. So we closed up the house, and Jack and I moved in with my cousin in Holland Park. It was a little better in London, but it was a terrible time in England. You had to queue up for everything. And the snow! I can’t ever remember having so much snow in one winter. To shake off our post-war blues, Jack and I spent many an afternoon going through those dusty old papers.”
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.”