by M C Beaton
“I was just about to go about my duties, Your Grace,” said Peter, and hurried off. Tiffin curtsied, murmured something and then scampered off after him. Lizzie and the duke faced each other.
“I am glad to see you restored to health,” said the duke.
“Yes, it was only a headache. Now, if you will excuse me, Gervase…I must go and find Miss Trumble.”
“My aunt has gone out with that servant, Barry.”
“Oh.” She stood irresolute and he guessed she was trying to find another excuse to leave him.
“You are not playing your part very well, Lizzie.”
“As your betrothed? But there is no one here to act for.”
“We used to converse at least. Why do you avoid me now?”
“I find my situation awkward,” said Lizzie slowly. “I do not know quite how to go on.”
“We could go on as friends.”
Lizzie looked at him doubtfully.
“Why do you look at me so?”
“I have often wondered why you wear your hair in such an old-fashioned style, tied back with a ribbon.”
“Do you wish me to cut it?”
“No, no, Gervase. My wishes are nothing to you.”
“Do you think it makes me look too old?”
Lizzie blushed. His hair was very thick and as glossy as her own. She had just had a treacherous little dream where she was burying her hands in his thick hair.
“I see you think it does.”
“Oh, no,” said Lizzie miserably. “I think your hair is very fine.”
“I hear carriage wheels,” he said.
“That will probably be Mama.” Lizzie bit her lip. “I suppose we must go on with our masquerade. And yet, is it really necessary? I mean, it is not fashionable to be in love.”
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Then he began to lead her back towards the front of the house. “For your mother’s temporary peace of mind, I think we should try to show some affection towards each other.”
He tucked her hand in his arm. I cannot bear much more of this, thought Lizzie. I want him to really love me. I am frightened of betraying myself.
“Yes,” he said, as they reached the front of the house. “Your mother is arrived.”
They stood together as the post-chaise swept up to the front door.
For once in her life, Lady Beverley did not wait for the footman to let down the steps. She hurtled out of the carriage and spread her arms wide.
“Home at last!” she cried.
Lizzie stepped forward and kissed her mother on the cheek. How could her mother think that, even supposing they were to be married, the duke would live at Mannerling?
She glanced at the duke and saw the look of weary distaste on his face, quickly masked.
“You are welcome to stay as my guest, Lady Beverley,” said the duke heavily. “But no doubt you will be more comfortable in your own home.”
“But this is my home,” cried Lady Beverley. “And may I present Mrs. Judd? She will be staying as well.”
“Pray come in,” said the duke, “and I will inform the housekeeper of your arrival. Ah, Mr. Bond. Lady Beverley and Mrs. Judd will be residing with us. Arrange rooms for them, if you please.”
Peter bowed.
The duke turned to Lizzie. “Come with me, dearest,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”
Lizzie followed him up the staircase, feeling smaller and more diminished with every step. Once more, she felt she was the plain Beverley sister. Already she was dreading the scenes and recriminations when her mother found out the truth.
The duke led her into the drawing-room and then turned to face her.
“I have been neglecting my estates, Lizzie, and it is time I returned to attend to matters at my home.”
“Will you not stay a few days until Mama is settled?”
“I have already endured a dreadful house party and the death of Squire Walters. I do not want to endure another stressful time.”
“Do you wish me to accompany you, Gervase?” she asked in a small voice.
“No, I will leave you here with your mother.”
Lizzie looked at him, her eyes sparkling with tears. “It is all so humiliating.”
“But you know our engagement to be only a temporary arrangement.”
“It is not that,” said Lizzie wretchedly. “It is your great pride. You have met Mama again and you already feel distaste for even being involved in a temporary arrangement.”
“True,” he said. “But we will cope.”
“How long will you be away?”
“I do not know. Several weeks.”
“And you would leave me here…in this house?”
“You lived here before.”
“And there has been nothing but death and misery here ever since.”
“Then you should all go to Brookfield House and await my return.”
“Mama will not be dislodged unless we tell her the truth.”
“As to that, it is for you to decide what you tell her and when you tell her. I do not know how you came by such an unnatural parent, Lizzie.”
“You should not criticize my mother so!”
“My apologies. I shall leave Mr. Bond behind. You may apply to him for anything you wish.”
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
She stood before him, silent.
“You will be able to enjoy yourself with your young friends when I am gone,” he said, “and my aunt will stand between you and your mother and that odd creature who accompanies her.”
Lizzie curtsied. “I wish you a safe journey, Your Grace.”
“Ah, Lizzie,” he said, stretching out a hand. “We could deal better than this.”
But there was a roaring in her ears and she did not hear him. She opened the door of the drawing-room and went out. She was dimly aware through her tears of a dark figure fleeing along the corridor in front of her but was too distressed to wonder who it was.
Mary Judd stopped a passing maid and demanded to be shown to her room. Her heart was beating hard. Instead of following Lady Beverley, she had hidden behind a curtain in a window embrasure until she had heard the duke and Lizzie going into the drawing-room. Then she had left her hiding place and pressed her ear against the panels of the door.
