by M C Beaton
She gave a tinkling little laugh. “With their ambitious reputation? Do not be so naïve. If the daughter’s ambition is not apparent to you, only look at the mother. She would have demanded her daughter marry Mr. Cater were she not so blatantly setting her cap at the general.”
“I have things to attend to.” Charles strode from the room. But the poison she had poured in his ear worked its way into his brain. Had he not suffered enough from having been married to a jade who had only wanted his money?
But he now hated Minerva with a passion for having disillusioned him. The happiness and elation he had felt earlier were all gone. He went in search of his father and found him in the library.
“Father!”
“Hey, m’boy, you look like the devil. What’s amiss?”
“I think the Santertons have outstayed their welcome and I am anxious to see them gone.”
“Difficult,” said the general. “Short of telling ’em bluntly to get out, I don’t think you’ll move them. Anyway, Minerva Santerton wants you to propose and she’ll hang around until all hope is gone.”
“And how is all hope to go?”
“Wouldn’t fancy that pretty Rachel, would you?”
“I have no desire to realize the Beverley ambitions of getting Mannerling back.”
“Apart from the mother, I don’t think they have any. Tell you what, you could tell Minerva that you are proposing marriage to the Beverley chit. Bet you she leaves prompt.”
“And what if Miss Rachel finds out from Minerva that I am supposed to be about to propose to her?”
“Well, she won’t. What’s Minerva going to do, hey? Ride over to Brookfield House and make a scene? Hardly. Tell her, my boy, she’ll go off, and then you’ll be free of the woman and her boring brother.”
Charles paced up and down. “It might work. I think it might just work. I’ll do it!”
At dinner that evening, Charles said, “I was taken aback by your remarks about the Beverleys, Miss Santerton.”
“Minerva,” she corrected with a smile.
“You see,” said Charles earnestly, “I myself have proposed to Rachel and been accepted.”
Minerva’s eyes flashed blue fire.
“You said nothing of this!”
“There was really no reason for me to discuss my private affairs,” said Charles.
“But is this official?”
“Not yet,” put in the general. “Rachel and Charles have got to get to know each other a little better before Lady Beverley calls down the lawyers and marriage settlements on all our heads. It’s still all a secret. Pray do not say anything.”
George Santerton had been drinking, as usual, too much before he even sat down to dinner.
“May as well leave tomorrow, sis,” he said sleepily. “Nothing for you here.”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” snapped Minerva. She had a determined chin and a Roman nose. How odd, thought Charles, that he had not noticed before how prominent her nose was.
“But,” she went on, “I had intended to announce our immediate departure. May I wish you joy? The Beverleys will be in alt at having their ambitions fulfilled.”
“As to that, if you mean to regain Mannerling, that will not be the case,” said Charles.
“How so?” slurred George.
“I have decided I do not like the place. Is that not so, Father? We plan to sell.”
“That’s it, my boy,” said the general, although the sale of Mannerling was news to him.
“And little Miss Rachel knows of this proposed sale?” demanded Minerva, her eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” said Charles, deciding to add one more lie.
“You amaze me.” Minerva picked fretfully at the food on her plate. “I have the headache. Be so good as to summon my maid. It has been kind of you both to entertain us, but I pine for home and will repair there on the morrow.”
Charles found he was almost feeling sorry for her as she trailed from the room, another of those long trains of hers swishing across the floor. George Santerton, however, had no intention of leaving the table before he had demolished several more bottles of wine. Charles suppressed a sigh. One more boring evening, but tomorrow he would be shot of the pair of them.
But before Minerva left the dining-room, Mark and Beth, who had been listening outside the door, scampered off up the stairs.
“There you are!” exclaimed Mark when they reached the privacy of his room. “You said it was wrong to listen at doors, but Papa is to be married, and to our Rachel! And that horrible Minerva woman is leaving.”
“We are not supposed to know,” cautioned Beth.
