by M C Beaton
Rachel turned reluctantly away from the window. “Miss Trumble says he was merely rehearsing for some amateur theatricals, but I think she said that so as to save his face and not upset Mama.”
“But she could have been mistress of Mannerling,” exclaimed Lizzie.
“There are still some sane people on this earth who do not want to be mistress of Mannerling,” said Rachel tartly. “Do you not realize that every time one of us plots to regain Mannerling it all ends in shame and humiliation?”
“Meaning that now you know that Charles Blackwood will never propose to you,” said Belinda with a toss of her head, “you pretend you never cared anyway.”
“And neither do I,” said Rachel. She turned wearily back to the window, her shoulders drooping.
“The children have not come this morning either,” said Lizzie.
Belinda joined Rachel at the window. “Why, there is the carriage from Mannerling now. But it is only Mr. Charles, not the children. Oh, I hope the Blackwoods have not been offended by Miss Trumble and decided not to bring the children any more. I enjoyed their visits.”
They then heard Charles’s voice in the hall, demanding to see Lady Beverley.
“There you are,” said Lizzie. “He has come to complain about Miss Trumble.”
Rachel wanted to protest, to say that he had called to ask for her hand in marriage, but a superstitious fear kept her silent, as if long black shadows were reaching out over the fields from Mannerling to touch her very soul. Perhaps the house would have its revenge on her, and Charles would turn out to have called simply, as Lizzie had suggested, to complain about Miss Trumble.
She picked up a book and pretended to read. How the minutes dragged past.
And then the door swung open, to make her start and drop the book.
Lady Beverley sailed in.
“You are to go to the drawing-room, Rachel,” she said. “Mr. Blackwood is desirous to pay his addresses to you. Oh, my dear child, you have succeeded where your sisters have failed. We will all soon be home again.”
But Rachel had already left.
She stood for a moment at the entrance to the drawing-room, looking shyly at Charles.
He silently opened his arms and she flew into them. He crushed her against him and kissed her passionately. Betty, the maid, outside the door, gave the couple a shocked look and quietly closed the door on the scene.
“Oh, my little love,” said Charles finally, “you have not changed your mind?”
“No, but I feared you had when you did not call yesterday.”
“I was muddy and exhausted, in no state to propose marriage. My heart, I will keep Mannerling for you, if you wish.”
“Oh, no,” said Rachel with a shudder. “I do not want the place. Just you, Charles.”
Which made him kiss her so passionately that when they finally surfaced, both of them were breathing raggedly.
He sat down and pulled her onto his knee. “I must tell you now about my late wife. Had I not been so bitter about her flighty behaviour and so suspicious of every member of your sex, I swear I would have proposed to you that very first day, when I found you with my children at the lake.”
“You quite frightened me.”
“Am I too old for you?”
“No, beloved. Kiss me again.”
They finally broke apart when the door opened and Lady Beverley gave a loud cough. They stood together hand in hand as Lady Beverley came in, followed by Lizzie, Belinda, and Miss Trumble.
“Congratulate me,” said Charles. “Rachel is to be my bride.”
Lizzie and Belinda gave cries of joy and ran to hug Rachel.
“And you will live at Mannerling,” cried Lizzie.
Rachel shook her head and smiled. “Not Mannerling. We will live elsewhere.”
“Have you gone mad?” shrieked Lady Beverley.
Miss Trumble gave a little sigh and backed away and made her way through the back of the house and out into the garden.
She hailed Barry, who came over to join her. “Such news, Barry,” said Miss Trumble. “Rachel is to marry Charles Blackwood and they are so very much in love.” She sat down on a garden chair suddenly and, taking out a handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes.
Then she blew her nose firmly and went on, “Dear me, I am quite overset. Such success! The fourth Beverley sister to marry well.”
“I did hear,” said Barry, looking down at her, his expression veiled, “that the general proposed to you.”
