by M C Beaton
They returned to the dinner table. Harry threw everyone a weak smile. He tried to maintain an easy flow of conversation during dinner but gradually relapsed into a sulky silence.
We are not having wine because his parents are frightened he will get drunk, thought Abigail in alarm. They are frightened he will betray himself.
Fortunately for Rachel, the old magic of Mannerling gripped a sober Harry. During the next few days, he was as she remembered. He took her out driving, he walked with her in the grounds, and although she often found his conversation boring, she was reassured. Everything would be all right. Husbands were not expected to be witty.
Two days before the wedding, the guests who were to stay began to arrive, among them Lady Evans, Miss Trumble, and Lord Burfield.
Lizzie could not help noticing the way Lord Burfield went straight up to Abigail, bowed over her hand, and said, ‘It is a pleasure to meet you again, Miss Abigail.’ Such as Lord Burfield, thought Lizzie, would never mistake one twin for the other.
Lord Burfield drew Abigail aside that afternoon and said, ‘Will you walk in the gardens with me, Miss Abigail?’
Abigail nodded her assent. Once outside, she gave a little sigh, glad to be away from the mixture of worry and pity in Miss Trumble’s eyes, and the preening of her mother, who was already ordering the servants about as if she, and not Mrs Devers, were mistress of Mannerling.
‘So how does it feel to be back, Miss Abigail?’ asked Lord Burfield.
‘It feels as if we had never left,’ said Abigail reluctantly.
‘And you approve of this wedding?’
‘Rachel is happy.’
‘Is she so much in love?’
‘That I do not know. But she is happy.’ Was happy, mocked a treacherous little voice in Abigail’s brain. ‘I am glad to see Miss Trumble again,’ she said, ‘although I have not yet had much chance to talk to her.’
Nor tried very hard, thought Lord Burfield, who had noticed the way the sisters had avoided Miss Trumble.
‘I feel Miss Trumble does not approve of this marriage,’ said Lord Burfield. ‘There was some great scandal about Harry Devers and one of your sisters, was there not?’
‘That was in the past,’ said Abigail. ‘We must always forgive, and he seemed genuinely to have reformed.’
‘And yet your Miss Trumble would be the first to point out that rakes never reform.’
‘Miss Trumble, may I remind you, is a spinster and can hardly be said to be an authority on marriage.’
‘That lady is very shrewd.’ Lord Burfield fell silent, wondering if he might after all have proposed to Prudence had it not been for the cynical look in Miss Trumble’s eyes when Prudence rattled off at great speed another paragraph from the books she had studied to please him.
‘Never mind Miss Trumble.’ Abigail quickened her pace, her cheeks pink. ‘It will be a very grand wedding, and everyone will enjoy themselves.’
‘Where do they travel for their honeymoon?’
‘They are staying at Mannerling. Mr and Mrs Devers are to travel to stay with friends in Brighton and so leave the couple to start their married life.’
‘When does Harry plan to rejoin his regiment?’
‘I gather he is to sell out.’
‘And be master of Mannerling? What of his parents?’
‘I heard something to the effect that Mr and Mrs Devers plan to find a property for themselves and leave Mannerling to Harry. They do not like it here. Mrs Devers says it is haunted.’
‘And do you believe that?’
Abigail laughed. ‘I have not seen any ghost since I have been here. Mr Judd is said to walk the passages. He was the owner who hanged himself from the great chandelier in the hall.’
‘And does he moan and rattle his chains?’
‘Nothing like that. The servants sometimes see him on a moonlit night at the end of the Long Gallery, and Mrs Devers swore that the chandelier still turns and tinkles as if his body were hanging from it.’
‘Ah, here is the estimable Miss Trumble come to join us,’ he said. ‘I shall leave you.’
‘No, don’t . . .’ Abigail started to say, but he had already bowed and was striding away from her across the lawns.
‘A fine man, that,’ said Miss Trumble, coming up to Abigail.
‘Do not lecture me on Rachel’s wedding,’ said Abigail sharply. ‘I could not bear a jaw-me-dead on this sunny day.’
