The Folly

by M C Beaton

  “I am still embarrassed over my silly lie. I will not be angry with them any more.”

  “Such a silly lie,” echoed Rachel dismally. She pinned a bright smile on her face and said with as much cheerfulness as she could summon up, “Do not tell anyone about my engagement to Mr. Cater. I would rather keep it secret until it is official.”

  “You may depend on me.”

  They walked slowly up the staircase. So Rachel Beverley would wed the suspicious Mr. Cater. Charles scowled suddenly. He did not trust that man. But surely, when all the lawyers got together, the facts about Mr. Cater would emerge. But why should he think that? England abounded in crooked lawyers. Rachel with the delicate features, the blue eyes and fair hair would be transported to the other side of the world, and he would probably never see her again. He had shied clear of her because of the tales of the Beverleys’ ambitions to reclaim Mannerling. And yet, she had received the news that he was about to sell the place with no protest, no reaction. Perhaps, he thought cynically, she was hoping a new owner might prove easier prey. And then he thought that unworthy. What was up with him? He wanted to shake her. And, at the same time, he wanted her to shout at him and berate him for having lied about their engagement. He could not guess from Rachel’s apparently calm exterior that all she wanted to do was to run away somewhere and cry her eyes out.

  When they entered the drawing-room, everyone promptly stopped talking and gazed at them inquiringly. “I have apologized for any silly misunderstanding,” said Charles with a lightness he did not feel. “My children should not listen at doors.”

  “Where are they?” asked Miss Trumble.

  “They have been sent to their rooms.”

  “I will go to them.” Miss Trumble rose.

  “Might come along as well,” said the general, heaving himself out of his armchair.

  Lady Beverley gave an audible click of annoyance. “Please do not trouble, General,” said Miss Trumble quickly. “I think they will need a talk from their governess.”

  Isabella covertly studied Rachel’s face. Rachel was now laughing at something Mrs. Kennedy was saying. Isabella, who knew her husband’s aunt very well, realized that Mrs. Kennedy was telling one of her tall Irish stories to amuse Rachel and let her keep her countenance. But had Rachel been wounded, thought Isabella, through the loss of Mr. Blackwood, or because of the loss of hopes of Mannerling?

  Miss Trumble found the children together in Mark’s room. “Now you are in the suds,” she said cheerfully. “Listening at doors, indeed.”

  “But we were so excited when we thought Papa would marry Rachel,” said Beth dismally. “Now he won’t, and he will perhaps find a lady like Miss Santerton instead.”

  “Now, you both must have guessed that he did not like Miss Santerton one bit.”

  Mark nodded dismally and then said, “But why does he not like our Rachel?”

  “You cannot force your father to wed someone just because you like that person. Were you listening at the dining-room door?”

  Beth and Mark exchanged glances and then Mark said defiantly, “We are sorry. It was all my fault. But it is a bad habit I was wont to indulge in when Miss Terry was our governess. She was always complaining about us and I wanted to know what she was saying.”

  “Do not do such a thing again,” said Miss Trumble.

  “No, I won’t,” promised Mark, “or Beth either. But it is such a pity Rachel is to marry Mr. Cater.”

  Miss Trumble went very still. “Where did you come by that idea?”

  “Why, Rachel must have told Papa, for he told us so in front of her and she did not correct him.”

  Miss Trumble smiled bleakly, her mind racing. She felt she could see it all: Rachel, learning that she had simply been used as a ruse to get rid of the Santertons—for the general had explained the game when Rachel was out walking with Charles—had said she was engaged to Cater to counter her humiliation, had probably even decided to accept Mr. Cater.

  Miss Trumble became anxious to escape to Lady Evans and find out if those letters for her had arrived.

  She promised to read more about pirates to the children after their lessons on the following day and returned to the drawing-room.

  Lady Beverley, hearing of her governess’s desire to leave because of a headache, would normally have protested, the ailments of servants being no concern of hers, but she was anxious to remove Miss Trumble from the general’s orbit and so agreed, and a carriage was ordered for Miss Trumble.

