by M C Beaton
Well satisfied with her call, Miss Trumble left. Of course she did not believe all that rubbish about malign spirits or haunted houses. An uneasy part of her mind remembered that tinkling chandelier, but she mentally shrugged it off. There must be some simple explanation. The wind must have risen without her noticing it.
Barry was waiting for her in the carriage. ‘Well, miss?’ he asked curiously as they moved off down the drive.
‘Well, Barry, I have succeeded in my mission, I think. I have just persuaded Mrs Devers to sell Mannerling.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t you see, that will remove Harry away from my girls’ ambitions. Rotten place,’ said Miss Trumble, casting a savage look back at the graceful building. ‘I hope it stands empty and falls into rack and ruin!’
Prudence met Harry Devers two days before the wedding. ‘My poison worked,’ she said triumphantly. ‘They were both at the opera last night and the coldness between them was obvious for all to see. I cannot believe our luck. I was sure he would have explained everything to her!’
‘You have done your part,’ said Harry. ‘Now I will do mine.’
‘He doesn’t love me,’ said Abigail for what seemed to her twin like the hundredth time. ‘That whore Tarrant was at the opera and she gave him such a look. And he has had the nerve to insist she comes to our wedding and he will not listen to my protests. Oh, if only Miss Trumble were here!’
For the second time Abigail was attired in her wedding gown. ‘She is due back this afternoon, just in time for the wedding,’ said Rachel. ‘So wicked of Mama to send her away. Do you not wish to eat something?’
‘I could not eat anything,’ said Abigail dismally. ‘Where is Rupert?’
‘He is not supposed to see you until the church,’ said Rachel. ‘He received a letter which startled him. He said he had to make a call but would return in time for the wedding.’
Lord Burfield had been distressed to receive a letter by hand from an old army friend in which he said he was in great distress over a family matter and begged Lord Burfield to call on him immediately. The army friend lived in Norwood. It took Lord Burfield some time to get there but very little time to find out that he had been tricked. The army friend was in perfect health and spirits and had sent no letter. Lord Burfield was puzzled. But he had still plenty of time to drive back to Park Street, change into his wedding clothes, and get to that church.
Abigail read the letter which had been slipped into her hand by one of the footmen, holding it with shaking hands, blinking her eyes to get those dreadful words back into focus. Purporting to come from ‘a friend,’ the letter stated that on that very day, Lord Burfield was entertaining his mistress at Ivy Cottage, Bark Lane, on the far side of the village of Kensington. It was doubtful if he could leave her arms to get to the church.
Then she roused herself from her shocked stupor. She could only think of obeying the instructions of the letter which begged her, for the sake of the good name of her family, not to tell anyone where she was going. She locked her bedroom door, took off her wedding gown, put on a riding dress and then slipped down the back stairs, unobserved.
Outside, Harry waited anxiously for the result of his letter. He had bribed that footman heavily, emphasizing that the letter must be given to Abigail when she was alone. Now all he had to do was to wait and pray that Abigail’s jealousy would be enough to drive her from the house without telling anyone.
In a very short time, Abigail erupted from the house in riding dress. Harry smiled to himself as he saw her heading for the mews. He mounted his horse and rode off as fast as the traffic would allow in the direction of Hyde Park toll. He had to get to that cottage before Abigail!
Abigail knew the head groom would never let her take a carriage out again but knew he could hardly refuse her a horse when she said she wished to go riding in the Row.
She felt numb with misery. She would confront the guilty pair and then tell the faithless Lord Burfield that she could never marry him. She blinked back a tear. He probably never meant to turn up at the church at all!
She rode quickly in the direction of Kensington Village and once there asked directions to Bark Lane.
Bark Lane proved to be a narrow country road, a dirt track winding through high hedges. Ivy Lane was an isolated little cottage, shielded by a stand of trees.
Abigail dismounted and tethered her horse to the gate-post. She pushed open the gate. It was a small whitewashed cottage made of daub and wattle, the beams, black with age, criss-crossing the whitewashed walls. The roof was of thatch. The gate screamed on rusty hinges. A flock of rooks rose cawing and wheeling up to the sky. The sun struck down on her back as she walked up the path. A perfect day for a wedding, she thought, fighting back the tears.