What she had heard had amazed her and then infuriated her. Mary always listened at doors because she was convinced that everyone must be discussing what an interesting and fascinating lady she was, and although that had never happened, she lived in hope.
She was stunned by what she had heard. For some reason, the engagement was a pretence and she had heard herself dismissed as an odd creature. Her revenge against the haughty Beverleys when she had married Judd and moved in as mistress of Mannerling had been of short duration only.
Now she had the means to revenge herself on Lady Beverley for all the humiliations of Bath.
She decided that the duke’s reference to an odd creature must have applied to the maid, Betty. The duke would hardly refer to a lady such as herself in such terms. Her amour propre restored and looking forward immensely to telling Lady Beverley her great news, she removed her hat and gloves and mantle, smoothed down her hair, smiled at her reflection in the mirror, and rang the bell.
From the maid who answered the bell, she found out that Lady Beverley was quartered in rooms next to her own and went and opened that lady’s door and went in.
Lady Beverley was sitting at the toilet-table applying cream to her face.
“I feel young again, Mary,” said Lady Beverley. “Mannerling will be restored to its former glory. I am sure the duke’s taste cannot match my own. You will remember, Mary, my taste was the talk of the county. Dear Lizzie. She was always my favourite.”
Mary sat down behind Lady Beverley where she could clearly see their reflections in the mirror. She did not want to miss any reaction to her momentous news.
“I was passing the drawing-room, my lady,” said Ma
ry in her customary meek voice. “The door was standing open and I heard the duke and Lizzie talking. I would not have listened but what they were saying shocked me immensely.”
“Ah, then, Mary,” said Lady Beverley with a little laugh, “you should not listen to the conversation of lovers and you will not be shocked.”
“They’re not lovers. In fact, they are not really engaged,” said Mary. “They said it was only a temporary arrangement. The duke leaves for his estates tomorrow. He said to Lizzie he did not know how she had come by such an unnatural parent. Lizzie said he was ashamed of even a temporary engagement because of you, my lady.”
Lady Beverley’s face turned white under her cream. “You must have misheard,” she panted. “You are a wicked, wicked woman! A temporary engagement! Why, all that means is that they plan to be married very soon. Go away, Mary, I will have none of your spite.”
“It is not spite, my lady,” said Mary. “Have I not cared for you, been your friend, appreciated your qualities when your own family did not? If you do not believe me, then you have only to ask them.”
Lady Beverley carefully wiped the cream from her face and applied powder. Then she rose to her feet. “Wait here, you,” she said haughtily. “I will deal with you later.”
The duke was pacing the drawing-room in a fever of indecision. He had made Lizzie cry and now he was abandoning her. But she had made it so plain that she did not relish his company that he had felt he was doing the right thing in leaving her, and yes, she had been right. He had felt he could not bear to be under the same roof as her mother.
He felt rejected by Lizzie. That damned reflection of himself as an old man would not leave him.
He turned as the door opened and Lady Beverley swept in.
“Lady Beverley?”
“My silly companion has come to me with an odd story. She says she overheard you tell my Lizzie that the engagement was only a temporary one.”
He looked at her wearily. “Am I always to be plagued with interfering malicious people? May I point out that my conversation with your daughter was private? The drawing-room doors were closed.”
“Nonetheless, what did you mean by it?”
He felt the need of support. He rang the bell. “Sit down, Lady Beverley.”
When the butler came in, he said, “Is Miss Trumble returned?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Ask her to join us, and Miss Beverley as well.”
“But I must know,” wailed Lady Beverley.
“Wait!”
After a short time, Miss Trumble came in with Lizzie.
“What is this?” demanded Lady Beverley, before the duke could speak. “Is it only a temporary engagement? And what does a temporary engagement mean?”
“I will explain,” said Miss Trumble. “His Grace took Lizzie riding to Hedgefield. They wished some refreshment and so he engaged a private parlour at the Green Man. To allay scandal, it was agreed that there should be an engagement for a few months, after which time Lizzie would terminate it.”
“No, that will never do,” said Lady Beverley.
“It has been done, Mama,” said Lizzie impatiently. “The announcement has appeared in the newspapers.”
“Yes, and came as a surprise to me. My own daughter not to even trouble to write to me! But of course you must be married, Lizzie.”
“Perhaps eventually,” said Lizzie drily.
“I mean to Severnshire here.”
Lizzie stared at her mother. “But it has been explained to you how the engagement came about and why it must be over shortly.”
“No, no, child. You do not understand, and you, too, Miss Trumble, should have known better. It is quite likely that Lizzie will not marry. Therefore the scandal about her meeting with the duke will go on and everyone will say he rejected her. People do not reject dukes.”
“We do not all hold such a low opinion of your daughter as you evidently entertain, Lady Beverley,” said the duke furiously.
“I am sick of this,” shouted Lizzie. “I am sick of Mannerling. I am sick of the Beverley ambition. I do not want to marry the duke. There! Let that be an end of it.”
Lady Beverley went into strong hysterics and Mary Judd trotted into the room and solicitously took her away.