  Once clear of Mannerling, Miss Trumble told the coachman to drive to Hursley Park instead, the home of Lady Evans.

  But no letters for her had arrived. Miss Trumble left feeling dejected. She must talk to Rachel as soon as the girl arrived home and beg her to wait a little longer before making her decision.

  After their guests had left, the general and his son sat in silence. The lamps had not yet been lit and long shadows fell across the drawing-room.

  “Well, that’s that,” said the general at last. “I’m sorry, you know, that you did not settle on little Miss Rachel.”

  “Just as well,” said Charles gloomily. “She is to marry Cater.”

  “Have a knack of securing rich husbands, those Beverleys. If we’re selling this place, maybe Cater will buy it. Seems monstrous keen on Mannerling.”

  “And I will always be haunted by the fear that this man none of us knows much about paid my footman to haunt us.”

  “Any way of finding out?”

  “Watch and wait. In fact, I have a mind not to sell Mannerling until the fellow takes himself off, just to make sure.”

  “Hey, my boy, what if your suspicions are correct? Rachel Beverley deserves better.”

  “I cannot interfere and stop the marriage. I have no right to interfere in her life.”

  A footman came in and began to light the oil-lamps. The general waited until he had left. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I’ve been thinking of getting married myself.”

  “Miss Trumble?”

  His father nodded.

  “Normally I would protest strongly at the idea of you marrying a governess, but Miss Trumble is exceptional. She would be very good for Mark and Beth.”

  “Just what I thought,” said the general. “So I have your blessing?”

  “Yes, but a word of caution. There is something very grande dame about Miss Trumble. Do not be surprised if she refuses you.”

  “Why should she? She’s old like me and cannot go on working forever, and that Lady Beverley don’t strike me as the sort to take care of an old servant.”

  “If she does refuse you,” said Charles, “see if you can beg her to leave those Beverleys and come to us. The girls are all too old for a governess.”

  “I’ll do my best, but she’ll accept me. No doubt about that!”

  The Beverleys had almost reached home when the Mannerling coach lurched to a halt. Lady Beverley let down the glass. “Why, it is our Mr. Cater,” she cried, recognizing the planter, who was driving his curricle. “Do you care to come to Brookfield House and take some refreshment, sir?”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Mr. Cater. “Perhaps I might have the honour of escorting Miss Rachel home?”

  “But it is near dark and the carriage-lamps have been lit!”

  Rachel gathered up her reticule. “I will go with Mr. Cater,” she said. “It is only a short way.”

  Lizzie watched wide-eyed as Rachel left the Mannerling carriage and was helped into Mr. Cater’s curricle. “Never say she is going to accept him, Mama!”

  “And why not?” asked Lady Beverley. “He is a good parti.”

  “But she would be so far away and we would not know how she fared,” wailed Lizzie.

  “Tish, letters arrive from all over the world.”

  “So you have given up hopes of Mannerling?” asked Belinda.

  “Not I,” said Lady Beverley with a little smile.

  “But you heard Mr. Charles,” protested Lizzie. “If he had any interest in
Rachel at all, he would not have used her in that heartless way to get rid of Minerva and then tell her it was all a hum.”

  “That was certainly bad of him,” said her mother. “But I cannot be at odds with my future stepson.”

  “Mama.” Lizzie looked at her uneasily. “You surely do not believe the general is going to propose to you.”

  “I am very sure. I have noticed the way he looks at me.”

  Belinda said cautiously, “But have you not noticed how he favours Miss Trumble?”

  “Pah, a man of the general’s standing would never propose to a mere governess. No, my chucks, we will soon be back at Mannerling.”

  Lizzie noticed that they were now passing Mr. Cater’s curricle. Rachel and Mr. Cater could be seen in the light of the carriage-lamps sitting side by side, talking earnestly. She gave a little shiver of dread. Mannerling had made things go wrong again. Mannerling had turned against them. Lizzie always felt Mannerling was a living presence.

