The Folly

by M C Beaton

  His voice tailed off.

  “Unless, of course,” Minerva finished for him, “Charles Blackwood gets there first.”

  “Is there any danger of that?”

  “I do not think there is any immediate danger. I heard rumours, I sense that Mr. Blackwood’s last marriage was not a happy one. That will make him cautious. But Rachel has a clever ally.”

  “That being?”

  “Miss Trumble, her governess, a sharp and scheming woman. She places Rachel like a chess piece neatly in Charles’s way on all occasions. Charles’s father is becoming enamoured of this governess.”

  “So what do you suggest, O wise Miss Santerton?”

  “I would suggest you approach the mother, Lady Beverley, without delay, and gain her permission to pay your address to her daughter.”

  He regarded her shrewdly. “What if I told you I was not interested in either Miss Rachel or Mannerling?”

  Minerva smiled at him sweetly. “I would not believe you.”

  He smiled back. “And what do I get if I do as you bid?”

  “You get my help and a large sum of money.”

  His eyes raked over her and he leaned back in his chair. “I have no need of money. Perhaps you could reward me in other ways.”

  “We will pretend that was never said.” Minerva rose to her feet. “I made a mistake.”

  “No, no, please be seated. I jest, and rather crudely, too. My sincere apologies.”

  Minerva sat down slowly. “Do you know who was behind those hauntings at Mannerling?”

  “This footman, surely.”

  “A mere footman would not go to such lengths. Someone was paying him.”

  “If you say so. I have no interest in what goes on at Mannerling.”

  “Only in the house itself?”

  “Yes, it fascinates me. I often dreamt of it.”

  “Why? When you had never seen it till you came here.”

  “Someone told me of it, in Barbados, where I sweated under the sun and dreamt of England. I came expecting the place to be nothing out of the common way and fell under its spell.”

  “I have heard of the enchantment of Mannerling,” said Minerva. “But to me, it is only a house, and one that is too far from the delights of London for my taste. So do we agree to help each other?”

  He held out his hand. She took it in her own and he shook it. “Remember the governess,” she warned. “She will make trouble for you.”

  “Why? I am a good parti.”

  “A feeling. Make your proposal and we will see.”

  Mr. Cater dressed carefully in his best the following day and rode over to Brookfield House. The weather was warm but wet and he learned from the maid who took his hat and gloves that the young ladies were abovestairs in the schoolroom with the Mannerling children and their governess. He said he had come to see Lady Beverley.

  Fortunately for Mr. Cater, it was not one of Lady Beverley’s many “sick” days. She received him in the drawing-room, which smelt of damp and disuse.

  “Mr. Cater,” said Lady Beverley after that gentleman had refused an offer of refreshment, “we are extremely glad to see you on this inclement day. Shall I summon my daughters?”

  “Not yet. I am here to ask your permission to pay my addresses to Miss Rachel.”

  “I did not expect this, sir!”

  “You must have noticed that my attentions to your daughter were particular.”

  “My daughters are so beautiful that I am accustomed to gentlemen paying them particular attention. Rachel is a pearl above price.”

  By which she means, thought Mr. Cater cynically, that there is no dowry worth mentioning.

  “I am a very rich man, my lady,” he said, “and would be able to furnish your daughter with every comfort. I understand”—here he gave a delicate cough—“I have been warned that there is little dowry but I am not interested in mere money.”

  Lady Beverley smiled on him fondly. “Well, well,” she said indulgently. “We must not rush matters. We will see what Rachel has to say to the matter, but I cannot think of anything against your suit. Our respective lawyers will deal with tiresome things like marriage settlements. Excuse me for a moment.”

  She swept out, leaving the door ajar. Lady Beverley met Miss Trumble on the stairs. “Such news,” she cried. “You must fetch Rachel immediately. Mr. Cater has asked my permission to pay his addresses to her.”

  Miss Trumble went very still. “I trust you did not give your permission, or rather, not yet.”