“I have put it about that he was merely rehearsing a play, Barry, but yes, he did propose and I refused him.”
“Why, miss? You could have been set for life!”
“You mean, for what’s left of it,” said the governess with a rueful grin. “I am afraid I am one of those tedious romantics. I could not marry for anything other than love. Ridiculous at my age, is it not?”
Barry bent his grey head and pushed at the grass with the toe of one square-buckled shoe. “Well, now, I do reckon that I am of the same mind, miss, or I’d ha’ been spliced this long since.”
Miss Trumble rose. “You are such a comfort to me, Barry. Now I must go and tell Betty to look in the cellar and see if we have any champagne left.”
She moved away across the grass and Barry stood for a moment looking after her before returning to his work.
Chapter Seven
Whilst I have nobody but myself to
please, I have no one but myself to be
pleased with.
—MISS WEETON,
“JOURNAL OF A GOVERNESS 1807–1811”
MINERVA SANTERTON READ the announcement of Rachel’s forthcoming wedding in the Morning Post and threw the newspaper angrily across the breakfast table at her brother.
“Rachel Beverley and Charles are to wed,” she hissed.
He tossed the paper on the floor and looked at her blearily. “He told us that.”
“But I had begun to think it was all a hum, that he only said it to get rid of us.”
“Even if that had been the case,” pointed out George, “then it stands to reason he didn’t want you.”
“Those brats of his turned him against me. I hate children.”
“Just as well then that you ain’t got any.”
The butler entered. “There is a person called to see you, Mrs. Santerton.”
“Miss,” said Minerva crossly.
“Don’t know why you don’t call yourself ‘Mrs.’ Silly, I call it,” complained George, “particularly when it looks as if you won’t marry again and folks will forget you ever were married and think you’re a spinster.”
Minerva ignored him and turned to the butler. “We do not see persons,” she said. “Tell whoever it is we are not at home.”
The door opened and Mr. Cater walked in.
He was travel-stained, his eyes were red with fatigue, and he strolled forward and sat down at the breakfast table.
Minerva nodded dismissal to the butler. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. The scandal had not reached the newspapers in Sussex and she did not know Mr. Cater was being hunted down.
“I was in the neighbourhood,” said Mr. Cater, grabbing a fresh roll from a basket on the table and wolfing it. “Remembered you had a place here.”
“I do not feel like guests at the moment,” said Minerva. “You will find a good inn in the village.”
“This is no way to treat a fellow conspirator.” Mr. Cater rose and began to help himself to kidneys from the sideboard.
“Hey, what’s all this about?” demanded George.
“I think you’d best leave Mr. Cater and me to have a private chat, George. Do run along.”
“All right, but send him on his way as soon as you can,” remarked George over his shoulder as he reached the door. “He looks deuced odd.”
Mr. Cater, between gulps of food, told Minerva bluntly of how he had tried to have Miss Trumble harmed and then his rejection by Rachel and his subsequent flight.
Minerva listened,
cold-eyed, until he had finished. Then she said, “What I cannot understand is that if you wanted Mannerling, why did you not just make the Blackwoods an offer for it?”
“I thought if I wed one of those damned Beverley girls, the house would be securely mine. Judd, a previous owner, the one who killed himself, was my half-brother. He said had he married one of the Beverleys, the house would not have turned against him and his luck at the tables would have held.”
“Mad,” commented Minerva icily. “Quite mad.”
“Anyway, I want to rack up here for a bit until the hunt dies down and then make my way to the coast.”
“I don’t want you here.”
“If you don’t put me up, sweeting, I’ll write to Blackwood and tell him you were in the plot to get rid of that governess.”
She tightened her lips and her eyes flashed blue fire. “You may stay a few days, that’s all, and then go on your way.”
He looked down at his muddy clothes. “I’ll need some duds.”
“George has enough peacock finery for all the men in Bond Street. He will furnish you with something. After a few days, get you hence.”
Mr. Cater grinned. He had every intention of staying as long as possible.