  “I am delighted you have decided to accept my proposal of marriage,” said Mr. Cater. “And delighted at your news that Blackwood is to sell Mannerling. I shall make him an offer and beg him to wait until I sell my property in Barbados.”

  Rachel felt she should ask him about himself, about his family, but a great weight of depression had settled on her shoulders.

  “Shall we discuss this with Lady Beverley tonight?”

  She realized he was asking her. “Oh, n-no,” stammered Rachel. “Not tonight. I am tired. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I shall call on you at three o’clock,” he said, “and then we shall both drive over to Mannerling and get a promise on the property.”

  And Charles would think that was the only reason she was marrying Mr. Cater, thought Rachel dismally. And that was when she realized that she did not want to marry Hercules Cater.

  Mr. Cater decided to drive back to Hedgefield, rather than be entertained by Lady Beverley, and Rachel was glad to see him go and to escape him after having to endure only a kiss on her hand.

  “Rachel!” cried Miss Trumble, who was waiting in the small dark hall for her.

  “No,” said Rachel vehemently. “Not now! I do not want to talk now.”

  Charles Blackwood sat in a chair by the window of his bedroom and looked out over the moonlit lawns. Rachel’s face kept rising before his mind’s eye. The fact that she was to marry Mr. Cater appeared to have focused his thoughts wonderfully. He could think of nothing else. What kind of man was Cater? Charles suspected there was a brutal streak in him. He clutched his hair. How could he have been so blind? Pictures of Rachel playing with his children flitted through his mind, to be then replaced with dark pictures of Rachel being initiated into the mysteries of the marriage bed by Cater.

  He could not propose to her himself. Not now. He had told her quite plainly how he had used her name to get rid of the Santertons. What must she think of him?

  And yet, her engagement was not official. Had she any feelings for him at all?

  He was convinced she was accepting Cater because the man was apparently rich. If only he could talk to her. If only his late wife’s memory had not soured him so much.

  He had never thought of himself as passionate or impulsive, but now all he wanted to do was to ride over to Brookfield House, get down on his knees, and beg her to accept him before it was too late.

  He shifted restlessly in his chair. Perhaps he would get dressed and walk across to the folly and let the fresh night air cool his thoughts.

  He dressed hurriedly, without ringing for his servant, putting on only a thin frilled cambric shirt, breeches, and top-boots over his small-clothes, for the night was close and warm.

  He walked along the corridor and so down the great staircase of Mannerling. He had come to detest this house, filled as it was with sad memories.

  He walked across the daisy-starred lawns under the moonlight to where the slim pillars of the folly shone white against the still waters of the lake.

  He leaned against one of the pillars, his heart heavy and sad. There was nothing he could do. He was bound by the fetters of convention. He would need to let events take their course. But how he ached for her and how he realized now what he had lost.

  And then an outside sound crept into the noisy tumult of his thoughts. He heard the steady movement of oars on the lake.

  He stiffened. Some poacher, no doubt, using his boat to poach fish in his lake!

  He strode out of the folly on down to the water’s edge.

  And then he saw the glimmer of a white gown and the silver shine of fair hair in the moonlight and his heart lurched.

  “Rachel!” he called softly. And then louder, “Rachel!”

  A weary little voice reached his ears from across the water.

  “Alas, I am caught trespassing again.”

  “Come here! Come here to me!”

  The little boat headed for the jetty.

  He went down to meet her.

  He had meant to be polite and calm, now that he was sure he had accepted the inevitability of her marriage, but as she reached the jetty, he saw the shine of tears on her face. He bent down and took the painter and secured the boat with shaking hands.

  Then he stooped and lifted her bodily from the boat, cradling her in his arms, saying, “Rachel, oh, Rachel, do not cry, my little love.”

  She gave a muffled little sob and wound her arms about his neck and he bent and kissed her mouth, tasting the salt of her tears, kissed her mouth over and over again in the moonlit stillness of the night.