  “Are your wits wandering, woman? This is a rich planter. I will fetch Rachel myself.”

  To her amazement, Miss Trumble barred her way.

  “Step aside! You forget yourself!”

  “No, stay, my lady, listen to me. What do we really know of this Mr. Cater? He says he is a rich planter, but we have only his word for it. Rich men usually stay at private homes, having secured letters of introduction. He says that Lord Hexhamworth had told him of Mannerling, and yet he carries no letter from him. I have written to friends to find out what I can and await their reply. Do not turn him down, but tell him to give you time.”

  “You silly woman. The man is richly dressed and his horses are the talk of the neighbourhood.”

  “Who knows he even paid for them?” demanded the governess. “What if your daughter wed him and then disappeared, to be never heard of again? The Beverleys have suffered enough scandal. You cannot promise your daughter to a man whose background we know nothing of and who is staying at a common inn. I only beg a little more time, my lady. Only think how you would sink in General Blackwood’s esteem if you were party to a misalliance for your daughter!”

  “Perhaps I have been too hasty,” said Lady Beverley. “I will be cautious. Find out what you can.” She turned and went back down the stairs.

  Mr. Cater retreated quickly from the doorway of the drawing-room, where he had been listening intently to the conversation on the stairs. Damn that poxy governess. Something would have to be done.

  Lady Beverley returned. Mr. Cater listened as she said that she had been too hasty in accepting his proposition. Give it a little more time and get to know Rachel better, urged Lady Beverley.

  Mr. Cater received this with every appearance of good grace, secured a promise that he could take Miss Rachel driving on the morrow if the weather was fine, and took his leave.

  After he had gone, Lady Beverley paced up and down. She did not like the way this high-handed governess kept taking matters into her own hands. She would watch the post and when any letters arrived for Miss Trumble, she would read them herself and make up her own mind about any news they contained.

  Lady Evans received a call from Miss Trumble on the following day. “Letitia!” she cried. “You are welcome.”

  Miss Trumble sat down and heaved a little sigh. “Have any letters arrived for me in care of you?”

  “Two. I planned to send them over today by the footman. Not that I mind you using this address, Letitia, but why?”

  “Lady Beverley often thinks it is part of her position to open letters addressed to her daughters. I do not want her to look at mine. May I see them?”

  Lady Evans went to an escritoire in the corner and picked up two letters and handed them to Miss Trumble.

  “You will excuse me for a moment.” Miss Trumble opened the letters and scanned them swiftly. “No, they do not contain news of the mysterious Mr. Cater but of the Santertons. There is not much. Only that business about the late Mr. Santerton having died under mysterious circumstances. Minerva is considered of flighty temperament and given to outbursts of rage. But the general opinion is that she had nothing to do with her husband’s death. All hysterical gossip fuelled by the lady’s unpopularity in her county. Nothing really that I did not know already. I am awaiting news of Mr. Cater.”

  “Why?”

  “He wishes to propose to Rachel.”

  “Then she is very lucky. He is rich and handsome.”

  “And unknown. An
d residing at the Green Man and not at a private residence. I must find out more. Have you heard the news of the death at Mannerling?”

  “The footman? Yes, that Irish aunt of Fitzpatrick’s was amazing brave.”

  “She is an exceptional lady.”

  “So what is behind the trouble at Mannerling, unless this footman was simply deranged?”

  “That I do not know. Perhaps that wretched house has put its spell on the Santertons and they are trying to scare Charles Blackwood out of it, and yet Minerva obviously wants to marry him, in which case she would get Mannerling as well.”

  “I heard something of Charles Blackwood’s marriage,” said Lady Evans.

  “Indeed? What was it?”

  “Only rumours that his late wife was too free with her favours, and among her own servants, too.”

  “That might explain a certain sadness and reserve in him.”

  “Are you scheming to get him for one of your girls?”

  “I never scheme.”

  “And are you not supposed to be instructing the Mannerling children?”

  “Not today. Their father has taken them to some fair. Do you think it will rain?”