“Won’t say a word. And selling this place! I shall be glad to say goodbye to Mannerling.” Mark lowered his voice. “This house does not like us.”
“Pooh, that was that footman,” said Beth, but her voice trembled.
“I did not mean to frighten you. I just made that up,” said Mark quickly, proving that he could lie as well as his father.
The last light was leaving the sky as Miss Trumble stood in the garden talking to Barry. “The sad thing is,” she said, “that Rachel is very aware of Charles Blackwood and she would be good for his children, but I do not think she has much hope there. He looks on her with affection, it is true, but I fear the scandal about the Beverleys’ ambitions will stop his feelings from becoming anything warmer. I told you how I counselled Lady Beverley to wait until I found out more about our Mr. Cater, and yet I am worried that I might be stopping Rachel from seizing hold of a good marriage.”
“And yet there is something about Mr. Cater you do not like?”
“It is not quite that. It is simply that he is not very forthcoming about his family or background. But I should hear from my friends quite soon.”
“You have many influential friends, miss.”
“I have worked in many important households. My employers were and still are very kind to me. I must go to bed now. Good night, Barry.”
Barry went to shut the hens up for the night and Miss Trumble made her way slowly across the lawn.
The night was very still and quiet. Then an owl flew out of the branch of a cedar tree above her head. She swung round to watch its flight.
And that was when she saw a black masked figure in the moonlight, racing across the garden towards her, cudgel raised.
For one second she stood still in amazement and then, with an agility surprising in one so old, she picked up her skirts and ran, screaming “Help!” at the top of her voice.
Barry darted out of the hen-house, saw the distant flutter of Miss Trumble’s skirts as she rounded the house, saw the pursuer, and with a great roar began to run, grabbing a spade as a weapon.
Miss Trumble’s pursuer heard the thud of feet behind him and swung round, cudgel raised. Barry stood panting, his spade at the ready. Miss Trumble’s cries could now be heard from inside the house.
The man lunged at Barry, who jumped nimbly back and then swung his spade, catching the man on the hip. He grunted with pain and turned and began to run, Barry after him. As he reached the brook that ran along the boundary of the garden, Barry swung the spade again and brought it down on the man’s head. He stumbled and fell face down in the brook.
Barry stopped, turned him over, and ripped off the mask. In the brief glimmer of light before the moon was obscured by the cloud, he found himself looking down at a face he did not know.
Josiah, the one-legged cook, was making his way across the grass, holding a lantern. Barry turned. “Bring the light here,” he called.
But just as he turned, the man on the ground leaped to his feet and ran off through the brook and over the fields beyond like a hare. Barry swore under his breath and set off after him again, but the clouds were gathering overhead and the night was black, and soon he realized he had lost him.
When he returned to the house, it was to find everyone awake.
“I lost him,” said Barry to Miss Trumble, who was being comforted by Rach
el.
“Did you get a look at him?” asked Miss Trumble.
“I took off his mask. Never saw the fellow before. Must have been some footpad. I’ll need to ride to Hedgefield and rouse the constable and the militia.”
“Do not be away all night,” cautioned Lady Beverley. “You are to act as footman on the visit to Mannerling on the morrow and we will all need our sleep.”
“Really, Mama,” protested Lizzie. “Miss Trumble could have been killed. The man may come back.”
“I’ll go to the farm and get farmer Currie to send two fellows over to keep guard while I am gone,” said Barry. “And Josiah has the shotgun primed.”
Rachel finally helped Miss Trumble upstairs to bed. “Who would attack you?” asked Rachel. “Did someone think you were the mistress of the house?”
Miss Trumble sat down wearily on the bed. “I do not know.” For some reason she kept remembering urging Lady Beverley not to accept Mr. Cater’s proposal, remembering now that she was sure she had heard footsteps from the drawing-room downstairs, retreating from the door. But to think that a rich gentleman such as Mr. Cater would pay some thug to attack her was surely far-fetched.