‘And why should you think I would not approve?’ asked Miss Trumble mildly.
‘Oh, I thought you would blame poor Rachel for marrying Harry only to regain Mannerling, but she is genuinely fond of him.’
To Abigail’s surprise, Miss Trumble merely smiled and said, ‘Well, we will see. Tell me, what have you heard from Isabella and Jessica?’
Relieved, Abigail began to tell her the news, and as they walked together in the gardens like old friends, she began to relax. Miss Trumble was back with them, however briefly, and nothing could go wrong.
Rachel, too, was relieved to receive later only polite felicitations from her old governess, not knowing that Miss Trumble had decided, with the wedding so imminent, there was nothing she could do but pray.
But that evening, Rachel could not sleep. The weather was still holding fine and it was a clear, balmy night. She looked out of the window. The garden lay silver under the moon. She had a sudden desire to go out of doors and walk by herself under the moonlight.
She got dressed and made her way quietly along the long passage outside her room which was lit by shafts of moonlight.
As she made her way down the stairs to the main landing which overlooked the hall, she suddenly stopped. The air was full of a tinkling sound. Slowly she walked on down and then stopped, her hand to her mouth. Although here was no draught, no breath of air, the great chandelier was turning, one half turn one way, then one half turn another. So must it have swung when the dead body of Judd was suspended from it.
She let out a stifled cry of fear and turned and ran headlong back to her room. She undressed quickly and climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head tightly in case that sinister tinkling sound of the turning chandelier should reach her frightened ears.
FOUR
Holy Deadlock
SIR ALAN PATRICK HERBERT
Two things happened the following day – the day before the wedding – to set a train of disastrous happenings in motion.
The first was that Rachel, after a restless night, looked feminine and vulnerable, the very thing to quicken Harry’s lecherous senses. The other was that a bottle of brandy appeared on his bedside table.
John, one of the footmen, who had worked for the Beverleys when they were at Mannerling, and had been rude and insolent from the moment he learned of their ruin, had felt sure that Rachel would find a way to have him dismissed as soon as possible after the wedding.
There seemed no doubt that the wedding would take place, as Harry was acting the perfect gentleman and the cellars had been locked up and all the servants had been told not to allow him anything strong to drink.
And so John had ridden into Hedgefield and bought that bottle of brandy and slipped into Harry’s room and placed it tenderly on the bedside table.
Harry was convinced that he only needed a few bracers to make him feel comfortable. But somehow he had drunk most of the bottle without really noticing anything other than the warm glow in his stomach. He decided to go downstairs and entertain the company. It was unfortunate that he met Rachel, on her own, also making her way downstairs. Her light muslin gown fluttered around her slim body, the low neckline showing the swell of her breasts. There were shadows under her eyes, making them look enormous.
‘A word with you, sweeting,’ said Harry. He took her arm and propelled her into the nearest room, which happened to be the one that had been allocated to Miss Trumble.
‘My sisters are waiting for me,’ said Rachel nervously.
‘It occurs to me,’ said Harry, leering at her, ‘that I ha
ven’t even had a kiss to welcome me home.’
Rachel looked at him doubtfully but then decided a kiss was in order. She closed her eyes and puckered up her lips.
He gave a coarse laugh and jerked her into his arms. He forced his mouth down on hers. He reeked suffocatingly of brandy. His grasping, groping hands were going everywhere that innocent Rachel had never believed a man’s hands could go. Maddened and made strong with fear, she wrenched herself out of his arms, ran out the door and down the passage to her own room. Harry shrugged. After tomorrow, he wouldn’t need to behave himself. He went back to finish the brandy.
Abigail and the others finally went in search of Rachel when she did not put in an appearance. They found her lying on her bed weeping, a handkerchief held to her mouth.
‘Come now,’ said Abigail, alarmed. ‘What is this?’
‘It is Harry,’ said Rachel in a choked voice. ‘I cannot marry him.’
‘What has he done?’ asked Belinda.
