The Homecoming

by M C Beaton

  Her eyes focused at last on Peter. “Why, of course,” she said. “You danced with me at the local assembly. How are you?”

  “Very well,” said Peter.

  There was a silence. Then Miss Trumble said, “I am sure you must have much to talk about. Mr. Bond, why do you not sit with Miss Walters for a little?”

  Celia Charter goggled at Miss Trumble and Verity said acidly, “Whether his secretary stays or not is a matter for the duke, not for a local governess.”

  “I will go,” said Peter wretchedly.

  “No, Mr. Bond, you must not let the bad manners of one of my guests drive you away. Pray be seated,” Said the duke.

  Lizzie looked at Verity, wondering how she was liking that set-down, but she heard Verity say to Celia, “I hope that puts that uppity governess in her place for once and for all. She was rude.”

  “Apart from us,” said Gerald cheerfully, “it’s apretty horrible guest-list. Only look how the squire glares at that young secretary.”

  Sarah was enjoying herself, talking about village matters. The fact that Peter was adoringly hanging on her every word went unnoticed by her.

  “How do you think our host plans to entertain us today?” Gerald went on. “Or will he bother? After tea, we will all repair to our rooms and rest from the rigours of raising a cup to our lips.”

  “I have no suggestions,” said Lizzie. “I am resolved to be correct.”

  Gerald’s blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “And what would you do were you not being correct?”

  “I would probably go out into the sunshine and walk about the gardens and look around all my favourite old haunts.”

  “Why do you not show them to me? Leave this fusty, musty tea-party?”

  “I think Miss Trumble would consider it proper to escort me.”

  “Surely not! In broad daylight, in the gardens, in full view of anyone who might care to see you?”

  “Nonetheless, I will ask her,” said Lizzie.

  She rose and crossed to Miss Trumble, who looked up inquiringly. “Mr. Parkes and I would like to take a turn around the gardens in the sunshine, Miss Trumble.”

  Miss Trumble hesitated only a second. She glanced at Mr. and Mrs. Parkes, who were smiling their approval.

  “Yes, by all means, Lizzie,” she said. “But do not stray too far from the house.”

  The duke saw them leave. He then turned away and looked at the window. But the sun was still shining. Odd. He could have sworn the room had become suddenly darker.

  “Oof! That’s better,” exclaimed Gerald as they emerged from the darkness of the hall and out into the sunlight. “I am not made for the social life.”

  Lizzie looked amused. “And what are you made for, Mr. Parkes?”

  “I am made for adventure, excitement. I think I shall join the army. Do you not get bored with all this social chit-chat among the teacups, Miss Lizzie?”

  “I usually lead a very quiet life, Mr. Parkes. I have not travelled. Only to London, and that does not count. So a visit to my old home and meeting new people is a welcome diversion.”

  “I like the sights and smells of foreign countries,” said Gerald. “Oh, the sunshine in Italy. We will probably remember this fine summer when we are quite old because it is so unusual. But in Italy the sun shines every day and there is a restless, excited feeling in the streets.”

  “What of the art and architecture?”

  “Oh, those. Well, people do prose on and drag on about the churches and ruins, but it was the life in the streets which interested me. You should see Venice, Miss Lizzie. Streets of water with the sun shining on it like molten gold.”

  “It is very fine here,” said Lizzie primly, “and you have not looked about you once.”

  “I was looking at your enchanting face.”

  “You are trying to make me fall in love with you, sir, and all for your amusement.”

  Gerald, who had been hoping for a flirtatious dalliance with this little redhead to beguile the tedium of a country visit, burst out laughing, and said, “Are you usually so perceptive?”

  “On the contrary, I often do not see what is under my very nose. Let me just say your tactics make your motives very plain.”

  “You do not have much vanity, do you, Miss Lizzie? Many a lady would have believed every word I said.”

  “They can’t have had red hair,” said Lizzie gloomily.

  “Silly fashions. They come and go. You will make red hair the fashion.”

  “I am not fashionable, either in looks or speech.”

  “That is what makes you so intriguing.”

