by M C Beaton
And that is how it should be, thought Lizzie. But the thought of the duke smiling at her dotingly made her laugh. She opened her work-basket, took out needle and thread, and bent her head over the torn flounce in the gown on her lap.
The duke entered quietly and stood for a moment surveying her. Lizzie looked up and saw him. “Do not trouble to rise.” He walked forward and sat down opposite her. He was wearing riding dress. He stretched out his booted legs. “The announcement of our engagement is in the newspapers this morning,” he said.
Lizzie coloured. “It will be the first intelligence Mama has of it.”
“You did not write to her immediately?”
“With everything that is going on here, I forgot.”
“Then I assume Lady Beverley will be soon heading in this direction with all speed.”
“I am afraid so,” said Lizzie. “Mama will be in alt. I only hope she does not suffer a bad crise de nerfs when she learns it is all a sham. Should we not tell her as soon as she arrives and get it over with?”
“I consulted my aunt on the matter. She urged me to leave matters as they are for the moment.”
“Oh, well,” said Lizzie, putting a neat stitch in the flounce, “I suppose we will just have to look as if we like each other.”
“As to that, I was under the impression that we did like each other.”
“I do not know you very well, Your Grace.”
“Gervase.”
“Gervase, then.”
“What is it about me you do not know?”
Lizzie looked at him impatiently. “When I am with you I feel I am facing some sort of employer.”
“In a way you are. You are being used by me to keep up the pretence of an engagement. Is that so very difficult?”
“Not at the moment. But it will be after Mama arrives. She will assume…airs.”
“I am not marrying her, my sweeting.”
“You are not marrying me either, Gervase.”
“True. But when I am with you, I seem to forget that fact.”
She looked up at him sharply, but his eyes were amused.
The door opened and Sarah Walters came in.
The duke was sitting on a sofa facing Lizzie. Sarah sat down beside him and took his hand and gazed into his eyes. “I can never thank you enough for your kindness to me,” she breathed.
He drew his hand away. “You are welcome, Miss Walters. And now if you will excuse me…?”
Lizzie sent him a fulminating glare, but he only smiled, rose and bowed to both of them and left the room.
There was an awkward silence. Lizzie was embarrassed because she felt Sarah looked odder than ever. Her eyes were blazing in her white face.
“I feel like taking the air, Miss Beverley,” she said.
“Do you wish me to get a footman to accompany you?” asked Lizzie.
“Oh, do not trouble.” Sarah tittered. “You are not yet a duchess and can hardly order his servants around. I would appreciate your company.”
“Alas, I am busy mending this flounce.”
“Will no one have any sympathy for me?” cried Sarah. “Is it too much to ask? I crave some fresh air.”
“Very well,” said Lizzie, relenting. “I will fetch my bonnet and shawl.”
“Thank you,” said Sarah. “I will meet you on the landing.”
Lizzie went to her room and tied on a bonnet and put a warm shawl about her shoulders, for the day was blustery.
Sarah must be slightly deranged, poor girl, thought Lizzie, to even think of meeting anyone on that cursed landing.
She made her way to the landing. To her surprise, Sarah was standing there, but still dressed only in a black gown. No bonnet or shawl.
“You have not yet changed,” said Lizzie.
“No matter.” Sarah’s eyes burned with a feverish light. “Come here, Miss Beverley. It was here he fell.”
Lizzie joined her and put a hand on her arm. “Come away,” she said gently. “You must put it behind you. Come away.”
Sarah leaned over the low balustrade. “Do come away from there!” cried Lizzie sharply.
“There is someone lying down there,” exclaimed Sarah.
“I am sure there is no one,” said Lizzie soothingly.
“But look! Only look! Down there!”
Lizzie leaned over.
Sarah gave her a tremendous push. Lizzie saw the tiles of the floor seeming to race up towards her but she had been clutching the balustrade tightly. She flung herself backwards.
“Die!” screamed Sarah, grabbing her by the shoulders and pushing her back to the balustrade. “He really loves me. Not you! Me!”