‘He kissed me and he stank of brandy and it was disgusting. I hate him. I cannot go through with the wedding.’
The sisters looked at one another in alarm. It was as if the house reached out to them again, demanding their loyalty, demanding their return.
They clustered around Rachel on the bed, trying to find out what it was Harry had done that was so very terrible. A brandy-soaked kiss? All men drank.
‘His hands were everywhere,’ said Rachel, modesty stopping her from describing where his hands had been.
Lizzie said, ‘I will fetch Miss Trumble.’
‘No!’ cried Belinda and Abigail in unison. They were back in the grip of their obsession with Mannerling. They had been home again.
Rachel dried her eyes and sat up in bed. Her face was very white. ‘That is that. I must see Mama. I cannot marry Harry Devers.’
‘Oh, I could have handled him,’ said Abigail.
‘Then you marry him!’ Rachel flashed out. The twins, both angry now, glared at each other, one looking like the mirror image of the other.
Abigail suddenly gave a little laugh. ‘Why not?’
‘But he won’t turn round and propose to you,’ wailed Lizzie. ‘Another rejection. If he does not kill Rachel, it will be a wonder.’
Abigail waved an impatient hand for silence. ‘The day may yet be saved. Have you noticed how many times Harry has mistaken me for you, Rachel?’
Belinda stared at Abigail in amazement. ‘Are you thinking of taking Rachel’s place? It would not answer Mama—’
‘Mama,’ interrupted Abigail scornfully, ‘is the last to notice the difference.’
‘Miss Trumble,’ said Lizzie.
‘Ah, yes.’ Abigail rose to her feet and began to pace up and down the room. ‘Let me think. For a start, you were not going to wear a veil with your wedding gown, Rachel, for everyone thinks veils are quite exploded. But I shall wear that veil. Then, if you act a little bolder, Rachel, and I become meeker, and wear your clothes, and you wear mine, we will pass muster. Miss Trumble will not be expecting me to marry Harry and so she will think it is you.’
‘There is Lord Burfield,’ said Lizzie in a worried voice. ‘He always knows it’s you, Abigail.’
‘But again, he will not be expecting the switch. Nobody would think us capable of such a monstrous idea.’
Rachel gazed at her twin, wondering what to do. She knew she could not marry Harry. Abigail was the strong one. Abigail could cope with him; Abigail could cope with anyone. She, Rachel, would need to live out the rest of her life as Abigail, but that would be no bad thing. Harry had said to her that he had no intention of allowing Lady Beverley to live at Mannerling, and Rachel knew that once her mother became aware of that fact, she would retreat back into her accounts’ books and fictitious illnesses.
They discussed the matter, backwards and forwards, for two hours, until the dinner bell sounded.
‘It would be better not to be seen together this evening, Rachel,’ urged Abigail. ‘I will say you, Abigail, are feeling tired and you are having a meal on a tray in your room. I will go downstairs in your clothes as you. If my act fails, then we will know the game is up.’
And somehow the plot, which had seem so outrageous when Abigail had first suggested it, seemed to be the only solution. Abigail’s room was next to Rachel’s and they shared a sitting room, and so it was easy to change belongings from one room to the other without being observed by the servants.
Abigail sent a message by a footman that she did not require the services of a lady’s-maid and dressed herself in one of Rachel’s gowns, glad in a way that their new gowns were different, so that she could look more like Rachel. She even smoothed a tiny bit of lampblack under each eye to imitate the shadows under her sister’s.
Harry, having had nothing more to drink, and having slept heavily, was sobered enough to regret his behaviour. He should have held off until after the wedding. It was therefore with great relief that he found himself joined in the drawing room before dinner by a shy ‘Rachel’ who actually flirted with him modestly and prettily. Abigail was in luck. Lord Burfield was spending the evening with friends in Hedgefield and Miss Trumble was keeping to her room. Lady Beverley, as usual, was acting out the part of mistress of Mannerling and did not notice anything odd.