To the further disappointment of Lady Beverley, Charles and Rachel refused to be married at Mannerling. Rachel and her family were to travel to London and stay with Abigail; Charles, the general, and the children would reside at their town house; and the pair would be married in London. Mannerling was already on the market for sale.
Belinda and Lizzie were to attend balls and parties during the Little Season, chaperoned by Abigail.
Miss Trumble believed she had fought another battle with Mannerling and won. As she helped with all the preparations for the journey, she felt the whole menace of Mannerling would soon be removed from their lives. All she had to do was to find husbands for Lizzie and Belinda.
She did not know that Belinda and Lizzie often wondered if anyone had made an offer for Mannerling. They were cross with Rachel because she refused to give them any information on the subject.
Rachel’s reason for this was that Charles had told her that a certain Lord St. Clair had made a handsome offer. He was the son of the Earl Durbridge, only twenty-four and not married. “I shall keep that information from the girls and Mama,” Rachel told Charles. “They will find out sooner or later, but I would rather it was later.”
But Lizzie and Belinda decided to call on Mary Judd, the vicar’s daughter, one day shortly before they were due to go to London. Both detested Mary, but Mary was a good fund of gossip.
Mary gushed her usual welcome, but the smile on her lips never melted the hardness of her black eyes.
After various bits of chit-chat had been exchanged, Mary said, all mock sympathy, “Such a pity Rachel is not to live at Mannerling. She must have been very disappointed.”
“On the contrary,” retorted Lizzie, “Charles would have kept Mannerling if Rachel had wanted it, but Rachel wanted to live elsewhere.”
“Dear me! How odd! After all the Beverley ambitions.”
Belinda’s beautiful eyes hardened. “I trust you will not keep talking about the Beverley ambitions, Mary. That is in the past.”
Mary gave a little smile and poured tea. “Then you will not be interested in the identity of the new owner.”
“A new owner already!” exclaimed Lizzie. “Tell us. Who is it?”
“Oh, I am sure you are not interested.”
“Don’t be infuriating, Mary,” said Belinda crossly. “Who is buying Mannerling?”
“Perhaps it is a secret. I mean, apparently Rachel has said nothing to you…”
“Do not trouble,” said Lizzie airily. “Rachel will tell us. Do tell us instead the recipe for these cakes. Quite delicious.”
Mary gave her a baffled look and then said sulkily, “It’s a certain Lord St. Clair. Twenty-four and unwed. He is the eldest son of Earl Durbridge, and Mannerling is a present to his son. The earl is vastly rich and wishes to expand his property and possessions.”
To her disappointment, both Belinda and Lizzie affected indifference to this news and went on to beg for that recipe.
They had walked to the vicarage. When they left, Belinda and Lizzie sedately made their way along the country road under the turning leaves, but as soon as they were out of sight of the vicarage they stopped and clutched each other with excitement. All Lizzie’s doubts and fears about Mannerling had left. Ambition had them in its grip again.
“It is your turn, Belinda,” said Lizzie fiercely. “It is up to you.”
“Perhaps we can find out more about this lord in London,” said Belinda. “We can ask Abigail. And we will be going to balls and parties and we can ask there. A rich young lord must be often talked about.”
“And let us keep this news to ourselves,” urged Lizzie, “for if Miss Trumble thinks we have any interest in Mannerling, she might persuade Abigail or Rachel to keep us in London!”
Isabella and Rachel were walking in the grounds of Mannerling. “I am so glad you and Fitzpatrick are to be here for my wedding,” said Rachel, “and Mrs. Kennedy, too. I trust she is recovered from her fright.”
“She appears to be well,” said Isabella slowly, “but do you know, she says she fears Mannerling. I tried to persuade her that the house only seemed haunted because of the machinations of that dreadful man, Cater.”
“There is no news of him.” Rachel looked uneasily around. “I keep expecting him to return.”
