Our evening of pub-hopping had gone better than I had expected. At the third pub, we hooked up with two sailors on leave, who taught us how to play darts. After Violet explained she was happily married and that I was in mourning, we went dancing, and that was all we did. Jimmy and Lenny saw us back to our hotel, and both of them kissed me on the cheek. However, Lenny pulled me aside and said, “Maggie, you might have taken off your wedding band too soon. I’m not sure you’re ready to jump back in the game.”
Violet was right. I was acting as if I was in mourning, and I decided that if someone asked me out, I would accept. No more moping around about what might or might not be.
We met our tour guide, Mr. Pendergast, outfitted with a black bowler and, despite a cloudless sky, a black umbrella, at the gates to the Royal Pavilion exactly at 9:00, and he began his spiel immediately. He explained that on the night of November 29, 1940, German bombers appeared in the skies over Brighton, causing extensive damage to the city, but the Pavilion had come through it unscathed.
“According to Lord Haw-Haw, the American who made radio broadcasts for the Nazis, Adolph Hitler intended to make the Royal Pavilion his headquarters once he had successfully invaded England. It seems that information failed to reach the head of the Luftwaffe, Hermann Goering, or he wouldn’t have bombed Brighton.” That was Mr. Pendergast’s idea of a joke, so we laughed, and he looked pleased.
I knew about Lord Haw-Haw, as his real name was William Joyce — hopefully, no relation. Shortly after the war ended, he had been captured by the British, tried for treason, and sentenced to be hung. The death penalty was controversial because Joyce was an American citizen. However, somewhere along the line, he had obtained a British passport, and that provided the British with enough legal cover to carry out the sentence.
We learned the Prince Regent, the future George IV, first came to Brighton, where he rented a farmhouse, so that he could spend time with his favorite companion, Maria Fitzherbert, whom he would secretly marry. Later, the Prince tapped into the enormous wealth of the British Treasury and commissioned Henry Holland, and later John Nash, to design an exotic Oriental palace that one would have expected to find in Constantinople not southern England.
Mr. Pendergast informed us that only the Pavilion’s kitchen, banqueting room, and music room were open to view, and even those were in shockingly bad condition. We double-timed it through the building, looking up, down, and all around as if we were plane spotters. Both Violet and I had the impression that part of Mr. Pendergast’s fee went to someone inside the Pavilion, who looked the other way while visitors were quickly whisked in and out of the building.
Warned by Mr. Pendergast that we would be moving “apace,” we dashed through the Great Kitchen where elaborate banquets had been prepared for guests of the Prince, and on to the music room, which was lit by nine lotus-shaped chandeliers. Our last stop, if it could be called a stop, was the Banqueting Room. Even though it had been stripped by Queen Victoria of its painted canvases depicting Chinese domestic scenes, the elegance of the room remained, and its sheer size was overwhelming.
The tour was supposed to have continued outside, but instead, Violet pulled out a five-pound note. “That was quite invigorating, Mr. Pendergast. Never was so much imparted in so little time,” she said, thanking him.
As we walked toward Brighton pier, Violet picked up where our tour guide had left off. “By the way, Jane Austen’s Brighton had no resemblance to the Brighton of the Prince Regent. At the time Jane wrote of George Wickham’s seduction of Lydia Bennet, it was a popular seaside resort, which was also known for attracting more than its share of prostitutes.
“And speaking of seduction,” Violet said, smiling, “why don’t we go out on the pier tonight and see what we can do about having the same thing happen to you.”
Chapter 33
One of Andrews’s many responsibilities was to sort the mail, and one way of letting me know that I was not a member of the family was to keep my letters separate from the Alcotts’ correspondence. And there, all by its lonesome on the foyer table, was my first letter from Rob since his arrival in Atlanta.
October 14, 1948
Dear Maggie,
Arrived safely in the good old USA. It was smooth sailing once we got clear of the British coast. The British Navy has these buoys all over the place to mark ships that were sunk by German torpedoes. Three years after the war, the Brits are still clearing the approaches to its ports. This guy, who did convoy duty in the North Atlantic, told me that the amount of tonnage that went to the bottom during the war was kept top secret because it might have caused the Brits to “lose heart.”
Since neither of us had been here before, after docking in New York, Frank and I decided to do some sightseeing. We went to the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building and down to the Battery where we could see the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. After that, we ate a steak at Jack Dempsey’s, which looked huge compared to what I was used to in England. Then we headed to Grand Central Station.
About the disagreement we had at Beth’s house, I know I acted like an ass. But before you came downstairs that morning, Michael was telling me how the two of you had gone to the Peak District and had walked down to the village for coffee. Even before I knew about that, I was already pretty steamed because of the way he had come on to you the night before. Thinking about it now, I can’t say I blame him. I guess because he had to leave to go to his new station in Germany, he had to go at you head on. As they say, “All’s fair in love and war.” I just want you to be happy.
Love,
Rob
The following day, I discussed Rob’s letter with my boss. Don told me never to go by what a guy said or wrote because “we stink at both.” He believed a man’s actions spoke louder than words. In that case, it boiled down to the fact that Rob had not asked me to return to the States with him. So that was that — or was it? I would have plenty of time to think about it because that night I came down with the flu. When Beth learned I was sick, she immediately came to Holland Park, bringing her own portable medicine chest as well as some of Reed’s drawings from the 1913 road trip.
“I haven’t seen these drawings in years. Jeremy had them locked up in the tower.” Shaking her head showed that, even after all these years, her uncle’s behavior still puzzled her. Picking up the first sketch, Beth said, “This is the coach inn where we stayed our first night on the road. Many years later, Jack and I stopped there for a drink, and on the wall was a framed drawing Reed had made for the owner all those years ago. The new owner didn’t know the story behind it, and when we told him, he asked Jack and me to sign the back of it.”
Placing the next drawing on top of the one of the inn, Beth showed me Helmsley Hall, Jane Austen’s Netherfield Park, and the home of Charles Bingham and Jane Garrison during the early years of their marriage. It looked nothing like the house I had imagined. The drawing showed a very pretty three-story, red-brick Georgian manor, with one wing and a white porch and white-framed windows, but it wasn’t anywhere near as large as I had imagined it. Seeing my expression, Beth said, “It’s not as grand as Montclair, but it’s a good-sized manor home for the neighborhood.”
“But how many people could have attended a ball there?”
“More than you would think. In houses such as this, all of the public rooms were connected, and the furniture was pushed against the walls to make room for the dancers. I don’t know if the wing was there at the time Charles leased it, but if it was, the floor plan has a nice flow to it. If you recall, Jane Austen wrote in her novel that the Bennets’ neighborhood was made up of about twenty-four families. I would say this house could have accommodated that many couples.”