Deception (Daughters of Mannerling 3)

by M C Beaton

Lord Burfield looked sharply at the bridesmaids. Then he looked at the bride. He could only see their backs, and yet he had the oddest feeling he was seeing Abigail being wed and not Rachel.

  Lady Beverley cried most affectingly during the service. Harry had confirmed her fears. He did not want her at Mannerling.

  The long service dragged on. Miss Trumble was glad when it was over. The deed was done. It was up to Rachel now. The bride raised her veil and turned around.

  Miss Trumble drew in a sharp breath. Surely the bride was Abigail, and that bridesmaid was Rachel! But then she shook her head. The twins would not dare to play such a monstrous trick. As if aware of her gaze, Abigail modestly dropped her eyes.

  Lord Burfield stared at the bride with a puzzled expression on his face. But like Miss Trumble, he could not believe for a moment that anyone would play such a monstrous trick. During the festivities, he took Rachel up for a dance, believing her to be Abigail. He found her unusually quiet. When they were promenading after the dance, he said, ‘You seem remarkably subdued on such a happy occasion, Miss Abigail.’

  ‘It is sad to lose my twin,’ said Rachel.

  ‘You are both remarkably alike, are you not? Your own mother must often mistake the one of you for the other.’

  ‘Yes, she does. But her eyesight is not very good.’

  ‘I shall be in London for the Season. Is there any chance that you might be there?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘We do not go to London.’

  ‘And you would like to go.’

  It was not a question. Lord Burfield was remembering how Abigail had told him about her boring life in the country. But Rachel did not know that and said quietly, ‘I enjoy life in the country. There is much to interest me.’

  Again he experienced that puzzled feeling of unease. He did not find himself elated and charmed in her company as he had been before. Rachel’s next partner came up to claim her and he saw the relief on her face.

  The long festivities went on. The bride and groom went out to the marquee on the lawn, where Harry, who was becoming increasingly tipsy, made a muddled speech to the tenants.

  Abigail, who had been congratulating herself on how well she was playing her part and in her mind’s eye was already making several alterations to the furnishings of Mannerling, was taken aback when Harry said, ‘It is time for us to retire.’

  ‘So soon?’ Abigail looked at him wide-eyed. ‘But our guests are still here.’

  ‘They will know we want to be alone. Come along.’

  Abigail allowed him to lead her upstairs. She turned on the landing and looked down. Lord Burfield was gazing up at her. She felt trapped in that blue gaze. Then Harry jerked her arm impatiently and she turned away.

  He followed her into her room and stood staring at her lecherously, rocking a little on his heels.

  ‘If you will leave me for a moment,’ said Abigail, ‘I will ring for the maid.’

  He advanced on her. ‘I will be your maid.’

  Abigail smiled weakly. She was his wife now. She could hardly push him away. But she tried to play for time. Perhaps if she got him to leave her for a short while and go to his own quarters, he might fall asleep.

  ‘I have a vastly pretty night-gown,’ she said flirtatiously. ‘I hoped to surprise you.’

  To her relief, he laughed and said, ‘Very well. But I will be back very soon.’

  Once he had gone, Abigail undressed, washed, and put on a silk night-gown trimmed with fine lace. She climbed into bed and lay staring up at the canopy, listening to the sounds of merriment filtering up from below. Gradually it dawned on her that what she had hoped for had actually happened. Harry must have fallen asleep.

  One by one, carriages began to rumble off down the drive. Voices could be heard raised in farewell.

  At last, she closed her eyes and composed herself for sleep. That was when the door crashed open.

  Harry, wearing a brightly coloured dressing-gown, strode in. ‘You should have sent for me,’ he grumbled. A branch of candles was still burning brightly on a table at the window. Harry took off his dressing gown, revealing he was naked underneath. Abigail let out a whimper of fright and crouched back against the pillows. He climbed into bed and fell on top of her, his mouth, hot and wet and reeking of stale drink, covering her own in a suffocating embrace. With a superhuman effort, Abigail broke free and ran for the door.

  ‘Hey, come back here!’ he roared.

  Abigail jerked open the door and fled along the passage. She shot round a corner. She heard him thudding after her. She opened the nearest door, slipped inside, ran for the bed, jumped in and pulled the covers over her head and lay trembling.