She raised her hand to knock at the door and then saw it was open a couple of inches. Rage suffused her. So careless, so unheeding of the conventions, of any decency. She opened the door and walked in. There was a narrow staircase leading to an upper floor. She walked up it. It was then that a feeling of uneasiness began to damp her rage. Empty houses have a certain atmosphere, and she was suddenly sure that no one was in the cottage except herself. The slamming of the front door downstairs made her jump. The wind must have risen, she thought. There were two rooms upstairs, both bedrooms, both empty.
Now dread clutched at her heart. Now she remembered all the people who did not want her to marry Lord Burfield: his parents, Prudence Makepeace, and Mrs Brochard, to name but a few.
She ran back down the stairs, but the door was securely locked. She ran to the parlour window, noticing for the first time that it, like all the other windows, was barred, and that the bars looked new.
The parlour was sparsely furnished. There was a rickety table in the centre of it and on that table was a letter with her name on it.
She opened it.
‘Dear Miss Beverley,’ she read. ‘You are so easily gulled, are you not? So ready to believe the worst. You will stay here until the day of your wedding is over. Then I shall visit you and we shall enjoy ourselves together, shall we not? Harry Devers.’
Harry Devers had ridden back to a rendezvous with Prudence in St James’s Park. ‘She is safe and sound,’ he said gleefully. ‘But the fun is not over yet. You must pen a note saying that Abigail does not want to be married in that wedding gown, as it was so unlucky, and will be waiting for them all at the church.’
‘They will know it is not Abigail’s writing!’
‘You say you are sending it for her. No, no, just sign it “A friend.” ’
‘They will never believe it. They will get the Runners out!’
‘After the fiasco at Mannerling, they will believe anything. Trust me. Ah, you are afraid you will be discovered. Fear not. There is no way they can find out. I will never tell anyone.’
‘But what of you? Abigail will tell everyone it was you.’
‘She does not know it has anything to do with me,’ he lied. He had not thought one second beyond revenging himself on Abigail. Prudence took an uneasy little step back. He reeked of brandy. But she had gone this far, and he had said there was no way she could be implicated. She nodded and turned on her heel. She would write that letter.
Lady Beverley was being fanned vigorously and her wrists rubbed. She had swooned after being told that her daughter planned to turn up at the church on her own and not in her wedding gown. Robert Sommerville, Abigail’s brother-in-law, who was to have the honour of giving her away, went in search of Miss Trumble, who had just arrived, and held out the letter.
‘Fustian!’ said Miss Trumble roundly. ‘Something bad has happened. I do not believe anonymous letters. Oh, Lord Burfield, here’s a coil. A letter has arrived supposed to be from a friend of Abigail’s to say that she plans not to be married in her wedding gown and will present herself at the church in a dress of her own choice.’
‘Something very odd is going on,’ he said, his voice sharp with worry. ‘I myself received a letter supposed to c
ome from an old army friend who said he was in trouble. I rode there to find out the letter was a lie. Wait here. I will go round to the mews to see if she has taken a carriage out.’
It was unfortunate that the distressed Abigail had decided to put up a good front before the groom. ‘I did point out it was odd to go riding in the Row on the very day of her wedding,’ said the groom, ‘but miss just laughed and said mayhap there wouldn’t be a wedding to go to.’
Lord Burfield clenched his fists in rage. He thought of all Abigail’s coldness to him. He thought of how she had tricked Harry Devers. He was suddenly sure it was Abigail who had lured him out to Norwood so that she could make her escape, so that she could then shame him by not turning up.
When this acid view was put to Miss Trumble, she cried out against it, saying Abigail would not do such a thing. But Lord Burfield’s parents were there to point out that any young lady who had behaved as Abigail had behaved at Mannerling was mad and devious and had no thought for the conventions.
