Rob was amused by my “Pride and Prejudice Project,” as he called it. As a show of support, he read the novel for the first time. He liked Elizabeth Bennet’s character but didn’t understand what she saw in Darcy, other than his money and big house. Rob considered Darcy to be a “stiff.”
“I have to be honest here because ‘disguise of every sort is my abhorrence,’” he said, quoting Mr. Darcy. “Did people actually talk like that?”
Jack and Beth suggested I go to Desmet Park in Kent, the Rosings Park of Pride and Prejudice, or if that was not possible, to Bennets End, the village that was the model for Meryton. Because of its easy distance from London, we could see it in a day trip. The next weekend, following Jack’s directions, Rob and I set out for Meryton in a car borrowed from one of Rob’s co-workers.
When we arrived in Bennets End, my idea was to ask the local postmaster if he knew the Edwards family, but Rob had a better idea and headed straight for the pub. We were directed to the lounge, where they had booths, and ordered two beers. The man taking our order shouted, “That’ll be two beers for the Yanks.” And with that, Rob saw his opening and told him that he had been a member of a B-17 crew flying from an airfield right here in Hertfordshire. Other men drifted over to our table and joined in the conversation. From then on, it was like old-home week. Nearly everyone in the pub had seen groups of bombers forming up before heading out on a mission, and if they hadn’t seen them, they had heard them or felt the vibrations, which shook buildings to their foundations.
After a few war stories, Rob asked if anyone knew the Edwards family. Joe Carlton was the first and loudest to say he remembered the family from when he was a boy and offered to take us out to the farm. During the ride, Joe said, “It’s too bad you didn’t come last year when the house was still standing. It survived the war but not the peace.”
Rob had driven about a mile from the pub when Joe told him to pull over. Making a wide sweep with his hand, he indicated that all the acreage before us had once belonged to the Edwards family. According to Joe, there had been a large house on the property, so it seemed reasonable to assume that, at one time, the farm had been profitable and had provided a nice living for the family.
“During the war,” Joe explained, “this whole area was one big Yank car park: jeeps, armored vehicles, artillery pieces, and trucks as far as the eye could see. Every country road was lined on both sides with steel bays holding artillery shells. Getting ready for the invasion, they were. Even then, the Edwards farmhouse was in terrible shape from years of neglect, but it was good enough for some of the officers, what with our English weather. The rest of the Yanks were living in those freezing Nissen huts, and they were the lucky ones. The ones who come last had to make due living in tents.
“What I remember is that there were two old-maid sisters and their brother living there in the 1930s. The brother had been shot in the head in Flanders. He could do the odd job, but not much more. When he died, they sold out and moved to Bournemouth, I think.”
Lighting up the cigarette Rob had offered him, as well as putting one behind his ear, Joe told us we were not the first ones to think this particular town might be Meryton. Maybe, I thought, because the farm was located in Bennets End. That might have been a clue.
Looking off into the distance, Joe said, “The government has bought up 5,000 acres around here, including the Edwards farm and my dad’s farm. They’re going to build houses for those poor bastards what was bombed out of their homes in London.” Joe started to laugh. “When the bigwigs come ’round to let us know what was going to happen, some of the meetings got pretty rough. The farmers don’t think it’s right for someone from London to tell us they’re going to turn our farmland into a town, and there’s sod all that can be done about it.”
Joe went quiet for a few minutes and then said, “Well, it was bound to happen, us being so close to London. Once people from the city start moving in, it’s all over. They come out to the country because it’s so beautiful. Everything’s terrific until the winds blow the smell of cow shit their way. It’s a big surprise to city folk that farms stink.” Shaking his head, he added, “Then you have all them soldiers and sailors coming home from the war and getting married. Now, their wives are having babies, and they need a place to live. They’ve got to live somewhere.”
Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “So why not here, is what I say. We can use the jobs.”
On the ride back to the village, Joe suggested that we “have a look at the graveyard up to the church. If this is Meryton, then some of them might be buried up there.” After Joe “bummed another fag,” we dropped him off at the pub.
The cemetery, with its heaving graves and tilted headstones, reminded me of the one in Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations where Magwitch was hiding when he met Pip. When we saw the size of the graveyard, we were a little discouraged, and our mood was matched by the rain that was just starting to come down. Walking the uneven ground, we quickly glanced at the names on the headstones, some so faded that they looked more like fingerprints than letters.
“I’m going to break a heel,” I yelled to Rob, who was on the other side of the cemetery. “That’s if I don’t sink into the ground first.” With the rain getting heavier, I was just about to give up when I saw it.
Henry W. Garrison
1775 — 1787
Francine Garrison
1750 — 1810
Thomas H. Garrison
1746 — 1815
I gave out a whoop, and Rob ran over to see what I had found. He showed the proper enthusiasm for my discovery before pointing out that we were getting drenched and that I was shivering. With my teeth chattering, I told Rob that this backed up a lot of what the Crowells had told me. Holding his coat over my head, he said, “Joe gave me the names of some towns that are better preserved and are probably closer to what people have in mind when they read about Meryton.” But with the rain coming down in sheets, we decided to put visiting other villages on the back burner. Instead, we would go to Kent. It seemed unlikely that Rosings Park could have met with the same fate as Longbourn.
