Because most of the rooms on the first floor were the private residence of the Catons, we returned to the ground floor, where Mrs. Caton pointed out the “splendid” mural on the wall between the twin staircases, which had been painted by Reed Lacey, the youngest of the last Lacey family to live at Montclair. The floor tile in the painting matched that of the foyer, creating the illusion of a hallway leading to a vine-covered terrace with a beagle puppy sleeping in the corner. We moved on to an extensive library containing books dating from the early sixteenth century, which had remained when the house had been sold. Maybe, this was where Mr. Darcy kicked back after a long day of riding around his estate checking on his tenants. With his wife sitting beside him on the sofa doing needlework, Mr. Darcy would be reading Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones and laughing at its risqué passages, which he would share with Lizzy.
Crossing the foyer, we moved quickly through the drawing and music rooms, each with its own carved marble fireplace with classical themes, before arriving at the ballroom, which ran the length of the west wing of the house. The room was empty except for the ladders and supplies used by the men who were preparing the walls for replastering.
“In 1941, because of its proximity to the Peak District, the house was requisitioned by the British government as a retreat for officers of the Royal Air Force from Commonwealth countries, but there were also officers from the Free French, Norway, the Netherlands, and Poland, among others, whose countries were occupied by the Germans.”
Pamela whispered to me, “I was living in London, but I heard from some of my girlfriends that those airmen did more than rest when they came into Stepton.”
Our hostess led us to the terrace at the rear of the house where we were met by the head gardener. Leaning against the balustrades, Mr. Ferguson explained that the grounds had been designed by Humphry Repton, who was considered to be the successor to Capability Brown, the designer of the formal gardens at Blenheim. In a bored monotone, the gardener explained that Repton had also designed the terrace. “You can see his work at Longleat, the home of the Marquis of Bath, in Somerset, or at Cobham Hall in Kent, the estate of the Earls of Darnley, if that means anything to anyone.” I had the distinct impression that we were taking Mr. Ferguson away from his work and he didn’t appreciate the disruption.
“During the war, the entire garden was turned under and replanted with food crops, such as potatoes, beets, and cabbage, to help in the war effort. As you can see, the upper gardens have been returned to their original purpose as flower gardens, but because of food shortages, we won’t be converting the rest of the gardens any time soon. The park at its largest was ten miles around, but the family sold off large parcels and donated others to the National Trust before its sale to its present owners.” Putting his finger to his lips, Mr. Ferguson told us the sale was necessary in order to pay the tax man, “but I’m not supposed to tell you that,” he said, jerking his head toward the mansion.
The other couples on the tour had quickly walked the gardens and left, convinced that as lovely as the house was, it was not imposing enough to be the storied Pemberley. I found myself wondering if this country house could actually be the home of Fitzwilliam Darcy. Granted, it was very large, but it did not go on endlessly with a series of additions like I had seen at Blenheim, the ancestral estate of the Churchills. After walking down its front lawn, which was being nibbled away by a dozen or more sheep, and seeing all of Montclair from a distance, I found that I agreed with Elizabeth Bennet’s reaction upon first seeing Pemberley: “I have never seen a place for which nature had done more or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.”
While I had been enjoying the gardens, Pamela had returned to the parking area to have a cigarette. Walking down the long drive, I could hear the sound of the carriage wheels and horses’ hooves as they made their way up the hill, carrying couples to a night’s entertainment. Welcoming them was Elizabeth Darcy, dressed in an elegant but simple ivory-colored Empire dress, while Fitzwilliam Darcy was outfitted in clothing made popular by Beau Brummeclass="underline" jacket, waistcoat, neckcloth, breeches, and high leather boots.
I found Pamela talking to a man who introduced himself as Donald Caton. “As I have been explaining to your friend, many scholars who have studied Jane Austen’s writings believe her model for Pemberley was Chatsworth, the home of the Dukes of Devonshire, and one of the largest estates in the country. When people look at Montclair, they are disappointed because they are expecting Chatsworth.” I assured Mr. Caton I was not in the least disappointed.
After a long pause, Mr. Caton said, “You’re probably wondering if these stories about the Darcys can possibly be true.” Pointing down the hill in the direction of a nearby town, Mr. Caton continued, “There is a couple who lives in the village of Crofton by the name of Crowell. Mr. Crowell and his family have been associated with this estate for generations. He most firmly believes Montclair is Pemberley. You might want to talk to him.”
Following Mr. Caton’s directions, Pamela and I found where the Crowells lived, just outside the village proper in a lovely home called Crofton Wood, set back from the main road. The front of the house was covered in vines with small yellow flowers, and purple and yellow flowers lined the stone path to their door. A man, whom I assumed to be Mr. Crowell, was standing outside the front door smoking a cigarette.
“Mr. Crowell, you don’t know me. I’m Maggie Joyce, but I was wondering if…” But that was as far as I got.
“You’re here about the Darcys, right? Don Caton rang me to let me know you might be coming ’round. Come through. Any friend of Jane Austen’s is a friend of mine.”
Chapter 2
Jack Crowell was a tall man in his mid-fifties with dark graying hair, piercing blue eyes, and the ruddy complexion of someone who enjoyed the outdoors. He explained that coffee was still hard to come by but that he had brewed up some tea.
“I grew up in Stepton,” Pamela said while pouring out, “but I’m living in London now. I’d like to move back home at some point, but there are no jobs to be had. So I’ll stay in London and type, type, type for the crotchety old solicitor I’m working for. I’m not complaining, though. My boyfriend was demobbed out of the Army six months ago, and the only work he can find is the odd construction job. We can’t get married until he finds work, and right now my chances on that score are crap.”
Pamela was definitely not shy, and she quickly proved it when she asked Mr. Crowell if the chicken coops we had seen from the road belonged to him. After he acknowledged that they were, she said, “I haven’t eaten an egg that came out of the arse of a chicken in a year. All we ever get is that powdered stuff.”
After Jack stopped laughing, he told her he would send her home with at least a half dozen eggs. After thanking Mr. Crowell for the eggs, Pamela said she remembered the harvest festivals the Pratts had hosted in late summer.
“That was a tradition of long standing,” Mr. Crowell explained. “My father was the butler up at Montclair, and my mother was the housekeeper. We lived below stairs in the senior servants’ quarters. We loved it. Great place for my brother and me to run around and explore — lots of nooks and crannies. “When I was a lad, every August, the Laceys invited the locals up to the house to celebrate ‘Harvest Home.’ Everyone had a job to do. The two oldest Lacey boys were in charge of games, the daughter told fortunes in one of the smaller marquees, and the youngest son was an artist who would make funny sketches of the children. My brother, Tom, and I would take all the young ones for pony rides around the fountain on a tether. If the wind was blowing, they’d get wet from the spray, and the kiddies would all squeal with delight.