  At last he said huskily, “How could I have been so stupid?” He set her on her feet and stood looking down at her, his hands on her shoulders. “How did you get here?”

  “I walked,” said Rachel. “I could not sleep. Mr. Cater is to call tomorrow to propose officially. I had not accepted him before, but I was…hurt…in the way that you had used me to get rid of the Santertons.”

  “You must not marry him. We belong together, you and I. Oh, kiss me again, Rachel, and say that you forgive me, that you will marry me.”

  “What am I to do?” she said wretchedly. “Mr. Cater calls tomorrow.”

  “Then you must refuse him. It is not official and you are allowed to change your mind. When does he call?”

  “At three in the afternoon.”

  “I will wait until a little after that and then ask your mother for your hand in marriage.”

  “Mama does not know you plan to sell Mannerling,” said Rachel. “Do not tell her until later.”

  “Will it matter very much to you if we do not live here?”

  Rachel took a little breath and said firmly, “I would like to live as far away from Mannerling as possible.”

  He kissed her again and caressed her breasts through the thin stuff of her gown until she groaned against his mouth.

  At last he said raggedly, “Let me take you home before I forget myself.” Holding her hand, he led her back across the lawns to the stables. “Quietly,” he warned. “I’ll saddle up a horse. I do not want the servants to see you.”

  Soon, holding her tightly in front of him, he rode out of the Mannerling estate.

  When they reached Brookfield House, he dismounted and then lifted her tenderly down from the saddle, kissing her again.

  “One more day, my heart, and all will be resolved,” he murmured.

  “Oh, Charles, there is one more difficulty.”

  “Yes?”

  “I fear Mama expects the general to propose to her.”

  “Then Lady Beverley is in for a shock. My father is going to propose marriage to your Miss Trumble.”

  “Oh, how wonderful. Her future will be secured.”

  “If she accepts him. Go in now, Rachel, and dream of me.”

  He stood with a smile on his lips as she ran lightly up the short drive and quietly opened the door and let herself in. He waited until he saw the glimmer of a candle in one of the upstairs rooms.

  How would Cater take the rejection?
he wondered as he rode home.

  Barry walked into Hedgefield in the late morning. Miss Trumble had said she needed the carriage to drive to Hursley Park. He had no real business in Hedgefield, but it was market-day and he liked to talk to some of the locals and enjoy a pint of ale at the Green Man.

  He walked among the stalls, chatting to various people he knew. He bought a pasty and a mug of salop and stood enjoying the colour and bustle of market-day.

  At last he wiped his mouth and decided to go to the Green Man for that pint of ale and then make his way home.

  He stood on the threshold of the tap, blinking in the sudden gloom. He sat down at one of the tables and looked around for the waiter.

  A man rose from a table in the corner and made his way rapidly to the door, averting his face as he passed Barry.

  And all at once Barry was sure the burly man was Miss Trumble’s assailant. He got to his feet and hurried to the door. “Hey, you, fellow!” he cried.

  The man glanced over his shoulder and Barry recognized him. He had last seen that face in the brook at home.

  The man began to run, with Barry in pursuit. Through the market they raced, Barry shouting, “Stop! Murderer!” at the top of his voice. Others joined in the chase. Out of Hedgefield ran the man and then veered off the road into the woods. Barry and the other pursuers fanned out, Barry hard behind the fleeing figure. The man was thickset but fleet of foot and might have escaped had he not caught his foot in a rabbit hole and fallen headlong.

  In a trice, Barry was on top of him, pummelling him and shouting to the others.

  “Now,” he said, as the man was dragged to his feet and held firmly, “who are you?”

  The man looked at him defiantly and then spat on the ground.

  Barry punched him full on the nose, and as the man yelped with pain, said grimly, “That is for a start. Let’s begin again. Who are you?”

  “Jem Pully.”

  “So why did you attack Miss Trumble?”

  “Who her?”

  Barry drew back his fist again.

  “No,” shouted the man, and then mumbled, “He told me there would be five golden boys in it fer me an’ I whacked ‘er.”