  “There you go again,” said Lizzie on a sigh. “Let us walk to the folly and look at the lake.”

  “So we walk to the folly and look at the lake, and then what?”

  “It is a very beautiful view,” said Lizzie reprovingly.

  He laughed and strode out in the direction of the lake so that she had to scamper, holding on to her hat, to keep up with him.

  “The view will not go away,” she panted.

  He slowed his step and smiled down at her. Lizzie felt suddenly a little breathless and it was nothing to do with the fast pace. Gerald Parkes was so very beautiful.

  “You look startled. What’s amiss?” he asked.

  “You are very beautiful.”

  “And you are bamming me!”

  “Oh, dear,” said Lizzie, colouring up. “I have spoken my mind again. How embarrassing. I beg you to forget it.”

  “Not I! I shall preen myself quite dreadfully for the rest of the day.”

  “Be sensible. Now here is the folly. Mr. Judd, the owner of Mannerling who hanged himself, blew it up. This is a replacement.”

  “He must have been all about in his upper chambers. Why did he blow it up?”

  “He had taken the Beverleys in dislike. He knew that he was expected to marry Isabella, my eldest sister, and he let her believe he meant to propose at the first ball he held at Mannerling. Instead, he proposed to the vicar’s daughter.”

  “What a truly dreadful man. Would your sister have really married him just to regain Mannerling?”

  Lizzie bit her lip. “It seems a madness now. We felt we were nobodies without Mannerling. Our pride and ambition were great. But Isabella fell deeply in love with Lord Fitzpatrick and so it all had a happy ending.”

  “For everyone—except Mr. Judd.”

  The sunlight sparkled on the lake, where two brightly coloured rowing-boats held by their painters bobbed beside a small wooden jetty. Weeping willows trailed long fingers in the still water.

  “If you want excitement,” said Lizzie, “you should go and look down into the waters of the lake when they are still and clear as they are today. People have seen the drowned face of Mr. Cater.”

  “And who was Mr. Cater? Another suicidal owner?”

  “No, but he wished to possess Mannerling. He disappeared from our lives and we never found out what became of him.”

  “I have never seen a ghost,” cried Gerald. “Let’s go and look.”

  “Not I,” said Lizzie with a shudder. “I believe in ghosts.”

  With a laugh, he ran lightly down the grassy bank which led to the jetty. He turned and waved to Lizzie. When he reached the jetty, he knelt down on one knee and stared down into the water.

  Lizzie waited and watched anxiously.

  Then she heard Gerald cry out, saw him clutch his throat, then he fell back on the jetty and lay prone, his hat rolling off into the water.

  “Mr. Parkes!” screamed Lizzie.

  She ran headlong down to the jetty and knelt down beside him, rubbing his wrists and cheeks. “Please, Mr. Parkes,” she begged. “Do not be dead.”

  His blue eyes suddenly opened and he said, “I think a kiss would restore me to life.”

  “Monster!” Lizzie got to her feet and glared down at him.

  “I fooled you,” he cried gleefully, springing to his feet. “You should see your face.”

 
; Lizzie turned and began to walk angrily away. “I will never forgive you,” she said over her shoulder.

  The duke, irritated by Celia and bored with Verity, stood once more at the drawing-room window.

  His eyes narrowed. There was Lizzie Beverley, hurrying back towards the house. Gerald Parkes was following her. He seemed to be pleading. Then, as the duke watched, Gerald ran around the front of Lizzie and sank to his knees and clasped his hands.

  He saw Lizzie begin to laugh, saw Gerald get to his feet with a sunny smile and tuck Lizzie’s hand in his arm. Chatting together, they continued towards the house.

  Mr. Bond has done well for that chit, thought the duke sourly.

  Lizzie and Gerald entered the hall. Suddenly Lizzie stopped.

  “What is the matter?” asked Gerald.

  “The house is angry with me,” whispered Lizzie.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing,” said Lizzie, “nothing at all.”

  She ran away from him and up the stairs.

  How odd, thought Gerald. She was quite white. I must be careful not to play any more tricks on her.