It was Jessica and Robert Sommerville who finally took charge, stating that the best idea was that everyone should go to the church. Miss Trumble insisted that if Abigail did not appear, then the Runners should be alerted. But she was edgy and worried when Rachel, Lizzie, and Belinda told her of the coldness, interrupted by frequent rows, between Abigail and Lord Burfield. Had Abigail, who had been so overset by Harry Devers, decided that all men were beasts? She gave a superstitious shudder, feeling that she had come back to London with the malign influence of Mannerling sticking to her, infesting her like the plague. For almost the first time in her life, the usually competent Miss Trumble felt helpless.
Abigail looked at the fob-watch pinned to her riding dress. In one hour’s time, she was supposed to be marrying Lord Burfield. Everyone would believe she had stood him up. Harry Devers could not possibly let her go free. He would kill her!
She scrubbed her eyes dry. Somehow, some way, she must escape. She tugged at the bars of the windows, but they were immovable. The doors, front and back, were solid. She found a blunt old table knife. She looked up at the low ceiling. She climbed gingerly up on the table and began to chip away at the old plaster on the ceiling between the beams. If she could cut a hole through it and then get up through the thatch, perhaps she could escape that way. But only when she started on her task did she realize how impossible it all was. Bits of plaster rained down on her upturned face. She made another desperate jab with the knife. The table swayed and she fell headlong on the floor. She lay there, winded and bruised and beginning to cry again with sheer fright and despair.
‘Oh, God help me!’ she cried.
And then she found she was looking at the fireplace.
Prudence Makepeace’s lady’s-maid was very worried. At first, when Prudence had sent her away so that she could talk privately to Harry Devers, the romantic maid thought it was a love affair and was quite pleased that her rather prim and strict mistress was showing signs of human weakness.
But then Betty reflected, after several meetings had taken place, that her mistress was a great heiress and therefore prey to adventurers, and if Miss Makepeace should run off with this man, she, Betty, would lose her job. When Prudence met Harry for the last time in St James’s Park, Betty as usual walked off out of earshot. She was a pretty girl with glossy black hair and dimpled cheeks and she soon attracted the attentions of two guardsmen.
‘Be off with you, sirs,’ said Betty, but with a giggle. ‘Whatever will my young mistress say? You will shock her.’
‘Which is your mistress, my beauty?’ asked one of the guardsmen, stroking his magnificently oiled side-whiskers.
‘Miss Prudence Makepeace, over there, with that gentleman.’
The other guardsman gave a great horse-laugh. ‘That ain’t no gentleman, not by the correct use of the word. That’s Harry Devers of Mannerling. If your young mistress consorts with such as he, then she is far from being shocked by anything.’
Betty’s eyes widened, causing both guardsmen to compliment her on their fineness, but she did not hear a word they said. That, over there, talking to her mistress, was the infamous Harry Devers! For the upper servants heard as much gossip as their betters, and Betty had heard all about Harry.
The distressed maid decided there was nothing else she could do. She would need to report the meetings to Mr and Mrs Makepeace.
Abigail rolled over on the floor and stared at the large empty fireplace. It was the ingle-nook kind: two stone seats on either side, iron firedogs, chimney blackened with the smoke of ages. She crawled into the fireplace on her hands and knees and stared upwards, catching her breath as she saw a round of blue sky far above. She raised herself upright inside the chimney-breast and, sending up a little prayer, she scrabbled at the soot-encrusted chimney until her fingers closed on what she had been praying for – climbing rungs for the chimney sweep’s boy. It was a miracle they should be there at all, for the cottage was not high enough to warrant them. She seized the first rung and grimly, hauling herself up, began to climb.
Mr and Mrs Makepeace were taking tea together. They had just been congratulating themselves on having such a good daughter, not at all like that dreadful Abigail Beverley who, of late, had seemed hell-bent on demonstrating to the whole of London society that she did not like her fiancé at all.
‘How Burfield can still bring himself to think of marrying the girl,’ Mrs Makepeace was saying as Betty walked in, ‘is quite beyond me. Mrs Brochard has kept insisting there is still hope. What hope? He will soon be married. What is it, Betty?’