“I am sorry, Gervase,” said Miss Trumble, “but you must see that Lizzie was excessively provoked.”
“As was I,” said the duke coldly. “I have no intention of allying my name with such a family. Mr. Bond, make sure Lady Beverley and that creature with her are gone on my return.”
He, too, marched from the room. Miss Trumble felt close to tears. She felt she should go to Lizzie, but there was nothing she could do. It was all too clear that Lizzie did not want to marry the duke.
As if to suit the dark mood enveloping the house, the day clouded over and thunder began to rumble in the distance.
Only Miss Trumble and the duke sat down to dinner that evening. Lady Beverley was keeping to her room, attended by Mary Judd, Tiffin had taken Peter to visit her father, and Lizzie had sent down a curt note of apology.
“Do you wish to talk to me about your relationship with Lizzie?” ventured Miss Trumble at last.
“No,” he said curtly. “We have no relationship, so there is nothing to talk about.”
“Then why are you so angry?”
“May I say that a visit from Lady Beverley is enough to freeze anyone up?”
“And there is nothing else? You have no feeling for Lizzie?”
“None.”
They finished their meal in silence.
Thunder crashed and roared above Mannerling as Lizzie wearily sat down in front of the mirror to take out her pins and prepare herself for bed. Two branches of candles on the marble toilet-table lit her wan face.
Then, as she looked at the mirror, she let out a gasp. She was attending a wedding. She was sitting in the balcony at St. George’s, Hanover Square. Below her the duke was marrying a figure in white. The figure turned round and smiled up at the duke. It was Lady Verity. And then Lizzie realized that sitting next to her were Mr. Judd, Harry Devers, Mr. Cater, Perry Vane and Squire Walters, their white leering faces staring at her malignantly. Mr. Judd had committed suicide, Harry Devers had leaped to his death from a London roof, pursued by the Runners, Perry Vane, cousin of a previous owner, Lord St. Clair, had been burnt to death and Squire Walters had fallen to his death in the Great Hall of Mannerling.
“No!” screamed Lizzie. The image faded and she was once more staring at her own face.
She rose to her feet. Gervase must not marry Verity. She could not bear it. Perhaps the mirror had tricked her eyes, but it could be some sort of warning.
She knew the duke’s rooms were her father’s old ones, and picking up her bed-candle, she hurried along the corridors, which were lit by bright flashes of lightning.
She scratched at the door of the duke’s bedchamber, but the crashes of thunder were so loud that she was sure he could not hear her. She pushed open the door and went in.
The duke was lying in a bath in front of the fire.
“Lizzie,” he exclaimed. “What is the matter?”
Lizzie approached the bath, her eyes averted. “That mirror in my room, the one that used to be here, I saw your wedding in it.”
“And whom was I marrying? You?”
“No, Lady Verity, and I cannot bear it.”
“Come here.”
She sidled up to the bath, her eyes still averted.
He reached out a hand and pulled her towards him. “You are not respectable, Gervase!” cried Lizzie.
“All your complaints have been that I am too respectable and stuffy by half. I also think I have been blind and stupid.”
He gave one more savage tug and she toppled over into the bath on top of him. He caught her face and bent his mouth to hers and began to kiss her long and passionately while she trembled against his naked body, until she stopped trembling and returned kiss for kiss.
“W
hy did you tell me you didn’t want me?” he murmured at last, against her mouth.
“I wanted you to love me,” whispered Lizzie against his wet chest. “I did not want to be friends.”
“So you will let me make a respectable lady of you?”
She raised her face. “Oh yes, please, Gervase.”
“So kiss me again.”
Miss Trumble quietly opened the door ten minutes later and then shut it again and sped back along the corridor to the safety of her room.
She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, gasping a little with shock. The sight that had met her eyes in the duke’s room was not the sort of thing any respectable spinster should ever see.
She should go back along there and lecture them on such disgusting and wanton behaviour. Her elderly face broke into a puckish grin.
On the other hand, she could thank God and go to bed and mind her own business.
And that is exactly what she did.
Epilogue
I expect that Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man.
—GEORGE MEREDITH
TEN YEARS HAD passed since the wedding of Lizzie Beverley to the Duke of Severnshire. Lady Beverley and Mary Judd were resident at Mannerling. The duke had given them permission to live there for as long as Lady Beverley lived.
Lizzie was now the proud mother of four children, three boys and one girl. The girl, Isabella, was nine years old and had her mother’s elfin looks and green eyes. Lizzie, the duke and their children were just completing their first visit to Mannerling since their wedding, both Lizzie and the duke having previously refused to return there, and saying that if Lady Beverley wanted to see them, then she should travel to the duke’s palace.
Lizzie had been nervous at the thought of returning, but the house now seemed just a house and she found it hard to believe she had ever imagined it to be haunted. A magnificent crystal chandelier now hung once more in the Great Hall of Mannerling, but it did not swing or tinkle when there was no wind. The ghosts, thought Lizzie, if there had ever been any, had been laid to rest.
“I only wish your aunt could have been here with us,” sighed Lizzie, joining him in his room before their departure.