“Tell me, Rachel,” she said, “what do you think of Mr. Cater?”
“He is all that is pleasant and he is extremely suitable, and yet…”
“What is it?”
“Just something. Perhaps the thought of going abroad and leaving you all. He talks of selling up in the Indies and returning here, but perhaps that might not happen. Do you think I should accept him?”
“I cannot give you an answer yet. Give me a little more time. I would like to know more about him. I will do very well now, child. Go to bed. Lady Beverley will want us all to look our best for the visit.”
Rachel went to her own room, wishing she did not feel so dragged down, wishing somehow that she could accept Mr. Cater’s proposal, for she was sure she would never receive another.
Certainly not one from Charles Blackwood!
Chapter Six
Whoever loves, if he do not propose
The right true end of love, he’s one that goes
To sea for nothing but to make him sick.
—JOHN DONNE
WITH THE EXCEPTION of Lady Beverley, who was in high spirits, it was a subdued party who set out the following afternoon.
Miss Trumble was heavy-eyed and Belinda and Lizzie worried. Rachel was thinking about seeing Charles Blackwood again and willing herself to discover that he was not out of the common way so that she could settle her mind and marry Mr. Cater.
It was a fine day, with large fluffy clouds sailing across a blue sky. To Rachel’s delight, she recognized the carriage from Perival outside the porticoed front of Mannerling.
Mark and Beth ran out to meet Rachel as she descended from the carriage, their eyes shining with excitement.
“Well, you two look very happy,” said Rachel, stooping to give Beth a kiss.
“It’s our secret,” crowed Mark. “And the Santertons have left.”
“When?” demanded Lizzie.
“This very morning.”
“I wonder what made them finally go,” mused Belinda.
“Rachel knows,” said Mark with a grin.
Rachel looked at him sharply. “No, I don’t!”
Mark put a finger to his lips. “Nearly forgot. Big secret.”
They went into the house and up to the drawing-room, where Isabella and Mrs. Kennedy were already seated with Charles and the general.
“And how do you go on?” the general asked Miss Trumble.
Before the governess could speak, Rachel said, “Poor Miss Trumble. She was nearly killed last night.”
“Hey, what?” demanded the general, looking startled. There was a babble of excited questions. Lady Beverley frowned majestically, not liking Miss Trumble to be the centre of attention.
Miss Trumble told of her adventures in a calm, level voice.
“But who would dare do such a thing?” demanded the general.
“We live in troubled times,” said Miss Trumble. “The constable and the militia are scouring the area. I believe Mr. and Miss Santerton are left?”
Mark let out a chuckle of laughter and Beth said, “Shhh!”
“Yes, they had been here for some time,” said Charles easily. “I believe Miss Santerton missed the delights of London.” He turned to Mrs. Kennedy. “And how are you after your adventures?”
“Very well,” said the Irishwoman. “But, faith, it’s not every day I kill a man.”
“I doubt if we shall ever get to the bottom of that mystery,” said Charles with a sigh.
“And how is Mr. Cater?” asked Mrs. Kennedy.
“I do not really know the man,” remarked Charles, his eyes resting for a moment on Rachel’s flushed face.
“But Miss Santerton knew him.”
“I believe she knew him slightly. Miss Santerton met him when he came here to see the house, and then she entertained him one day recently when he called when I was out.”
“And they were seen together having a long conversation in the Green Man,” pursued Mrs. Kennedy.
Charles looked at her in surprise and the Irishwoman’s shrewd eyes twinkled back at him. “Ah, well, sure she’s gone and didn’t get the proposal she expected, but she must have lost hope, and I thought that one would never lose hope.”
“Oh, but she learned Papa is to marry someone else,” burst out Mark and then turned red in the face as his father glared at him.
Had it been left at that, the subject would have been changed, for Lady Beverley so much wanted to draw the general’s attention to herself, but the general said crossly, “You must not tell lies, Mark.”