“What is going on here?”
Sarah released Lizzie and turned, panting. The duke stood there. Sarah flung herself into his arms. “She tried to kill me,” she said. “Lizzie tried to push me over. She knows we are in love, Gervase, and so she tried to kill me.”
Two footmen had come racing up the stairs. The duke pried Sarah’s clutching arms from around his neck.
“Take Miss Walters to her room,” he commanded, “and lock her in and post yourselves on guard at the door.” He put an arm around Lizzie’s shoulders. “Come with me.”
The footmen seized Sarah and bore her off. Her wild screams echoed back to their ears.
Lizzie was shaking all over. She let him guide her back to the drawing-room. He pushed her into a chair and then knelt in front of her. He untied the strings of her bonnet and took off her hat. Then he rubbed her cold hands. “What happened?”
In a broken voice, Lizzie told him.
“There, now. It is over and they will soon be gone. That servant of yours, Barry, is here. I will send for him and he will guard you until the Walters have left. Wait and I will fetch him.”
She caught one of his hands. “Do not leave me, Gervase.”
“Only as far as the bell-rope.”
But at that moment not only Barry but Miss Trumble entered the room. The duke told them what had happened and gave Barry his orders.
“And where is Miss Walters now?” asked Miss Trumble.
“In her room, under guard.”
“I shall go and see her. Barry, take Lizzie to her room and stay with her. I tell you, Gervase, you should sell this place, quit this place. It is evil.”
“At this moment, I think it is Miss Walters that is evil,” said the duke. “Go to her by all means, Aunt, and ascertain that she is safe to travel or if she should be confined in the nearest bedlam.”
Miss Trumble went along to Sarah’s room. One of the footmen unlocked the door for her. Miss Trumble went in. The room was in darkness. Sarah’s white face glared at her out of the gloom.
Miss Trumble went over to the window, opened the curtains, threw open the shutters and then opened the window. Sunlight flooded the room and the curtains streamed out in the wind.
“I am letting in some sanity,” said Miss Trumble, turning around. “If you have any wits left, can you bring yourself to tell me why you tried to kill Miss Beverley?”
The hectic light had left Sarah’s eyes. “She tried to kill me,” she said sullenly.
“We both know that is not true.”
“He does not love her!”
“The duke most certainly does not love you, Sarah Walters.”
She hung her head. Then she said, “Will I be arrested?”
“As you richly deserve to be? No, it would make a tiresome scandal and your poor mother has suffered enough. Have you no concern for her?”
Sarah stared at the floor.
“I think you live in dreams and fantasies that have nothing to do with the real world,” said Miss Trumble.
“You are right,” said Sarah heavily. “I will make Mr. Bond happy. He truly loves me and he will have his reward.”
“Grant me patience!” cried the exasperated governess. “Mr. Bond is engaged to be married to Miss Moon.”
“She stole him from me.”
“Fustian! He fell in love with a
pretty girl, and if you had not been so wrapped up in your mad dreams, you might have noticed he has as little interest in you as the duke.”
Sarah began to cry.
Miss Trumble watched her coldly. “I have no sympathy for you, Sarah. I wish from the bottom of my heart that you were crying not for yourself and the wreck of your silly dreams, but for your father. You will be kept here until the morning, when we will all be glad to see the last of you.”
Miss Trumble left. The key clicked in the door. Sarah searched her mind desperately for a dream but none would come.
Chapter Seven
Youth will be served, every dog has his day,
and mine has been a fine one.
—GEORGE BORROW
MISS TRUMBLE WATCHED from her window the following day as the Walterses’ carriage moved slowly down the long drive flanked by outriders, and followed by another carriage draped in black, which contained the squire’s body.
She wondered what Sarah was dreaming about now.
But inside the carriage, Sarah was dreamless. As the carriage swept through the gates of Mannerling, she could feel all the events of her visit moving away from her as they moved away, for the house, now seen in retrospect, seemed like some mad and evil dream.