  And then she heard the striking of flint on tinderbox and the room was bathed in the soft light of an oil-lamp. Beside her in the bed was Lord Burfield, looking down at her quizzically.

  ‘Is this an old-fashioned country way of celebrating a wedding?’ he asked.

  ‘Demme, where the deuce is that hell-cat?’ came a yell from the passage.

  Frightened out of her wits, Abigail clutched Lord Burfield by the shoulders. ‘Do not betray me,’ she begged.

  ‘You’re Abigail!’ said Lord Burfield. ‘I knew there was something strange. You married Devers, not Rachel, and yet your name was given as Rachel.’

  ‘Rachel couldn’t bear it,’ said Abigail, ‘so I took her place.’

  ‘WHAT!’

  The door crashed open. Harry Devers stood there, his dressing gown clutched about him. Behind him stood Lady Beverley, Miss Trumble, and Lady Evans. Abigail squeaked with terror and threw her arms around Lord Burfield’s neck.

  ‘I’ll kill you, Rachel,’ said Harry.

  ‘This is not Rachel,’ said Lord Burfield. ‘It’s Abigail.’

  Lady Beverley began to scream hysterically, great rending screams which sounded through the rooms and passages of Mannerling, screams which roused the roosting peacocks outside and set them screaming in a mad imitation.

  ‘I knew it,’ said Miss Trumble bleakly when Lady Beverley’s hysterics had subsided into hiccuping sobs. ‘A curse on this house!’

  A council of war was held in the drawing room, the other interested house guests being kept away.

  Harry and Abigail were now dressed, as was every-one else there: Mr and Mrs Devers, Harry, the Beverley sisters and their mother, Lord Burfield, Miss Trumble, and Lady Evans.

  ‘Before you all begin shouting at each other again,’ said old Lady Evans, ‘we had best begin at the beginning. Rachel!’

  Rachel said in a low voice, ‘I could not go through with it and so Abigail said she would take my place. I knew Harry did not love me and so I knew he would not notice the difference. He often mistook Abigail for me.’

  ‘You are wicked, wicked girls,’ said Mrs Devers. ‘Only look at my poor boy!’

  Harry Devers hung his head. His brain had been working at a furious rate. The Beverleys were shamed, shamed beyond repair. Nobody would believe Jessica’s story now. Now he was the victim. If he did not rant or rail, but looked totally crushed by the shame of it all, his parents might still allow him to sell out and stay at Mannerling without the encumbrance of a wife. If he shouted and stamped, then sympathy might veer in Abigail and Rachel’s direction, and he wanted them to suffer as much as possible.

  ‘This is what comes of having got rid of Miss Trumble here,’ said Lady Evans. ‘Had she still been in your employ, Lady Beverley, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘We have come to the conclusion,’ said Mr Devers heavily, ‘that Harry here has been more sinned against than sinning. I think he has had a lucky escape. There is quite obviously madness in the Beverley family.’

  ‘How dare you!’ said Lady Beverley, but her protest sounded weak.

  ‘I do not think we should bear the expense of a wedding which never took place,’ went on Mr Devers. ‘A wedding at which our son was so deeply hurt and shamed, too. So I am going to send you a bill for the expense, Lady Beverley.’

&
nbsp; This, for Lady Beverley, was the final straw. She fainted dead away. Maids and footmen came running. The lady was restored to consciousness and then helped to her room.

  ‘I would be grateful,’ went on Mr Devers, ‘if you girls would take yourselves off and never set foot in this house again. As for you, Abigail Beverley, not only did you trick my poor son most shamefully but you were discovered in another man’s bed with your arms around his neck.’

  And Lord Burfield found himself saying, as he looked at Abigail’s wretched face, ‘As to that, Miss Abigail and I will be married soon enough, and that should lay that particular scandal to rest.’

  Everyone stared at him.

  ‘Yes, that is a very good idea,’ said Miss Trumble suddenly and decisively. ‘I shall go to see Lady Beverley immediately, Lord Burfield.’

  He bowed and she hurried from the room.

  ‘I cannot . . .’ began Abigail, but he said, ‘Later, we will discuss this later. Go home and I will call on you. Go and pack, and my carriage will be waiting for you.’