Betty dropped a low curtsy. ‘I am feared of losing my employ, ma’am,’ she said with her eyes on the floor. ‘But I am mortal worried about Miss Makepeace.’
‘Prudence? Good heavens, what is it? Is she ill?’
‘Worse than that, ma’am,’ said Betty, who was beginning to enjoy herself.
Mrs Makepeace let out a faint scream. Her husband took her hand and said firmly, ‘Out with it, girl. If you have something to say, then say it with less Haymarket dramatics.’
‘Beg pardon, sir. Miss Prudence has been meeting that Harry Devers on the sly.’
‘You must be mistaken. And if she were, why did you not come to us immediately?’
‘Because Miss Prudence would send me packing,’ said Betty. ‘Please do not tell her I told you.’
‘Where have these meetings been taking place?’
‘Mostly when she goes out to walk to the shops. In Pall Mall. Places like that. But this morning, it was St James’s Park. Miss Prudence always sends me away so I cannot hear what is being said, but there were two guardsmen in the park and they recognized Mr Devers. They were flirting with me and I said my mistress would be shocked and they said something to the effect that Miss Prudence could not be shocked by anything if she consorted with such as Mr Devers.’
Mrs Makepeace’s lips trembled. ‘Send Miss Prudence to us immediately.’
‘Oh, ma’am,’ pleaded Betty. ‘I was only doing my duty. Please don’t tell Miss Prudence it was me who told on her or I will lose my job. Don’t you see, I could have kept quiet?’
‘All right, girl,’ snapped Mr Makepeace. ‘Just fetch Miss Makepeace.’
When the maid had left, the couple looked at each other. ‘There must be some innocent explanation,’ said Mrs Makepeace.
Prudence came in, looking, as usual, like a fashionplate. She was wearing a plain muslin frock of walking length, the front of the bodice and the short sleeves made rather full, the latter gathered with a band and finished with a bow of ribbon. She had not yet removed her bonnet, which was of the cottage shape, the front of straw with a round crown of lavender-blossom silk. A handkerchief of the same silk crossed the crown and was tied in a bow under her chin. Under the bonnet was a small cap with a frill of lace. A sash to match the bonnet trimming was tied at the back under a pereline made of three falls of finely crimped muslin. Her long gloves and half-shoes were of buff kid.
She looked a good and mode
st girl. Mrs Makepeace surveyed her with a glimmer of hope in her eyes. ‘Prudence, dear . . .’ she began hesitantly, but Mr Makepeace said angrily, ‘Why have you been meeting Devers on the sly?’
Prudence turned scarlet and the hope left her mother’s eyes.
‘I have not been meeting such a man,’ cried Prudence.
‘You have been seen with him when you were supposed to be shopping, and only today you were with him in St James’s Park. Out with it!’ demanded Mr Makepeace. ‘What were you about? Have you no care for your reputation?’
Prudence did not know what to say. She could not reveal that she had been helping Harry in his plot to capture Abigail Beverley on the day of her wedding.
With a great effort, she put a pious expression on her face. ‘I knew you would not approve,’ she said. ‘I was merely trying to help that poor, unfortunate man.’
For the first time in his quiet, orderly life, Mr Makepeace had a strong desire to hit his daughter.
‘That poor, unfortunate man, as you call him, is a notorious lecher.’
‘He has reformed,’ said Prudence, casting her eyes modestly down. ‘He regrets his wicked ways. He sought the company of a good lady like myself.’
‘Then he should have called here!’ howled her exasperated father.
‘How could he? You would have refused him admittance.’
‘I do not know what silly, romantical notions you have been getting into your head,’ said her father, ‘but you are not to see him again, and from now on you are confined to the house and you will not go out of it unless accompanied by your parents. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Papa,’ said Prudence meekly, desperate to escape.
‘Go to your room until I have time to discuss this with your mother. You have not heard the last of this!’
Abigail stared upwards in despair. There was that round of blue sky, but it was at the end of a chimney-pot through which she could not possibly get. She stood on the topmost rung. It bent a little under her feet and gave an ominous creak.