  Lizzie sat down in her sitting-room and slowly unfastened her bonnet and lifted it from her bright hair. It must have been a trick of her imagination. Now she felt nothing. The fright Gerald had given her at the lake must have overset her.

  There was a scratching at the door and she called, “Come in.”

  The door opened and Peter Bond walked into the room.

  “Peter,” said Lizzie. “Do sit down and chat to me. How is your fair Sarah?”

  “I am at my wit’s end,” said Peter with a groan.

  “Why, has she snubbed you?”

  “Not at all, Lizzie, she is all that is amiable. But I had forgotten that Sarah is very dreamy. Although we talked of people we know in our village, it was as if most of her mind was somewhere else.”

  “Sarah Walters is very dreamy,” said Lizzie. “Are you sure…I do not wish to offend you…but are you sure you would wish to be allied to such a family? Squire Walters seems a terrible old man and his poor wife appears to be frightened to open her mouth.”

  Peter clasped his hands and stared at Lizzie beseechingly. “I am sure she would be glad to escape from her family.”

  “How can I say this?” Lizzie looked at him sadly.

  “Such an invitation to such a family from the great Duke of Severnshire must have given them hopes of a marriage for Sarah, and not with you either.”

  “They must see that such a match is unthinkable.”

  “And yet what else can they think?” said Lizzie patiently. “The Walters are not in the way of receiving invitations from dukes.”

  “But they must know it was because of me!”

  “The squire has great vanity, I think,” said Lizzie. “And Sarah did not recognize you. Was she even aware of your existence?”

  “We danced several times at the local assemblies, and then, one beautiful day which will live in my memory forever, I was out walking and I met her. We walked and talked for an hour.”

  “And did Sarah show any warmth towards you?”

  “Oh, yes, she said I was the easiest person to talk to she had ever met.”

  “And what did you talk about?” asked Lizzie curiously.

  It transpired that Peter had done most of the talking. The local vicar had introduced Peter to his bishop and the bishop had given Peter a letter of introduction to the duke. Peter had talked of his hopes of securing a position as secretary in the duke’s household.

  “I will try to become friendly with Sarah,” said Lizzie at last, “and try to find out if she has any feelings for you.”

  “Would you? You are the best of friends. Tell me, do you approve of my choice of beau for you?”

  “Mr. Parkes is very handsome,” said Lizzie cautiously. “He appears sunny and good-natured. Farther than that, I have no opinion.”

  When Peter had left, Lizzie went next door to talk to Miss Trumble.

  She wondered whether to tell Miss Trumble about her odd feeling that the house was angry with her, but decided against it. Miss Trumble would worry that the old Beverley obsession with Mannerling had returned.

  Instead she told Miss Trumble about Peter’s worries. “There is not much hope there,” Said Miss Trumble, “unless the obvious hopes of the squire are well and truly dashed and the duke says something about allowing Mr. Bond to marry and set up his establishment.”

  “Could you speak to him about it?” pleaded Lizzie.

  “Gervase is…difficult. He is still angry with me for remaining at my post. But we will see. How did you find Mr. Parkes?”

  “Very handsome. Very cheerful.”

  “Try to look beyond his looks, Lizzie. I sense a carelessness and heedlessness there.”

  “He is very young,” said Lizzie sententiously.

  Miss Trumble smiled. “And you so old. Now let us repair to your rooms and get you ready for dinner. The duke keeps fashionably late hours. Seven-thirty for dinner! I remember when not so long ago dinner was served at four in the afternoon.”

  The duke, without thinking, took his aunt in to dinner, as she was the highest-ranking lady there. Lady Verity frowned awfully and Celia flounced. Sarah was, in her head, setting up her nursery, having successfully married the duke. Squire Walters greedily surveyed the table. Such a profligacy of dishes! This could be the sort of life the Walters family could lead if only his daughter would make a push to attract the duke.

  Lizzie was placed between Gerald and Peter. The secretary’s presence at the dinner-table made the Earl and Countess of Hernshire think their host must be an eccentric. Sarah was on Peter’s other side, but to his despair she answered all his sallies with monosyllabic answers. He did not know that he was interrupting a really splendid dream.