  Rachel, desperate to get out of the room, tugged at her twin’s arm.

  When the sisters had packed and their luggage had been carried out to Lord Burfield’s carriage, a shaking Lady Beverley was then supported out to it by Miss Trumble. ‘I am coming back with you,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘Get in.’

  It was a silent journey home, broken only by the muffled sobs of Lady Beverley.

  When they arrived at Brookfield House, Barry came running out in the dawn light to meet them.

  His face broke into a glad smile when he saw Miss Trumble, but the smile faded as he saw Rachel and her sisters descend from the carriage as well. ‘Rouse the maids, Barry,’ said Miss Trumble crisply. ‘You girls, get to bed immediately, except for you, Abigail. I shall see you in the parlour as soon as I have settled Lady Beverley.’

  Abigail felt almost numb with shame and disgrace. Out there, like the dawning light, she knew the full enormity of what she had done was waiting to strike her with force. She sat down wearily in the parlour and removed her stylish bonnet, a dashing shako, put it on her lap and stared at it. It was a reminder of all her mother had spent on Rachel’s wardrobe so that she would be a bride worthy of Mannerling. Mannerling. The curse of the Beverleys.

  She wanted to stay numb. The minute she started to ‘thaw,’ she knew she would begin to cry, to cry without stopping. How mature and confident she had felt only the day before. Now she felt young and childish and lost.

  Barry came in and made up the fire. He turned to leave and looked as if he would like to say something, but at that moment the door opened and Miss Trumble came in. Barry nodded to her and left.

  Miss Trumble sat down opposite Abigail and studied her gravely. ‘I am not going to berate you on your folly,’ she said. ‘I am here to talk sense to you about Lord Burfield. He is a fine man, a gentleman in the true sense of the word, and he is prepared to marry you.’

  Abigail found her voice. ‘He cannot,’ she said. ‘He will always feel he has been coerced into marriage, and he will never forgive me.’

  ‘My child, you were already so deep in disgrace that he could easily have walked off and forgotten about you and no one would have blamed him. Why were you in his bed?’

  ‘I was running away from Harry. I ran into the first room. I was so frightened, I did not hesitate to see whether the room was occupied or not. I had regarded him as a friend. But I cannot marry him.’

  ‘Did anything happen between you and Harry? Are you still a virgin?’

  ‘Yes, I am still a virgin.’

  ‘Faith, I begin to feel sorry for the dreadful Harry.’

  ‘I cannot marry Lord Burfield,’ said Abigail again.

  ‘There is nothing else you can do. After the way you have behaved, no other man will ever want you. I do not know what will become of your poor sisters now. Go to bed and sleep as best you can. When Lord Burfield calls I suggest you accept prettily and be suitably grateful. I have spoken to Lady Beverley of this. If you turn Lord Burfield down you will be left here in Brookfield House with a very embittered mother.’

  Abigail stared at her. Then the full impact of her monstrous behaviour finally struck her. She began to cry, her shoulders shaking, tears streaming down her face. She stood up to leave. Miss Trumble stood up as well and then moved forward and put her arms about the sobbing girl. She said nothing, merely held Abigail until the girl finally grew calmer. ‘Go, now,’ said Miss Trumble quietly, ‘I will be staying. Try to get some sleep. I will awake you when Lord Burfield arrives.’

  Miss Trumble felt weary. She decided to have a few hours sleep herself. Her bags had been carried up to her old room. But before she retired, she decided to have a word with Barry. He had not gone back to bed but was out in the stable, talking to the horse, a habit he had when he was upset. ‘Oh, miss,’ he cried when he saw her. ‘What happened?’

  Miss Trumble sat down on a bale of hay and looked up at him. ‘Rachel felt she could not go through with the wedding. By that time, the girls were back in the grip of Mannerling, and so Abigail took her place.’

  ‘Oh, fan me, ye winds!’

  ‘Quite. Abigail had some mad idea perhaps that she could get Harry to marry her properly, for she was wed under Rachel’s name, and all would be well. But her introduction to the marriage bed, fortunately for her only the introduction, scared her witless and she ran straight into Lord Burfield’s bed, where she was discovered wrapped around him.’