Mark looked at him miserably. “I don’t tell lies! I don’t! I was passing the dining-room door with Beth last night and I heard him tell Miss Santerton that he was to wed our Rachel.”
“I am afraid you must have misheard us,” said his father coldly.
Beth sprang to her brother’s defence. “But I heard you too, Papa, and we are in alt to have Rachel as a mama. You did say so.”
Lady Beverley sat opening and shutting her mouth.
Charles groaned inwardly.
“Perhaps I had better explain how such a misunderstanding came to arise. Your arm, Miss Rachel.”
Rachel’s heart seemed to have gone straight from heaven to hell in one sickening lurch.
For one dizzying moment, she had thought it might be true, that Charles meant to propose to her, and then she had seen the look on his face and his voice saying he must explain how the misunderstanding had arisen.
“One moment.” Lady Beverley arose. “You cannot take my daughter away for a private discussion without her being strictly chaperoned.”
“I am sure Mr. Blackwood means to take Rachel for a walk in the garden,” said Miss Trumble quickly.
“Yes, indeed, Mama, I shall do very well. Come along, Mr. Blackwood.” Rachel felt she was in for enough misery without her mother adding to it.
They walked together down the staircase. A footman was up on a tall ladder polishing the crystals of the chandelier in the Great Hall. The sun shining down from the cupola cast the footman’s elongated shadow across the hall. The crystals tinkled as he worked among them; they sounded in Rachel’s ears like a sort of unkind, mocking laughter. It was in that moment that all her old love of her former home left her. Mannerling stood for Beverley misery and Beverley humiliation.
They walked slowly across the lawns in the direction of the folly. “How do I begin?” said Charles at last. “You must understand my distress and increasing dislike of having the Santertons resident under my roof. It was not only obvious to me but to everyone else that Miss Santerton thought she had only to wait at Mannerling for as long as she could and a proposal of marriage would be inevitable. Last night my father suggested a ruse to get rid of them. He suggested I tell them that I was betrothed to you in secret. The plot worked, but my wretched children we
re listening at the door. Please accept my humble apologies.”
They had reached the folly and stood together looking down at the waters of the lake.
“You have been a good friend to my children,” Charles went on when she remained silent. “And when we leave Mannerling for a new direction, I will write to you, if I may, and tell you how they go on.”
“By all means,” said Rachel in a voice husky with unshed tears. Then she looked at him, startled, as the full import of his words sank in. “You plan to sell Mannerling?”
“As soon as possible.”
Rachel gave a little shiver, although the day was warm.
The she said bravely, “I accept your apology, Mr. Blackwood. I am glad this misunderstanding has been cleared up. I do not plan to tell my fiancé of it.”
It was his turn to look startled. “Your fiancé?”
“Yes, Mr. Cater,” said Rachel. “I have decided to accept him.”
“I hope you will be very happy. Shall we return to the house?”
The grass was starred with daisies and Rachel felt she had counted every one in her path, for she kept her eyes firmly on the grass, frightened that if she looked at him, he would see the hurt and loss in her eyes.
Her fair hair was almost silver in the sunlight and a tendril of escaping hair curled on her neck. She looked young and vulnerable.
“Will you be happy going to the Indies?” he asked.
“It will be an adventure, sir.”
“And when is the wedding to take place?”
“As to that, there are lawyers to consult. Marriage settlements, all that sort of thing,” said Rachel miserably.
The children flew across the lawns to meet them. “Is Rachel to be our new mama?” cried Mark.
“No,” said Charles. “As I explained, it was all a misunderstanding. Miss Rachel is to marry Mr. Cater.”
“She cannot!” said Mark passionately.
“Behave yourself. Both of you go to your rooms and stay there until I decide what to do with you,” roared Charles.
Hand in hand, they trailed off.
“They are only children,” protested Rachel. “Please do not be harsh with them.”