Rob and I again borrowed a car from a co-worker at TRC and drove into Kent in search of the home of Jane Austen’s Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Kent was still quite rural even though it had been at the heart of Britain’s defense against the Luftwaffe. RAF pilots flew from airfields in Kent to intercept and destroy the bombers targeting Britain’s industrial cities, ports, and airfields, and concrete bases for the anti-aircraft guns could be seen jutting out of green pastures.
We easily found the church and decided to go into the office to see if someone could tell us anything about its history. Mrs. Ives was right out of central casting for a church secretary: late middle age, gray hair tied back in a chignon, and wearing a navy blue dress with embroidered white collar. She needed little encouragement to share what she knew about what was now a Methodist church, but the information she provided didn’t help our search at all.
Just as we were about to head for the door, Mrs. Ives said, “Did I mention that before this building was converted for use as the church’s office, it was the original parsonage?” Rob and I looked at each other and shook our heads. “If you look past the filing cabinets and desks, you might be able to picture this room as the parlor.” I felt my pulse jump because, if that was the case, then we were standing in the very room where William Lacey had made an offer of marriage to Elizabeth Garrison. I asked if there was anything else she knew about the parsonage, and she said, “Oh, yes. Quite a lot.”
“The parsonage was built around 1780 on land donated by the Desmet family. After the death of its first pastor, Dr. Augustine Anglum, Lady Sylvia Desmet gave the living to William Chatterton, who had written a monograph on Frederick Cornwallis, Archbishop of Canterbury and a friend of Lady Sylvia’s. If the name Cornwallis rings a bell, it’s because Frederick was the uncle of Charles Cornwallis, who surrendered the British forces to George Washington in Yorktown and ended the American war of rebellion.”
This might explain how Mr. Chatterton (Mr. Collins) came to the attention of Lady Sylvia. After reading the monograph he had written about her friend, Frederick Cornwallis, Lady Sylvia must have contacted Mr. Chatterton.
“Rev. Chatterton lived here until he accepted an appointment to serve at the Old Palace in Canterbury on the staff of the bishop who is the head of the Diocese of Dover.”
We thought she was going to keep going, but she stopped. “That’s it,” she said after realizing we were waiting for more. “Mr. Chatterton was not a Methodist minister but an Anglican vicar, so that’s it.”
Before leaving, I took one last look at the room where Elizabeth had learned that Will Lacey was in love with her and where he had made her an offer of marriage. I could just picture Will pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, struggling to find the right words to ask Lizzy to be his wife, and Lizzy, gripping the arms of the chair, getting angrier by the minute at his arrogance and conceit.
“I would have given the guy the finger and told him to take a hike” was Rob’s take on Will’s proposal to Lizzy.
Mrs. Ives said we were fortunate we were visiting now, as the whole structure was going to be torn down. As with Meryton, another piece of the Garrison/Lacey puzzle was about to disappear, but looking at the condition of the building, it was easy to see why it had to go. There wasn’t a plumb wall in the whole parsonage. As a nod to its former benefactress, the building was tilting toward Desmet Park.
“If you are thinking about going to Canterbury, I should tell you that the city was bombed heavily during the Baedeker raids. The cathedral had some damage, but the chapter library and many of the buildings near the cathedral were completely destroyed.” Neither Rob nor I had ever heard of the Baedeker raids, so I asked Mrs. Ives if they were a part of the Blitz.
“No, the Blitz was in 1940–41,” Mrs. Ives replied. “According to Lord Haw Haw, the British traitor used by the Nazis for their radio broadcasts, the Baedeker raids were in retaliation for the RAF bombing of German cities. Using Baedeker’s Guide to Great Britain, cities that received three stars in the tourist guide because of their historical importance were bombed by the Luftwaffe. Before Canterbury was bombed in June 1942, Exeter, Bath, and York were also bombed.”
After thanking Mrs. Ives for her help, we headed up the hill to Lady Sylvia’s manor house.
As we entered Desmet Park, we stepped into a huge foyer with vaulted coffered ceilings and black and white tile that could make you dizzy if you looked at it too long. The desk where the information clerk sat looked ridiculously small — almost Lilliputian — in relation to its surroundings. Watching us, the receptionist started laughing. “Everyone has the same reaction. It looks as if my desk was taken from a dollhouse. But that’s not the worst of it; it’s freezing in here.” She pointed to the sweater under her jacket and the space heater at her feet. We asked her if it was possible to view any of the rooms.
“Clive! Clive!” she shouted down the hall. “Lord, he’s going deaf.” She seemed reluctant to leave her space heater, but finally she stood up and said, “I’ll have to go find him.” Handing us a small booklet, she told us we could read about the mansion while she went to look for Clive.