She leaned forward and took her mother’s hand. “I am truly sorry,” said Sarah.
“We will support each other now, my child,” said Mrs. Walters. “We are going home.”
“We will be safe there,” said Sarah. “I think I was very insane, Mama.”
“We will talk about it later,” said Mrs. Walters. She tried to think sad thoughts about her dead husband, but as the distance grew between them and Mannerling, she could only think of how pleasant her future would be now.
* * *
Lady Beverley and Mary Judd strolled together in the Pump Room at Bath—well, not quite together, for Mary had taken to walking just a little behind in a respectful way, a little courtesy which had moved Lady Beverley to buying Mary a new silk gown and bonnet. Mary had given up wearing black and thought that the shade of her gown, a delicate lilac, was very becoming, as was her new straw hat with the brim lined in pleated lilac silk.
Lady Beverley saw old Lady Parton approaching and stiffened. Lady Parton was a baroness, a great gossip, and a great snob. She had even dared to act coldly and grandly to Lady Beverley.
But for once Lady Parton’s round face was wreathed in smiles. “Dear Lady Beverley,” she cried, “you must be in heaven this morning.”
“I am not in heaven or anywhere else but the Pump Room in Bath,” declared Lady Beverley. “Do adjust my shawl, Mary. It is slipping a trifle.”
“But your news, such wonderful news,” exclaimed Lady Parton. “Such a triumph for your youngest.”
“Lizzie? What of Lizzie?”
“Lady Beverley, have you not seen the announcement in the newspapers this morning?”
“I have not yet seen the newspapers.”
“Then I bring you good tidings. Your daughter, Lizzie, is engaged to Severnshire.”
Lady Beverley stared at Lady Parton for a long moment. “Ah, yes,” she said, rallying. “I knew about that. Come along, Mary.”
With Mary dutifully following, Lady Beverley walked on. Then she put out a hand to lean on a pillar as if to steady herself. “What is this?” she whispered savagely to Mary. “Lizzie to be married to Severnshire? Can it be true? Why was I not informed?”
“I have always thought your daughters a trifle unfeeling,” said Mary, who had done a lot of work during this visit to Bath to pour poison about the Beverley sisters into their mother’s usually discontented ears, for Mary hoped that Lady Beverley would change her will in her, Mary’s, favour.
“Curb your tongue, miss,” snapped Lady Beverley. “We must return. We must get a newspaper. Goodness me, I feel quite faint. Lizzie! Lizzie, of all people. I always said she had a rare beauty.”
Mary forbore from mentioning that day in and day out Lady Beverley had complained of Lizzie’s pert tongue and lack of looks.
They hurried up the steep hills of Bath from the Pump Room to the Royal Crescent, Lady Beverley showing quite amazing energy for such a perpetual invalid, while Mary struggled to keep up.
They hurried to the drawing-room of Lady Beverley’s rented house, where the morning papers were laid out on a console table, as yet unread.
Lady Beverley seized The Morning Post and rustled it open and turned to the social page. And there was the announcement. She stared at it.
She sat down suddenly. “I cannot understand it. When could this have happened, Mary? And why did my unfeeling daughter leave me to find out such momentous news in this way?”
Mary’s black eyes sparkled with curiosity. “I would humbly suggest, my lady, that we return with all speed.”
“Yes, yes, we must do that. Tell the servants to pack. Let me see. Tell the agent we will be quitting this house immediately and I expect a month’s rent to be returned to me. And the servants will need to be paid off. We have no time to wait for Barry. And hire a post-chaise.”
In that moment, Mary felt she had borne enough. She was tired of being treated like a servant. After all, she, too, had lived at Mannerling.
Mannerling!
The angry words died unsaid on Mary’s lips. “Lizzie will have Mannerling,” she said slowly. “You will be going home.”
Lady Beverley’s pale eyes began to burn with a fierce light. “Yes, Mannerling. Oh, my dear Mary, home at last!”