As Harry made every effort to please, Abigail became more and more convinced that she was doing the right thing. Once the marriage was a few months old, she would tell Harry the truth and they could be married properly, in secret. With the beautiful rooms of Mannerling surrounding her, Abigail felt she could achieve anything.
Before she retired that night, Abigail went to her twin’s room to tell her that everything would be all right.
‘There is something you must do,’ said Rachel, her eyes wide and dark in the candle-light of her room. ‘You must somehow not consummate the marriage until Harry knows who you are and agrees to a proper wedding. For if he flies into a passion, you must be able to annul the marriage.’
‘I have heard ladies talk about asking gentlemen to wait,’ said Abigail. ‘That is what I shall do. He seemed most eager to please. Are you sure you were not frightened over nothing?’
Rachel gave a shudder. ‘No, and I hope you know what you are doing, Abigail.’
‘I will manage. Remember, tomorrow you will have Miss Trumble watching you, so try to behave as much like me as possible. But as one of my bridesmaids, she will not see you until we march up to the altar in the Yellow Saloon and so your back will be to her during the service. If she suspects anything is wrong after I am married, then she would not dare say anything because of the disgrace.’
Rachel clutched her arm. ‘Listen, Abigail. Last night I could not sleep. I decided to go outdoors, but when I got as far as the landing, the main landing, the chandelier was turning and tinkling, backwards and forwards, although there was no wind, just as it must have done when Judd’s body was hanging from it. It is an omen.’
‘Pish! You are overset and so you imagined it all.’
‘No, no, I feel something bad is going to happen.’
‘All will be well. Mannerling will be ours again. The ladies can always manage the gentlemen if they are of strong enough character.’
‘But Jessica was very strong and yet Harry shocked her and almost made her ill with fright. And her dress was torn.’
Abigail could feel all her confidence beginning to ebb away. ‘Jessica was already in love with Mr Sommerville and . . . and . . . she had just turned Harry down, and that is enough to make any gentleman mad with rage.’ She determinedly talked on about the rightness of what they were about to do. Had they been men, then the world would have applauded them for fighting to regain their home and estates. Rachel listened, feeling guilty, but at the same time feeling so relieved that she would never, ever have to face the ordeal of becoming Mrs Harry Devers.
The next day, Rachel determinedly bounced about, trying to look sure and confident. Abigail was bathed and dressed by the maids and then, when she was rea
dy, her mother came to see her. Lady Beverley was as short-sighted as she was vain and would never wear spectacles for anything other than poring over her precious accounts, and so she saw only the daughter she assumed was Rachel.
‘You are very lucky, my child,’ said Lady Beverley, ‘that you have brought us all home again.’
‘As to that,’ said Abigail, remembering what Rachel had said, ‘I fear that Harry does not wish you or my sisters to live at Mannerling.’
‘You must be mistaken!’ exclaimed Lady Beverley. ‘You are too young to run such a mansion. You will need guidance.’
‘He was most firm on that point,’ said Abigail, suddenly realizing that a distressed mother would not pay too much attention to her.
‘Oh, you must have misunderstood him,’ said Lady Beverley. ‘I will speak to him.’ And to Abigail’s relief, she hurried from the room.
Abigail was glad she was not to be married in church. Had that been the case, she could not have gone through with it. But there would be nothing particularly sacrilegious about tricking everyone, just for a little, in a house wedding.
Miss Trumble sat in one of the little gilt rout chairs in the Yellow Saloon among the other guests and awaited the arrival of the bride. Her heart was heavy and she felt old. Looking after the Beverley sisters, teaching them, had given her a purpose in life. She could only pray that Rachel would find Harry reformed, and if she did not, then would have the sense to leave him.
Mr Stoddart, the vicar, stood before the temporary altar. There was a rustling among the guests. Harry was standing before the vicar with a fellow officer as brideman. Then the double doors were thrown open. Abigail, veiled, walked slowly in on the arm of the squire, who had forgiven Lady Beverley all her recent snubs and had agreed to give Rachel away. Behind her, pretty as a bouquet in white muslin and wreaths of silk flowers in their hair, came Rachel, Belinda, and Lizzie.