Rob flipped through the booklet looking for interesting tidbits. “Desmet Park was built around 1675, shortly after the restoration of the Stuarts to the British throne following Oliver Cromwell’s death. Charles II, the new king, needed money, so he sold peerages to commoners for a lot of money, and that’s how the first Baron Desmet got the title. The house was built with defensive elements in its design, which accounts for the crenellated towers, and it once had a moat. Apparently, Lady Sylvia wanted a house that looked more like a country manor than a fortress, so she filled in the moat and had the fountain in the courtyard built with mosaics and marbles imported from Italy.”
After a few minutes, the receptionist returned to the foyer with an older man, whom we assumed to be Clive. “Clive has the time to take you around. He’s our handyman, but he gets bored just sitting and waiting for the next pipe to burst. He was asleep back there.”
My first impression of our guide was that he was an old pensioner filling in time, but Clive had a spring in his step, despite the weight of the tool belt he wore at all times because of the terrible condition of the building.
Our first stop was what had once been the formal reception room. During the war, Desmet Park had been used as headquarters for an American Army battalion, and as part of its conversion to an operations center, deckboard had been placed over the walls, and maps showing all of the landing beaches on Normandy were still pinned to it. Apparently, the battalion had moved all operations to France when the British troops on Sword Beach had linked up with the American troops on Omaha Beach on June 10th.
“The maps add to the ambience,” I whispered to Rob. “From the late military period.”
We told Clive of our interest in Pride and Prejudice and asked if Desmet Park could possibly be Rosings Park. Looking at the depressing interior, it didn’t seem likely. After repeating our question — he was more than a little hard of hearing — Clive shouted, “Look up! At the ceiling! What’s wrong with it?”
Rob answered that it was too low and that it didn’t fit with the size of the room. “It probably was lowered to install better lighting for its use as a war planning room.”
“Right you are! But there’s more to it than that.” Again pointing to the ceiling, Clive said, “Above that ceiling is a painting by James Thornhill, a contemporary of Laguerre and Verrio, reign of George II. The painting is a mythological allegory, and it takes up the whole bloody ceiling.” Clive’s little surprise delighted him and us.
“In the 1920s, a fellow named McFadden wrote a tourist book that listed where all the great art was in English and Scottish country houses. He never updated the bloody thing ’cause he’s probably dead, but no matter. You can see these tourists with McFadden’s book clutched to their bosoms marching up the hill to see the Thornhill.” He laughed at the thought. “They get pretty damn mad when they see that ceiling.”
Clive explained that Desmet Park was “a disaster waiting to happen” because of the threat of fire from an ancient electrical wiring system. “Even so, the trustees are thinking about putting advertisements in newspapers in the States and Canada. Remember, it has the Thornhill, which is why a lot of people come and have a look at it in the first place.” I asked if there were any Devereaux descendants still living, and Clive answered with a quirky smile that made you want to pinch his cheeks. “That line is deader than my granny.”
Clive took pride in his knowledge of the house and started to give us a rundown of all of its owners, beginning with the first Lord Desmet. We reminded him that we were looking for a connection between Desmet Park and Rosings Park.
“There’s a literary society that meets here once a month, and I’ve been told by these gray-haired lovelies that Jane Austen visited Kent quite often. Her brother, Edward, was adopted by the wealthy Knight family, and his estate, Godmersham, is less than twenty miles from here, and he had a very large family. Jane could have heard stories about Old Lady Desmet when she was visiting Edward or from her father’s cousins because he grew up here in Kent. Legend has it that Lady Sylvia was a real, um, unpleasant lady. I’ve seen her portrait, and I can tell you she had some beak on her.”
While Clive kept talking, we walked through the huge house. There certainly were things to admire: the gorgeous foyer, leadcrystal chandeliers, enormous fireplaces with elegant carvings and tile work, a beautiful staircase with a mahogany handrail, and the unseen Thornhill. But the Yanks had also done a very good job of converting it to a military office building.
“Lady Sylvia died in 1806, and after selling everything right down to the wallpaper, the daughter, Anne Desmet, moved to Bath and lived there until her death in the early 1820s. As far as I can tell, she never once came back here after she sold the house to Jacob Grissom, who made his money by selling gunpowder to the British during the Napoleonic Wars. Today, he’d be tried as a war profiteer; back then, he was a capitalist.”
Thanking Clive for the guided tour, we tried to give him a tip, but he refused, explaining that he was very partial to Yanks. “During the war, Kent was overrun with Americans. You couldn’t swing a cat without hitting a Yank. Naturally, there were soldiers in every town looking for a little fun. They got into quite a bit of mischief, but they also supported the local shops. You’d see the little ones running down the street after them, shouting, ‘Give us some gum, chum.’ They also handed out apples and oranges and told the kiddies to take them home to their mums.
“I think about all of those young American boys we seen every day for months, and then ‘poof,’ they were gone.” Looking up to a sky that was threatening rain, he said, “I seen more than one shot-up bomber flying overhead trying to make an emergency landing at one of the RAF airfields nearby.”
I think Clive felt that the conversation had become too serious, and an amused look came over his face. “You Yanks helped us in so many ways, including taking the local lovelies out for a good time because our lads were overseas. We’ll never forget you. We can’t. You left behind dozens of reminders, and they are all about four years old now.”