“Of course,” said Mary, “I had quite forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“That Mannerling is not the duke’s main residence. He will return to his palace in Severnshire and may sell Mannerling.”
Lady Beverley stiffened. “Over my dead body. Oh, we must leave immediately. Lizzie is not to be trusted. She must make him keep the place. Don’t stand there. See to the arrangements.”
Mary sat down. “I am feeling a trifle fatigued,” she said. “I would suggest, my lady, that you command the servants to see to the arrangements.”
“But they are silly people. Come, Mary, this is not like you.”
“I resent being treated like a servant.” Mary had suddenly decided that because of Lizzie’s great coup, there was no hope of getting any of Lady Beverley’s money.
Lady Beverley thought quickly. She had become used to Mary’s toadying. And now that her daughter was to marry a duke, she could afford to be generous. She found it hard to give up her usual miserly ways, but she wanted to depart as quickly as possible and Mary was capable of arranging everything for their departure efficiently.
“Do you remember that you always admired my gold-and-ruby necklace?” she said cajolingly.
Mary’s little black eyes lit up. Lady Beverley had begun to open the purse strings since she had come to Bath and had bought herself that necklace from Bath’s finest jeweller.
“I admire it very much,” breathed Mary.
“Then it is yours. Now, my dear friend, what about the travel arrangements?”
Mary smiled. “You are kindness itself, my lady. I will set about our preparations to go home.”
When they finally arrived at Brookfield House, they received the startling intelligence that Miss Trumble and Lizzie were both resident at Mannerling and had been since the day Lady Beverley and Mary had left.
“On to Mannerling,” Lady Beverley commanded the driver.
“How odd,” said Mary as the carriage lurched on the road to Mannerling. “They left for Mannerling the same day that we left for Bath. Therefore, before we left, they already knew they were going.”
“I cannot understand it,” said Lady Beverley. “That scheming governess is behind this.”
“I do not know how you tolerate that woman,” said Mary. “You must dismiss her.”
“I cannot dismiss the duke’s aunt until she chooses to go.”
“His aunt!”
“I am afraid I have let the secret out. Miss Trumble is actually L
ady Letitia Revine.”
“But why should such a great lady stoop to be a mere governess?”
“I have thought of that. She is eccentric and was moved to take the job because of our high standing.”
“Or perhaps,” said Mary with a titter, “there is a black scandal in her past. Only think if that were the case! Think of the peril your daughters have been in.”
“Lady Letitia said she would remain until Lizzie was wed. But you must address her as Miss Trumble. It is supposed to be a secret.”
Mary turned this news over in her busy mind, wondering if there might be some way she could turn it to her advantage.
“Home!” exclaimed Lady Beverley as the lodge-keeper swung open the great iron gates of Mannerling.
“Home,” echoed Mary.
Unaware that the lady who now regarded herself as his future mother-in-law was about to descend on him, the duke was searching for Lizzie. She had been avoiding him, he was sure of that, and it had begun to annoy him. The evening before, she had sent down word that she would not be joining him for dinner but would eat something on a tray in her room as she was feeling “poorly.” Although most of his mind had not believed her, there was still a niggling little part of it that had feared she might be really ill. But when he had called at her rooms that morning, it was to find her absent and that his aunt was not available to consult, for his servants told him she had gone out riding with Barry. That had infuriated him as well, for he considered his aunt’s friendship with this low servant quite unsuitable.
He strode out of the house. And then he heard the sounds of laughter. They were coming from the side of the house, coming faintly to his ears on the summer air.
He strode off in the direction from which the laughter was coming. He found them in the west lawn, Lizzie, Peter and Tiffin, playing at skittles. Lizzie was laughing, her hair tumbled out of its pins, Peter was in his shirtsleeves, and Tiffin was applauding their performance.
And then they saw him. Tiffin looked scared, Peter ran to put on his jacket and then stood to attention, and Lizzie swept her red hair up and pinned it back in place. That all made him like some elderly, overbearing parent.
