Free Mr. Darcy's Dream by Elizabeth Aston

than to go out in the rain and the wind.”
    Phoebe laughed, and lifted her hand in acknowledgement of Louisa’s point. “Very well, but even if we do not venture out to any of the walks, we can certainly pay a visit to the glasshouses as soon as this shower is over, where you may admire growing pineapples, and be out of the weather you so dislike. And after that, we can sit in front of a good fire, in the little sitting room, and I shall beat you at piquet.”
    Miniver would have liked Miss Phoebe to take a short rest, but her mistress was implacable. “Do stop fussing, Miniver. I may not look my best, but I am not ill, how many times do I have to tell you? I shall be sitting down, if that satisfies you, for I want to write to my mother.”
    â€œAnd Betsy asked me to say, Miss Louisa, that when you are free she wants to show you a stain on one of your gowns.”
    Louisa sighed. “I hope it is a vast mark all across the front of that vile pink taffeta that I know she will have packed, despite my not wanting it. Phoebe, I will be down directly Betsy has finished scolding me.”
    â€œYou will find me in the library.”
    The library at Pemberley was one of the glories of the magnificent house, and certainly one of Phoebe’s favourite rooms. The present Mr. Darcy’s father, Phoebe’s grandfather, had employed the famous architect Robert Adam to remodel several of the rooms of the house back in the 1760s. He had chosen to do the library in his classical style, and even the severest critics had to agree that the room was a triumph.
    Phoebe paused, as she always did on entering the library, to admire the splendour and elegance of the room. She walked into the room between a fine pair of fluted columns with their Corinthian capitals, picked out with gilt. There was a table in a semicircular recess at the far end and that was where she sat, leaning back in her chair and looking up at the paintings on the ceiling, classical and allegorical scenes set in lozenges and ovals, before she opened the drawer, took out a sheet of notepaper, and, dipping the nib of her pen into the silver inkstand, began to write her letter.
    Phoebe usually wrote very much as she talked, and at first her words flowed across the page, describing her journey to Pemberley, the twenty-four hours she had spent with her aunt on the way. She paused at this point; what was there to say? That she was still in low spirits, that she was glad to be at Pemberley, but that try as she might, thoughts of Mr. Stanhope kept intruding on her thoughts? Her mother would certainly not want to read that.
    She nibbled at the feathery end of her quill, looking out through the library window. The rain had faded into a thin drizzle, and a figure outside caught her eye. She rose from her chair and went over to the window to have a better look. There was Mr. Grayling, the head gardener, wearing his usual leather jacket and coming round the corner of one of the walled gardens. Coming along behind him was a gardener’s boy trundling a barrow full of what looked like manure. Then another man came round the corner, someone that Phoebe had never seen before. Her interest quickened as she studied the new arrival. He was talking to Mr. Grayling now, and she wondered who he was and why he should be engaged in such deep conversation with Mr. Darcy’s head gardener.
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    Upstairs, Louisa was also looking out of the window, while she waited for Betsy to return from a trip to get lavender for the closet.
    Who was that man? He was dressed like a gentleman, with gaiters to keep the mud off his legs, a snuff-coloured coat, and, which was surprising, had no hat on his head. His hair was a light brown and thick, and Louisa noticed, for she had a keen eye to such details, that it had been cut and shaped by a good barber. This was certainly no country local, nor yet did he look like a tradesman.
    At that moment, Betsy came back into the room.