  When the ladies retired to the drawing-room, to leave the gentlemen to their wine, Lizzie went to sit beside Sarah. “You must be delighted to meet Mr. Bond again,” she began.

  “Mr.—”

  “Bond,” said Lizzie sharply. “The duke’s secretary.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Sarah. “Mr. Bond is very kind, I think.”

  “Do you know why you and your parents were invited?” demanded Lizzie.

  Sarah blushed slightly and looked down at her hands. “Why, Papa says he must have heard of me and considered me a suitable lady to make his bride.”

  “That was not the case at all,” said Lizzie. “It was Peter, Mr. Bond, who prompted the duke into asking you.”

  Sarah looked at her in bewilderment and then her face cleared. “That explains how His Grace came to learn of me.”

  “Yes.”

  “He must have asked Mr. Bond to find him a suitable lady,” said Sarah with a little laugh, “and Mr. Bond remembered me. How clever of him!”

  Lizzie raised her eyes to the painted ceiling in exasperation. “My dear widgeon, Mr. Bond has formed a tendre for you and his sympathetic master, on learning of it, suggested he invite you and your parents.”

  Now she had Sarah’s full and undivided attention as all her rosy dreams of marriage and children and being a duchess whirled about her head and disappeared. She raised her hands to her white face. “That cannot be true. It must not be true!”

  “Mr. Bond is a friend of mine and an excellent gentleman.”

  “But he is only a secretary!”

  “And you are only a squire’s daughter,” said Lizzie brutally.

  Sarah eyes swam with tears. “Papa will be furious. He will say it is all my fault and he will shout at me and call me useless.”

  “There now,” said Lizzie, pressing the girl’s cold hand. “We will think of something.”

  In the dining-room, the duke stifled a yawn. The various fathers were pressing on him descriptions of the beauty and wit of their daughters. It was all quite vulgar and he had only himself to blame for having behaved vulgarly, for having gone shopping for a bride, as if he had sent for lengths of cloth on approval. But on
e did not need to entertain lengths of cloth or entertain the shopkeeper’s family.

  He had a sudden bright picture in his head of Lizzie and young Gerald. Had he, Gervase, tenth Duke of Severnshire, ever laughed in the sunlight with a young lady? Not that he could remember. The sad fact was one could not choose a bride in the way one chose a mistress. If he married some lady, she would bear his children and be part of his life. There was Lady Verity, of impeccable lineage and impeccable hauteur. Were he to marry her, they would settle down to a correct life with children relegated to the nursery and produced occasionally before dinner for his inspection. She would never play with them or worry about them. And yet what was so strange about that? It was the way of the world. But she would not be popular with his tenants and servants, a fact he had not hitherto considered important. As for Celia Charters, he would strangle her one day at the breakfast table, being unable to take her mindless prattle any longer. He was alarmed that the dreadful squire with the crushed wife appeared to assume that Sarah had been selected as a possible candidate.

  He began to wonder how soon he could be shot of the lot of them and what excuse he could make to get rid of them. Perhaps Mr. Bond could think of something. His thoughts turned to his excellent secretary. Come to think of it, he saw no reason why Mr. Bond should not marry. He could live in a house on the estate and report each day for his duties.

  He cut the conversation short by rising to his feet. “Shall we join the ladies?”

  He noticed the way Gerald crossed immediately to Lizzie’s side. Lizzie was sitting with Sarah Walters. Mr. Bond joined them and the four were soon chatting happily, or so it looked to him.

  He had a sudden desire that little Lizzie Beverley would notice him. He crossed to join them and all conversation died.

  “Miss Beverley,” he said, “I crave a few moments of your attention.”

  Lizzie rose reluctantly and curtsied. He led her to a corner of the room.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “I am interested to find out how Mr. Bond is faring with Miss Walters.”

  “Alas,” said Lizzie, “Miss Walters was under the impression that she had been invited as a suitable bride for you. I disabused her. But whether she will notice Mr. Bond is in question. Love is a strange thing. You cannot choose whom you will love. You cannot make yourself love someone just because they are suitable, or so my sisters tell me.”