  ‘Ruin and damnation. This will be a household of spinsters, shunned by all.’

  ‘There is one bright spot on the horizon, Barry. Lord Burfield is to call this day to make a formal proposal of marriage to Abigail.’

  Barry looked at her doubtfully. ‘A gentlemanly thing to do, but he will make a most reluctant bridegroom.’

  ‘I think not. I think he is much taken with Abigail. It was not his fault that she threw herself into his bed. He had no reason to do anything at all.’

  ‘But what will become of the others?’

  ‘We will see. Now I think I should get a little sleep.’

  ‘Are you home again, miss?’

  Miss Trumble gave a wry little smile. ‘Yes, home again.’

  Abigail awoke when Miss Trumble shook her by the shoulder. ‘Lord Burfield is called,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘Rouse yourself. Betty is here to help you dress. Choose one of Rachel’s prettiest gowns. You may as well adopt her trousseau.’

  ‘I cannot face him,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Up with you.’

  Abigail climbed out of bed and allowed herself to be washed and dressed.

  Her golden curls were brushed until they shone. In a gown of blue muslin with three flounces at the hem and with a white muslin pelisse over it, she was finally declared fit to descend and meet her suitor. ‘Your mama is resting,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘I will leave you alone with Lord Burfield for ten minutes.’

  ‘Oh, do not leave me,’ cried Abigail. ‘I do not want to be alone with him.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. This is not Harry Devers, this is a gentleman.’ She gave the reluctant Abigail a little push into the parlour and then left.

  Lord Burfield looked down at Abigail, who stood before him, her head hanging.

  She found her voice, which came out in a sort of rusty whisper. ‘I am so sorry. You need not do this.’

  ‘I am well aware of it. But it might serve very well. I want a wife and I am weary of looking for one; you need to restore your reputation. Please be seated and hear what I have to propose.’

  Abigail sat down. There was a great black weight of misery in her stomach.

  ‘You and your family will travel to London, to my house in Park Street. My aunt, Mrs Brochard, will be in residence. We will be married quietly by special license. We will go about socially and you and your sisters will look beautiful, radiant, and confident. The scandal will have reached London before us, but you will receive many invitations from the curious. If I am right, soon
er or later Harry Devers will disgrace himself in such a way as to restore your good name. At the moment, even I can find it in my heart to be sorry for him.’

  ‘You are being coerced into marriage,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Not I. As far as the intimacies of the marriage bed are concerned, that must be your choice. You must come to me. In the near future, we will get to know each other better.’

  Abigail sat for a moment in silence. Then the full generosity of his offer struck her. They would all be in London, with places to see and theatres to visit instead of sitting, hiding in the country, scorned by all.

  ‘I accept,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘I thought you might. Now let us get Miss Trumble in here, as your mother appears to be too indisposed to see me.’

  He rang for the maid and sent her to fetch the governess. Miss Trumble listened to his plan. She felt quite light-headed with relief. It was far more than any of the Beverleys deserved.

  ‘Perhaps you will convey this intelligence to Lady Beverley,’ said Lord Burfield, rising and picking up his hat and gloves from a side-table. ‘I will send my travelling-carriage for you next Wednesday and a fourgon for the servants and your luggage.’

  Miss Trumble curtsied low.

  After he had left, she lectured Abigail on the extent of her good fortune and then went to order the carriage and Barry to take her to Hursley Park.

  In all her relief, the normally shrewd Miss Trumble had not quite realized the full horror at Abigail’s behaviour that Lady Evans felt. Nor had she realized quite how much Lady Evans had dearly wanted to make a match between Prudence Makepeace and Lord Burfield. Miss Trumble told her old friend every- thing, including the plan to defer the intimacies of the marriage bed until such time as the couple came to know each other better.

  Lady Evan’s lined and autocratic face stared wrathfully at Miss Trumble from under the shadow of one of her enormous starched caps. ‘I fail to see, Letitia,’ she said, ‘why a lady like you of breeding and intelligence should be acting as servant to a parcel of whores!’

  ‘That is going too far!’ cried Miss Trumble.

  ‘Whores,’ repeated Lady Evans firmly. ‘What else are they? To connive and plot and trick and deceive, and all for gain. Prudence Makepeace would have made him an excellent wife.’