“He would not dare! He has been exposed as a villain. Miss Trumble has found out more about him. As you know, he won those plantations of his at the gambling table, but the man he won them from was ruined as a result.”
“I am so glad none of us has the gambling fever,” said Rachel. “Oh, there goes Mama, pursuing the general. I wish she would not. She is torturing the poor man. Mama hopes to secure him and persuade him not to sell. But Mannerling belongs to Charles. I have told her that many times, but she will not listen.”
“Did you tell her Lord St. Clair was to take the place?”
Rachel shook her head. “I would not dare, nor Belinda or Lizzie either. They might not even go to London, anxious to stay rooted to the spot in case the new owner arrived when they were away.”
“Mama I can understand, but surely Belinda and Lizzie have grown out of that nonsense.”
“So they assure me and then they run off and whisper together, the way I used to run off and whisper to Abigail so that no one would guess our ambitions were still rampant.”
Isabella laughed. “You should get a coat of arms and put on it two Beverleys rampant, with Mannerling in the middle. Here come your children. I will leave you to your play.”
Rachel ran to meet Mark and Beth. Isabella stood for a moment watching them and then walked slowly back to the house. If only Lizzie and Belinda could find happiness as well.
“Is that Cater fellow never going to leave?” grumbled George Santerton.
“You do something about it,” snapped Minerva, looking moodily out of the windows of the drawing-room at the dripping trees in the gardens. The autumn weather was chilly and wet and the good summer only a dim memory.
“By the way, the head gardener wants to get men in to lay a new path down to the pond.”
“Why?”
“That, sis, is where your late husband slipped, banged his head, and fell in the pond. Such unhappy memories.”
“Not unhappy. I am well rid of him. I never walk there and neither do you.”
“The present path, nonetheless, is slippery and precipitous.”
“And this, I may remind you, is my property and I am not going to any unnecessary expense.”
“As you will. Where’s Cater now?”
“Out somewhere. How do we get rid of him? Think of something.”
“Shoot him?”
“Something sensible. The servants are already gossiping about our so-called Mr. Brown who arrived on a tired horse and wi
th no luggage.”
Minerva suddenly swung round, her eyes shining. “I have it. I will simply tell him that unless he goes, I will write to the authorities and tell them he is to be found here.”
“And they will wonder why we didn’t tell them before.”
“We will say we did not know anything about it until now. But it is only a threat. But it will shift him.”
“You told me that he is wanted for an attack on the governess and an assault on Rachel Beverley. You were not part of the plot by any chance, were you?”
“Don’t be so stupid.” Minerva had suddenly realized that Mr. Cater had no proof that it was she who had suggested he put the governess out of action. Her blue eyes were shining with malice. “I will go and find him and tell him now.”
“Do that, but take a gun with you.”
An undergardener weeding a flower-bed volunteered the information that “Mr. Brown” had last been seen heading in the direction of the pond.
Minerva hesitated, but then set out towards where the pond lay. She walked across the wet lawns, the rings on her pattens making soggy imprints on the grass. She then entered the woods and walked on along a winding path where tall trees sent down showers of raindrops onto the calash she wore over her bonnet, until she could see ahead of her the gleam of water of the pond.
Ahead of her, Mr. Cater stood at the top of the precipitous muddy path which led down to the pond. So this was where the late Mr. Santerton had met his death. And no wonder. Why such a treacherous, steep, and muddy path should have been left on such an otherwise well-ordered estate puzzled Mr. Cater.
His mind worked busily. A couple more months here of free food and board and he would make his way to his bank in London before heading for the coast. He had not killed anyone. He shrewdly guessed that neither the Blackwoods nor the Beverleys would be anxious to keep the scandal alive.
What a dreary day! A thick mist was coiling around the boles of the dripping trees. And the days seemed long and tedious. He would try again that very evening, when George was in his cups, to get him to play a game of piquet. So far, George, even stupid with drink, had refused to gamble.