  “I do not think so.”

  “Pity.”

  “Why? You do not want to get wet on the road home.”

  “I just wanted to know that someone’s drive might be curtailed.”

  “Miss Rachel,” Mr. Cater was saying, “did your mama mention to you that I wish to pay my addresses to you?”

  Rachel looked at him, startled. “No, sir.”

  “But it would not distress you?”

  Rachel gazed down at her hands. Here was a chance of a good marriage to a rich and handsome man. It was unusual that her mother had not leaped at the offer. Charles’s face seemed to rise up before her.

  “What did my mother say?”

  “Lady Beverley suggested we give it a little more time.”

  “I think that is very wise,” said Rachel, her heart beginning to beat hard and her head full of confused and muddled thoughts.

  “I have plans,” he said slowly, “great plans. I have decided to return to the Indies soon and sell my property and settle in England. I need a good house, good land…and a wife.”

  “I am very honoured—very flattered,” said Rachel. “I realize you would like an answer before you return. Give me some time to think.”

  “As you will. But may I make a suggestion?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I feel that spinster of a governess has too much influence on your family. I would not discuss this with her.”

  “Miss Trumble is kind and wise.”

  “But what can a shrivelled-up old spinster know of marriage?”

  “I am sorry,” said Rachel stiffly. “I will brook no criticism of Miss Trumble.”

  “You must forgive me then. I am anxious to secure you.”

  Rachel cast a quick little sideways glance at his face. Perhaps, she thought, if he had claimed to be in love with her, had taken her in his arms, she might have been swayed. But there seemed nothing of the lover about him. They had reached Brookfield House. Rachel reluctantly offered him refreshment. He was about to accept when he saw Miss Trumble come out of the house and stand on the doorstep, awaiting their arrival. Her eyes were shrewd and assessing as she looked at him. He shook his head and declined Rachel’s offer.

  “I have been waiting for you,” said Miss Trumble, following Rachel into the house. “Did Mr. Cater propose to you?”

  Rachel nodded. “I asked him to give me a little more time, although he appears anxious to get an answer soon. He returns soon to the Indies and plans to sell up and buy a property in England.”

  “Interesting,” said Miss Trumble.

  “Do you think I should accept?”

  “That is for you to decide, Rachel, but we do not know anything about him, really, or his family, or his background. Perhaps we will find out something soon.”

  There was a rumble of carriage wheels outside. Miss Trumble went back to the doorway and looked out. “Why, it is Mr. Blackwood and the general and the children.”

  Rachel went out with her. Her heart lurched as she saw Charles. Was she really becoming enamoured of him, or was it because of Mannerling?

  Miss Trumble welcomed them all and ushered them into the parlour and then went to fetch her mistress. The children were bubbling with excitement over their day at the fair. Beth sat on Rachel’s lap and Mark at her feet as with shining eyes they described their day.

  “Now, now,” she interrupted them at last. “Let me remove my bonnet and gloves. I am just this minute returned from a drive.”

  Lady Beverley, Belinda, Lizzie, and Miss Trumble entered the room just in time to hear Rachel’s last sentence.

  “Ah, you had a pleasant time with Mr. Cater, I hope?” asked Lady Beverley. She turned to the general. “Mr. Cater is desirous of wedding our little Rachel, but our stern governess demands caution. But then elderly spinsters were always cautious, were they not?”

  “Mama!” protested Lizzie.

  Charles looked sharply at Rachel. He had always thought her a pretty girl, but far too young for him, and then that Beverley obsession with Mannerling was always at the back of his mind. But there was something so lovable about her, so vulnerable, as she sat there with Beth on her knees and Mark at her feet.

  She looked up then and met his eyes and found herself trapped in his gaze. Her cheeks flushed pink.

  “And did you accept the proposal?” asked Charles.

  “I do not know what to do,” said Rachel. “I think it would be better to wait a little to find out more about our Mr. Cater.”

  Rachel urged Beth down onto the floor next to Mark, for her legs had begun to tremble under that gaze. She was intensely aware of him and at the same time frightened to look at him again.

  “So how do you go on, Miss Trumble?” asked the general. “You should have been with us this day to keep these unruly brats in order.”

  “You should have asked me to accompany you, dear General,” said Lady Beverley just as if she had never damned fairs as vulgar. “I am excellent with children.”

  As she never even looked at Mark or Beth or talked to them, the general wondered if she had even had much conversation with her own daughters.

  He was irritated with Lady Beverley and he had not liked that remark about elderly spinsters one bit.

  “We should be pleased to see you at Mannerling soon, Miss Trumble,” said the general. “The gardens are looking very fine.”

  “The gardens were always accounted beautiful,” said Lady Beverley before Miss Trumble could reply. “And yes, we would be delighted to accept your invitation. Would tomorrow be suitable?”

  The general rolled his eyes at his son, but Mark cried excitedly, “Please say you’ll come, Rachel. We can have such larks!”

  “It is up to your father,” said Rachel quietly.

  “Miss Rachel to you, Mark,” said Charles, sounding half-amused, half-exasperated. “Oh, very well. I shall send the carriage for you all at three.”

  “Unfortunately, Miss Trumble will be needed here.” Lady Beverley smoothed the folds of her gown, a hard little smile on her face.

  “In that case,” said the general, “we will leave it until Miss Trumble is free.”

  “What is it that you wish Miss Trumble to do?” asked Rachel. “Perhaps I could stay behind and help.”

  “Now I come to think of it,” said her mother, throwing her a baffled look, “it was but a trifling matter and can wait until another day. Yes, we are pleased to accept your invitation, Mr. Blackwood.”

  They rose to take their leave. The girls and Lady Beverley walked out to the carriage with them.

  Charles took Rachel’s hand in his and bent and kissed it. “Until tomorrow,” he said. She felt a surge of sheer gladness rush through her body. She smiled at him suddenly, a blinding, bewitching smile. He smiled back until an impatient little cough from Lady Beverley broug
ht him to his senses and he realized he was holding her hand in a tight grip.

  After they had gone, Rachel went up to her room and locked the door. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

  Mr. Cater was in the drawing-room at Mannerling. “You had the right of it,” he said to Minerva. “She has not accepted my proposal…yet…and I know it is all the fault of that governess. Rachel don’t rate her own mother very highly, but she dotes on that shrivelled bag of bones.”

  “Such an old woman,” cooed Minerva. “The old are so frail and subject to heart attacks, apoplexies…and…er…accidents.”

  They both regarded each other for a moment and then Mr. Cater gave a little nod.

  Charles entered the room and stopped short at the sight of Mr. Cater.

  “My apologies.” Mr. Cater rose to his feet and made his best bow. “I was passing and called to see you.”

  “Do not let me delay your departure,” said Charles stiffly.

  “We have had such a comfortable coze,” said Minerva brightly. “Mr. Cater has proposed to Rachel Beverley.”

  “Indeed,” remarked Charles, his face stiff.

  “I will walk downstairs with you.” Minerva got up gracefully and looped the lace train of her gown over her arm. Minerva was very fond of trains and Charles wondered if she would ever take her leave or whether Mannerling was to be perpetually haunted by the swish of her gowns on the stairs or along the corridors.

  “He looks on me as a rival,” muttered Mr. Cater as they went downstairs. “I can see it on his face.”

  “Then do something about that governess,” hissed Minerva. “Leave Blackwood to me.”

  She turned and went back upstairs. “Such a charming man, Mr. Cater,” she sighed. “Rachel Beverley would do very well to marry him. Of course we all know what is holding her back.”

  “That being?” demanded Charles moodily.

  “I think your intimacy with the Beverleys has raised their hopes of getting back into Mannerling again.”

  “I do not think that troubles them any longer.” Charles leaned with one hunched shoulder against a curtain and stared out moodily across the park.